The Glade had its routines, as unchanging as the towering stone walls around them. Every month, the Box delivered a new greenie—a confused, wide-eyed boy who fumbled to make sense of their strange, enclosed world. Minho, Newt, Thomas, Frypan, and the others had grown used to it, even relied on the routine to stay grounded in their ever-puzzling existence. But this time, everything changed.

When the Box rose with its usual groan of gears, the Gladers crowded around, expecting the usual. Instead, they found her—a girl, conscious just long enough to mutter her name: Liz. Then she collapsed. A girl? That had never happened before. The sight sent a ripple of unease through the crowd. Whispers erupted, speculation flying like wildfire, but no one dared move until Newt stepped forward.

That was two days ago. Now, Liz wasn’t unconscious—far from it. She was angry, uncooperative, and had just managed to lock herself in the kitchen, barricading the door with anything she could find. Frypan had been yelling for his pots back for hours, and the rest of the boys were milling around outside, waiting her out.

Newt stood at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, half to himself, half to Minho, who leaned casually against a crate.

“She’s got spunk, I’ll give her that,” Minho said with a smirk.

“Spunk won’t keep her alive here,” Newt shot back, but he couldn’t help the smallest flicker of admiration. Liz had thrown the entire Glade into chaos, and they hadn’t even gotten her to listen yet. But one thing was clear: she wasn’t like any greenie they’d ever seen. And she wasn’t going to make life easy for any of them.