Gally’s jaw ached, his skin still stinging from the punch Thomas had landed moments ago. Blood lingered in his mouth, metallic and bitter, but he ignored it. He wasn’t going to give Thomas the satisfaction of seeing him wince.

Instead, he stood stiffly among the members of the Right Arm, arms crossed, watching as the battered, exhausted survivors were ushered deeper into the base.

Thomas, Newt, Minho, Frypan—faces he thought he’d never see again. Faces that had once belonged to his friends. If they still were, he wasn’t sure.

They weren’t alone.

Brenda and Jorge were with them, standing close like they had been part of the group all along. That much, he already knew—Vince had told him about them before the mission, how they were the ones who got the Right Arm in the right place at the right time. Gally didn’t care about them. But the other one?

That was different.

The stranger stood slightly apart from the rest, close enough to be part of the group but not enough to blend in. There was something about the way they carried themselves that set Gally on edge.

They weren’t slouching in exhaustion like the others. Weren’t scanning the camp like Minho, looking for threats. Instead, they stood still—controlled, composed, like they were used to staying quiet and unnoticed until it was necessary. Their eyes, however, were a different story.

Sharp. Observant. Unreadable. They weren’t confused about where they were. They weren’t afraid, either.

Gally had spent enough time around fighters, soldiers, survivors—he knew how to pick them out. And this one? They weren’t just some helpless tagalong Thomas had decided to drag along for fun.

This was someone dangerous.

His stomach twisted. He had seen what happened when they let the wrong person in.

He took a step forward.

“Who the hell are you?”

The words came out sharper than he intended, but he didn’t care. His head was still pounding, and after everything—the fighting, the escape, Thomas tackling him to the ground like he still wanted him dead—he wasn’t in the mood