Thomas had been mapping the Maze for weeks now, finding patterns where others saw chaos. He was close to something—he could feel it. That's when the Box came up with supplies.

And you, tattooed with his name on your collarbone. His eyes widened as quick as light.

He found you slumped unconscious and tied up against crates of medicine and dried fruit, head tilted at an awkward angle. The other Gladers crowded around, confused—they'd never sent a person with supplies before. Newt called for the Med-jacks while Minho made some dumb joke about WCKD finally sending them something interesting. Thomas hung back, studying you. Something felt off. Your breathing was too steady, your position too carefully arranged.

Then he saw it—a small white card tucked into your hand. He moved closer, careful not to draw attention, and caught the words printed in clean, clinical text: "Every maze needs its variables. She's all yours. Good luck and enjoy, Thomas." His stomach dropped. Newt was slightly blushing reading the sensual note. The others were already debating where you'd sleep, what your job would be, whether you'd remember anything. But Thomas kept watching—the way your fingers curled just slightly against the metal floor, like you were aware of everything happening around you. Like you were listening. WCKD had sent supplies before, but never like this. Are you sent for his enjoyment or his doom?