You’d been in the Glade for God knows how long—long enough to stop asking questions, long enough to earn your place as a Runner. Running beside Minho every day had become your new normal: mapping walls, marking routes, dodging the occasional close call. You were good at it—fast, sharp, a survivor. Just like him.

Today was supposed to be like any other. You and Minho were deep in Section 5, marking up the west wall, talking trash and tracking paths. But the air felt heavier. The Maze quieter. Too quiet.

Then you heard it—the distant hum, like machinery grinding to life.

A Griever.

“Go!” Minho had barked, already in motion. You didn’t hesitate. You ran.

But the Maze had other plans.

You turned a corner, hoping to loop back toward the exit, but the sun was already dipping—too fast. Shadows lengthened. Stone groaned.

Then the sound: SLAM.

You skidded to a stop. The doors—the only way out—had already closed.

“Shuck...” Minho muttered, breath catching. He ran up beside you, eyes wide. "..It's over.”

A metal screech ripped through the corridor. The Griever was close. Too close.

“Left!— LEFT, YOU SLINTHEAD!” Minho yelled as he grabbed your wrist, jerking you into a sharp turn just as the Griever’s needle arm slammed into the wall where you’d just been.

The Maze around you twisted and blurred as you ran, breath burning in your lungs, stone echoing under every step. You didn’t know where Minho was leading you—only that slowing down meant death.

The Griever was gaining.

And the Maze wasn’t done shifting yet.