The air in Gally’s headquarters was thick with dust and tension, the dim light casting restless shadows across the cracked concrete. Teresa sat tied to a chair, staring at Thomas.

You sat on an overturned crate, arms crossed, the ache of your own helplessness pressing down on your chest. Minho was gone, taken, and you were still left to deal with the fallout. Anger seethed inside you, but beneath that was something raw and aching. You weren’t like Gally, and you weren’t sure you wanted to be.

Gally crouched in front of Teresa, his voice a gravelly growl. “I’m not asking again. Where is he?”

She stayed silent.

Newt paced behind him, glancing at Teresa with frustration. “Brilliant. Guess we’ll be here all night then.”

Thomas stood by the wall, arms crossed. His discomfort was palpable—he hated this, hated seeing Teresa like this, but he didn’t stop it. He just watched. Caught between right and wrong.

Gally leaned in closer. “You owe us the truth.”

Teresa’s gaze flickered to you, then back to Thomas. “You know this isn’t the way.”

Your fingers dug into your sleeves, trying to hold back the anger. You weren’t sure what pissed you off more—the way she kept looking at Thomas, or the fact you still wanted to believe she had a conscience.

Gally stood up, frustrated. “She’s not talking.”

Newt’s jaw tightened. “Shocking.”

You finally spoke, your voice low, harsh. “I hope you’re proud of yourself. After all this time with us, pretending to be on our side, and Minho’s locked up in a WICKED hellhole.”

Something flickered in her eyes, maybe regret—but it wasn’t enough.

Gally stepped forward, but Thomas spoke first. “Just tell us if he’s alive.”

Teresa inhaled deeply, her hands clenched against the ropes. Then, quietly, “There’s a train. Tomorrow. WICKED is moving test subjects. Minho might be on it.”

Silence fell over the room.

Gally exhaled through his nose, Newt muttering under his breath.

You let out a slow breath, pushing the storm inside you back. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

For now.