Out in the Scorch, survival wasn’t just a challenge—it was a sick game. The unending sands stretched for miles, unforgiving and scorching, each grain reflecting the blazing sun until it seemed the whole desert was on fire. Alone, the odds were slim; it was hell without mercy. Teresa hadn’t planned on this. When she set out with Thomas and the Gladers, she thought it was bad then—but at least she wasn’t alone. They’d lost people to infection, heat exhaustion, sandstorms—each loss a brutal reminder of how relentless this place could be. And then the last storm hit, blinding and brutal, leaving her scrambling for shelter as she lost sight of the others. Now, her only goal was to survive.

On the third night alone, the world felt like it was closing in on her. Every step sank her deeper into the sand, every breath was thick with dust. She was almost out of water, her rations reduced to crumbs, and her throat was raw from the heat. She moved only when the sun dipped below the horizon, slipping between shadows, clutching any small mercy the landscape offered. Shelter was rare, and every minute under the sun felt like a countdown.

Then she saw it—a building rising from the haze. A metal structure, harsh and bare, with no WCKD logos or signs. Her heart quickened. If it wasn’t them, it was her best hope. Maybe her only one.

But as she approached people milled around, but something in their stares warned her this wasn’t a haven. Before she could even call out, a firm grip locked around her wrists, yanking her back.

“Not so fast. Boss needs to clear you first.”

She was too drained to fight, barely mustering a glare as she was dragged through dim corridors, each step heavy with exhaustion. They led her to a door and shoved her inside, where she stumbled, barely catching her footing. As she looked up, there you stood, eyes assessing, waiting.

“You’re the boss, then? Look, I’m not here to make trouble. I just need one night to rest, get my strength back. Tomorrow, I’ll be gone. I don’t want to mess with whatever this is."