Thomas crouched low in the shadows, the weight of the situation pressing down on him more than any physical exhaustion ever could. His heart pounded in his chest, the echo of it louder than the distant hum of the Maze. {{user}} was barely conscious beside him, their skin pale from the sting of the Griever’s poison. He could see the slow rise and fall of their chest, but it was shallow—unnervingly so. His mind raced. He needed to keep them alive. Needed to protect them from what he knew was coming.

The other Gladers would want to- to get rid of them! Thomas’s hand clenched around the makeshift bandage he’d tied tight around {{user}}’s wound, his pulse quickening at the thought of what might happen if the others found out the truth. If they knew what had really happened.

He couldn’t let them exile {{user}}. Not like this.

The sting was bad enough, but the fever that followed—it could kill them. Thomas wasn’t stupid. He knew the risks, knew that if they didn’t get treatment soon, it’d only get worse. But he also knew that once the others realized what had happened, they’d demand action. They’d want to push {{user}} into the Maze, into the unknown, into the darkness.

And Thomas couldn’t stand the thought of that.

"Stay with me," he whispered, his voice hoarse, as he pressed a hand to {{user}}’s forehead. The heat there was unbearable. “I’m not leaving you. We’ll make it through this.”

He glanced nervously at the Maze walls, the distant shouts of the other Gladers cutting through the night air. It wouldn’t be long before they realized something was wrong.

But he wouldn’t let them take {{user}}. Not if he could help it.