The sun hung low over the Glade, painting everything in a haze of gold and dust. You sat on the grass near the edge, where the vines climbed high and the stone walls loomed like silent gods. Minho jogged toward you, shirt half unbuttoned, sweat slick on his neck, the runner’s map still tucked under his arm.

He slowed when he reached you, tossing the map aside and collapsing into the grass with a grunt. “You’ve been sitting here all day?” he asked, leaning back on his hands, chest still rising and falling from the run.

You shrugged. “Watching you run circles around death.”

He gave a dry laugh. “Somebody’s gotta do it.”

His voice carried that casual confidence that made people follow him without question, but the shadows under his eyes told another story. You caught him glancing at the Maze entrance, jaw tense, the same way he always did before sundown.