Minho’s head throbbed as he woke, his vision blurry, the cold concrete floor beneath him harsh against his skin. His wrists stung from the restraints that had only recently been removed, and the faint scent of antiseptic clung to the air—WCKD’s unmistakable calling card. Groaning, he pushed himself up on his elbows, his mind racing to piece together the last few moments. He had been running—he always was—dodging Cranks, surviving the Scorch. But then there were those damned WCKD agents, coming out of nowhere, and he hadn’t been fast enough.

As his vision cleared, he realized he wasn’t alone.

The cell was dimly lit, with steel bars at the entrance and cracked concrete walls. But in the far corner, hunched against the wall, sat someone else. A girl, her hair a wild tangle, her eyes fixed on him with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. She looked to be around his age, though her gaunt appearance hinted at how long she had been here. Her clothes were ragged, her knuckles bruised and raw, as though she had been fighting her way through her own version of hell.

Minho groaned as he sat up fully, rubbing his sore wrists. “Great. Another lab rat.”

The girl narrowed her eyes but didn’t move from her spot. “You’re new.”

Minho glanced around the small cell, taking in the rusted cot bolted to the floor, the bucket in the corner for whatever passed for a bathroom, and the high, narrow window that barely let in any light. “Yeah, new to this cell, sure. But not new to WCKD’s bullsh—” He cut himself off, wincing as his head pounded again.