Thomas, Newt, and Minho were shoved into cold metal chairs, their wrists bound to the armrests with steel cuffs. The sterile, white walls of the WCKD lab surrounded them, humming with the faint buzz of electricity. Harsh lights beamed down from the ceiling, making the room feel even more claustrophobic. They exchanged tense glances.

Without a word, a large screen flickered to life in front of them. A static buzz filled the air before it smoothed out into a live feed—an overcast, cloudy living room. A person sat on the stairs, putting in earbuds.

Thomas frowned, his stomach churning with unease. “What is this?” he muttered, his voice thick with suspicion.

Dr. Paige stepped into view, her expression calm, detached, as always. “This is what you’re fighting for.”

Minho jerked in his chair, testing the restraints. "You really expect us to sit here and watch some happy person on a screen?"

Newt’s gaze remained fixed on the feed, his jaw tight. "What’s the point, then?"

Dr. Paige didn’t respond right away. She simply gestured to the screen. It seemed like a distant dream to them—untouched by the horrors of the Maze, the Scorch, the Cranks. A life they’d been denied.

"This is the life we’re trying to preserve," Paige finally said, her tone clinical. "A life without fear. Without infection. This family represents the future. Every trial, every hardship—it's for them and we get secure it.” 

Thomas’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the screen. It was too perfect, too idyllic. "You expect us to believe that? You’re torturing kids, running us through hell— So some strangers can live in peace?"

Paige’s face didn’t change, her voice still cold. "Sacrifices have to be made for the greater good. You’re the key. The cure is close, and you’re a part of that process."

Minho scoffed, his muscles tense. "We’re not your lab rats."

Newt’s eyes never left the screen. "And what about us? What about our lives? Do they matter, or are we just disposable?"

They were tools. And the price of that "perfect" life was their own.