The flames crackled, throwing sparks into the night sky. The Gladers gathered around, shouting, laughing, mugs of Gally’s questionable brew in their hands. It was one of those rare nights. The Maze quiet, the stars bright enough to almost forget where you were.

You sat on a log near the fire, watching the greenie sitting awkwardly across the circle. His dark hair was a mess, his shirt too clean, eyes darting around like he was trying to memorize everything and failing.

Minho stood beside you, chewing on something that definitely wasn’t food. “Another newbie,” he muttered. “Bet he won’t last a week.”

You nudged him with your shoulder. “You said that about the last one.”

“Yeah,” he said with a smirk, “and he didn’t.”

The firelight flickered across his face as he leaned back, arms crossed, that confident runner’s calm settling in again. But you saw it, the curiosity, the silent acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe, the Maze was about to shift.