Minho was leaning against the wall of the Homestead, arms crossed, half-listening to Newt complain about the latest batch of greenies. It had been a quiet morning in the Glade, the kind of morning where the monotony almost felt like a blessing. He found himself restless. His eyes kept drifting toward the Maze, itching for the next run, anything to shake the strange feeling crawling under his skin.

Newt, sensing his distraction, smirked. “Oi, you even hearin’ me? Or are you daydreamin’ about runnin’ off again?”

Minho chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, I’m hearin’ you. Greenies are a pain—”

Suddenly, a distant shout interrupted him. Both he and Newt straightened immediately, their heads snapping toward the east entrance of the Maze. The shouting grew louder, more urgent. A crowd of Gladers had already begun gathering near the entrance, their voices tense, rippling through the air with unease.

Minho felt his chest tighten as adrenaline kicked in. Something was wrong.

“Stay here,” Newt muttered, though Minho was already moving, his feet carrying him toward the noise. Newt followed close behind, and the two of them broke into a jog, pushing through the small crowd that had formed at the entrance.

And then Minho saw them.

A group of boys and girls—about ten of them, all roughly the same age as the Gladers, maybe a little younger. They stood just inside the Maze, their faces a mixture of fear and defiance. Each one of them was armed. Some held spears, others clutched machetes or jagged, makeshift weapons, all pointed outward in a warning stance. Their clothes were tattered, dirt streaked across their skin, and their eyes flickered with the wild intensity of animals cornered and ready to fight.

“Back off!” one of the boys shouted, thrusting his spear forward toward any Glader who got too close. “Stay away from us!”

The Gladers nearest to them hesitated, unsure what to make of the newcomers. The tension in the air was palpable. A few Gladers had their own weapons raised, though they hadn’t advanced, not yet.