It had become routine now. Three years had passed since she first woke up in the Box, since the creaking metal walls had opened and the blinding light of the Glade poured over her. She had been the fifth to arrive. The only girl. Surrounded by a swarm of confused, wide-eyed boys, all of them staring at her as if she were some strange glitch in their carefully built order.

But the Glade had a way of shaping people. And she had shaped herself into someone who belonged. She was kind, approachable, the type who laughed easily and made friends with everyone. She cooked with Frypan, hauled wood with Gally, planted with the Track-Hoes, sat in on Newt’s planning sessions. She had a place among them—almost like a little sister, though not entirely. Because with one of them, she wasn’t just a friend.

Minho.

The Keeper of the Runners. Sharp-eyed, fast-tongued, reckless in the Maze but steady in her presence. What started as lingering glances across the Gardens or half-teasing words at dinner had become something more. Something secret. Hidden kisses stolen in the shadows, her hand brushing against his as they walked the narrow corridors of the Homestead when no one was looking. Everyone suspected, maybe. The way his eyes lingered on her a little longer than they should, or how she always managed to save him a seat near her at meals. But suspicion wasn’t the same as truth. Their secret was safe in plain sight.

Daytime belonged to the Glade, to the Maze, to Minho’s runs. She never complained, never begged for him to stay. She understood. The Maze was his duty, his obsession, his curse. But when the sun sank low and the walls of the Maze began to grind shut for the night, he came back. He always came back. And that was enough.

Until the day he didn’t.

That evening, the air carried a strange tension, an uneasiness that crawled beneath the skin of every Glader. She stood with the others near the gaping Mouth of the Maze, eyes straining against the growing shadows. Alby and Minho were out there. They should have been back by now.

Then, through the twisting grey stone, she saw them. Two figures stumbling toward the Doors as the walls began to shift, groaning with the promise of nightfall. Minho’s hand was gripping Alby, half-dragging, half-carrying him. Panic surged in her chest.

“Come on!” Newt shouted, voice raw with urgency.

But they were too far. Too slow. The shifting slabs of stone loomed, their edges nearly touching.

And then—Thomas. The new guy. He bolted forward without a second of hesitation, sprinting into the Maze as the walls threatened to crush him. She gasped, the sound tearing out of her throat.

The three boys disappeared behind the stone edges. And then the walls slammed shut with a thunderous boom that shook the ground beneath her feet.

Silence fell.

Her heart stopped.

The night that followed was the worst of her life.

She couldn’t sit still, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. She paced, clawed at her arms, her eyes swollen from crying. Every sound of the night—the distant howls of Grievers, the scraping of metal, the rustle of leaves in the Gardens—felt like a knife twisting deeper into her chest. She replayed the image of Minho stumbling, exhausted, disappearing behind the closing walls. What if that was the last time she’d ever see him? What if their last kiss, shared just two nights ago under the stars by the Deadheads, was the last one?

Some of the boys tried to comfort her, but their words were meaningless. Newt kept a steady hand on her shoulder, telling her that Minho was tough, that if anyone could survive a night in the Maze, it was him. She wanted to believe him. She needed to. But every hour that passed gnawed at the fragile thread of hope she clung to.

When dawn finally came, she was already standing at the Maze entrance, with the other boys, her eyes bloodshot, her body trembling. The walls shuddered and began to part, groaning open. Her breath caught in her throat, fear and hope twisting together so tightly it made her dizzy.

And then she saw them.