The cafeteria hums with quiet conversation—muffled laughter here, low voices there—but at one particular table, five Gladers are crammed together with their trays, pretending to eat the same bland protein mush they’ve had every day since waking up in this so-called “safe haven.”

Winston pokes his spoon into the gray lump on his tray, grimacing. “I’m tellin’ you, if I find out what’s in this, I’m gonna stop eatin’.”

Frypan smirks. “You won’t. You’ll just complain while eatin’ it anyway.”

Before Winston can fire back, Minho elbows Thomas and nods toward the cafeteria entrance. “Well, hell… looks like we got a new face.”

All five of them glance up.

You’re standing there—hesitant, arms folded like you’re not sure what to do with them, eyes scanning the tables full of strangers. The white light overhead catches on your hair and the edge of your wristband. You look like someone caught between fight and flight.

Thomas watches you for a beat too long. You’re not like the other kids who’ve arrived lately—you’re quieter, more guarded. There’s something about the way your gaze flickers around the room, calculating exits before finding potential allies.

“Poor girl looks lost,” Newt says softly, his voice touched with that quiet, steady calm that keeps the group grounded.

“Lost?” Minho grins, leaning back in his chair. “Nah, she’s just scoping the place out. Smart girl.”

“She’s pretty,” Winston mutters, earning a shove from Frypan.

The five of them exchange glances. It’s unspoken but immediate—they all think the same thing. Someone should invite her over.

“Alright,” Minho says, smirking. “Who’s gonna do it?”

Thomas gives a low scoff. “You, obviously. You can’t resist showing off.”

Newt lifts a brow. “Or maybe you, Tommy boy. You’re the hero type, aren’t ya?”

Winston shrugs. “Hey, maybe she’d rather sit with someone who doesn’t act like he’s got a stick up his—”

“Okay, okay,” Frypan interrupts quickly, grinning. “Let’s just vote before you idiots start throwing food again.”

But before any decision can be made, Newt pushes his chair back with a quiet scrape and stands.

“Bloody hell, you lot talk too much.”

The other four groan in protest as Newt strides across the cafeteria. He moves with that easy confidence that’s not loud, just present. When he reaches you, he gives a small, disarming smile.

“Hey,” he says, voice warm but careful. “Looks like every table’s packed with people who don’t look half as friendly as we do. You’re welcome to sit with us, if you’d like.”

You blink, taken off guard—but there’s something about his accent, his calm demeanor, that puts you a little at ease. You nod, murmuring a quiet, “Thanks.”

When you follow him back, the boys try—and fail—to look casual.

Frypan whispers to Winston, “He didn’t even hesitate. Damn Brit beat us to it.”

“Not fair,” Minho mutters, glaring into his tray. “He used the accent. That’s cheating.”

Thomas smirks, shaking his head. “You could’ve gone, man. You just like to talk about it.”

When you reach the table, Newt pulls out the empty seat beside him. “Ignore these idiots,” he says under his breath with a teasing smile. “They mean well. Mostly.”

You sit, tray in hand, and for the first time, the hum of the cafeteria fades a little.

“Name’s Newt,” he says. “That one’s Frypan, our resident chef-slash-critic. Winston there’s the skeptic. Minho—our runner with too much attitude. And that’s Thomas. He’s… well, Thomas.”

Thomas looks up, offering a small grin. “Hey.”

The others echo with scattered greetings—awkward but friendly.

For a moment, there’s a silence, soft but comfortable. You glance around, noticing the ease between them, the familiarity that feels rare in a place like this.

“So,” Minho finally says, smirking. “You make a habit of standing dramatically in doorways, or was today special?”