The world had stopped making sense a long time ago — somewhere between the scorch, the betrayal, the running. Your legs felt like they might give out as you stumbled through the last stretch of sand, vision blurring at the edges.

Then you saw it. The camp.

Safe Haven.

You weren’t sure if it was real. Your arms were scratched up, one leg dragging from a wound that hadn’t been treated. Your shirt was torn, streaked with blood and dirt. Everything hurt. But somehow, your feet kept moving.

People shouted when they saw you — voices blurred in your ears. Someone rushed forward. A guy. Messy hair, sharp eyes that softened when he got close.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” he said quickly, stepping in front of you and catching you before you could fall. “You’re safe now.”

You tried to say something, but all that came out was a rough breath and a shake of your head. You didn’t believe him. Not yet.

“I’m Thomas,” he added, gently easing you to the ground. “You’re gonna be okay. We’ve got you.”

Someone brought water. Another person — Newt, they called him — started checking your wounds with practiced hands. “She’s dehydrated. Bleeding too much from that leg.”

Thomas stayed with you, brushing hair away from your face as your eyes fluttered. “You made it,” he said softly, like that was all that mattered.

And then everything went black.