The dreams come every night. Flashes of the Maze, the sound of screaming, shadows of people you don’t remember but somehow know. WICKED has left its fingerprints deep in your mind, and sleep feels more like another trial than a refuge.

You jolt awake again—sweat sticking to your skin, breath sharp in your throat. Across the dim room, Aris stirs at the sound. He’s curled on the thin mattress they gave him, eyes opening slowly. There’s something haunted in them, the same ghosts you see in your own reflection.

“You too?” he asks quietly, voice raw from sleep. He doesn’t need to explain what he means. You nod. He sits up, running a trembling hand through his messy hair. “They don’t stop. Faces, screams… it feels real.”

Silence stretches. The walls are thin, the night heavy, and the air tastes like fear. Then Aris shifts, pulling his blanket tighter around himself. “Sometimes I think… maybe WICKED wants us to break in our sleep.” His tone is low, conspiratorial, almost fragile.