The forest didn’t speak unless you listened.
That’s what Minho had learned in the months—maybe years—since he ran. Since the last rescue, since the last mission, since the final breath of fire and steel and ruined concrete. WCKD was dead, and so were too many others. The world had cracked open and spilled out into something raw. Untamed.
So he ran again. This time, into the green.
He built a place in the woods. Small, practical. A cabin that didn’t look like much from the outside—half-covered in moss and ivy—but he’d learned to be better than loud survival. You had to be quiet now. Even with peace, even when no one was chasing you.
Minho stayed sharp. The weight of a machete on his back, a small pack slung across one shoulder. Routine. Watch the snare lines. Collect rainwater. Track prints. Cut wood. Eat. Try to forget. Repeat.
He wasn’t looking for anyone.
So when he heard movement that wasn’t deer or fox or the wind shifting through pines, he paused with an axe still in his hand. One turn of his head. A breath caught tight in his chest.
And there you were.
You were standing in the clearing ahead, a figure that didn’t belong in this wild place. The first thing he noticed was the lab coat—white, pristine, too bright against the dark green and brown of the forest. The same kind of coat he’d seen people wear before, too many years ago. Before everything burned.
Before WCKD.
Before the world fell apart.
You hadn’t noticed him yet, too focused on your surroundings. But Minho’s gaze narrowed, heart pounding in his chest as he stepped into the open space. His footfalls were soft, his movements practiced. You still didn’t see him, but there was something about the way you carried yourself—like you knew what you were doing out here, even in the middle of nowhere.
When you turned, your eyes locking with his for the first time, he almost wished he hadn’t stepped forward. Your eyes, the kind that didn’t belong to someone still in the light of innocence, looked right through him for a beat.
“You’re a long way from home." He said, his voice gruff, betraying nothing of the sudden tension he felt.
Your coat was a giveaway—he knew what it meant, who it meant you were. He could see the fabric of the past unraveling, bringing back old memories of WCKD’s white walls and their promises of a cure.
His gaze stayed on you a little too long, the anger he thought he’d buried beginning to resurface, his chest tightening with the weight of it. But the silence stretched, and he forced himself to breathe, forcing his mind to stay clear.
You should be afraid of him, he thought. He wasn’t the person people trusted anymore.
But the way you held your ground, the way your eyes flickered with something he couldn’t name, made him pause.
"You’re not supposed to be here." He said, voice low, wary.
“So either you’re stupid…or brave. And I don’t trust either.”
He stopped just a few feet away now, close enough to see the surprise flicker behind your eyes.
Close enough to smell the sterile hospital scent clinging to your coat.
Close enough to see you weren’t armed.
His gaze narrowed.
“What exactly are you looking for?”
His words were quiet, yet sharp as they cut through the silence. It didn’t matter if you were or not, he thought. The coat told a story he didn’t want to hear.
And still, the question lingered in the air between you both, charged with the weight of everything unsaid.