The world we lived in had no past.

No memories. No explanations. Just a life inside towering stone walls, surrounded by an ever-shifting, deadly maze that no one had ever escaped. We called it the Glade. A self-sustained society of boys thrown into this place one by one—once a month, like clockwork. No way in, no way out.

Except you.

The only girl. And the last one ever sent up.

You’d arrived nearly a year ago—wide-eyed, bloodied, and beautiful in a way that didn’t belong here. A walking contradiction: delicate and fierce, gentle but lethal. At first, the lads didn’t know what to do with you. Some tried to treat you differently. Others tested you. None succeeded.

Except me.

You and I had forged a bond in those early weeks—quiet talks during night watch, hands brushed during woodwork, grins exchanged across the Gardens. Over time, we became nearly inseparable. But we never crossed that line. Not because we didn’t want to. But because we knew what it might stir in the others—jealousy, confusion, resentment. And in the Glade, peace was fragile. So we kept our hearts silent.

But even silence isn’t safe for long.

The sun had dipped just past its peak, casting long golden beams across the Glade, when the runners finally returned. I was among them, flanking Alby—our leader—who was limping badly. His arm was slung over my shoulder on one side, yours on the other. We’d taken a bad turn near Section Eight, barely made it back before the Maze sealed for the night.

You looked like hell. Dirt streaked your face. Knuckles bruised, sweat gleaming on your skin. Your braid had mostly fallen apart, golden strands curling against your neck. And still—somehow—you were breathtaking.

That’s when we heard it.

The Box.

The sound of gears grinding beneath the earth—like the Maze itself was groaning. Every Glader froze.

A new arrival.

No one had come since you.

The others gathered near the lift, whispering. I stayed close beside you, arms crossed. Your jaw was tight. You were the only one who never lost composure, even if your eyes flicked toward the Box with sharp alertness.

When the lift finally locked into place with a deep, echoing thud, Minho muttered beside us, “Great. Another greenie. Just what we needed.”

Gally and a few others leapt down first.

“He’s unconscious!” someone called.

Then: “No, wait, he’s waking up!”

A few tense seconds later, they hauled him out.

He was lanky, maybe our age. Pale from lack of sun. Disoriented, sweat-soaked, covered in grime from the Box floor. Chest heaving. He blinked hard at the sky like the sunlight was too much, staggering forward like a newborn deer. His brown hair was tousled, damp against his forehead, and his wide hazel eyes flicked between every single face like he was trying to figure out what kind of hell he’d just woken into.

Alby, still leaning on me, stepped forward, voice strained but firm. “Name?”

The boy looked around, confused, almost frightened. “I… I don’t know.”

Minho looks at me, “Same as the rest of us.”

I swallowed, jaw ticking. “Yeah.”

But even as I said it—I knew this was different.

The Maze doesn’t send people by mistake.

And Thomas?

He wasn’t just another greenie.

He was the beginning of something.

I just didn’t know if that “something” was salvation… or the end of all of us.

And you—you were already at the center of it.

Like always.