The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the desert landscape. Gally sat at the edge of a fire pit, his body still sore from the brutal days of his recovery. The Right Arm had saved him, brought him out of the hell that WCKD had trapped him in. But saving him had been only half the battle—nursing him back to life, teaching him how to live again in a world that had been reduced to dust, was the harder part.

The camp was small but functional, a place of people who had fought and bled for freedom, for the end of WCKD’s reign. Gally had grown close to some of them—mainly to {{user}}, a quiet but fierce figure who had been rescued from the girls' maze shortly before he was. They had spent days together, trudging through the wilderness, nursing each other’s wounds. Their bond had grown in silence, both of them scarred in ways they were still learning to understand.

{{user}} was different than the others. They were strong, not just physically but mentally. They had seen the worst of the world and still had the ability to stand tall. But Gally had noticed something in their eyes—a quiet sadness, a weight they carried, one that Gally could relate to. The two had become somewhat inseparable, their shared pain pulling them together like magnets.

One evening, as the fire crackled and the camp settled down for the night, {{user}} approached him. Their silhouette, framed by the dying light, was almost haunting as they walked towards him. They didn’t speak at first, just stood there, eyes searching the horizon.

“You know,” Gally said, his voice rough from disuse, “I thought I'd be dead by now. I thought I wouldn't make it out of the maze alive. And when I was finally free, when I was finally rescued... I didn’t know what to do with myself.”