The morning light barely penetrated the dense trees of the Glade as Simon, known as Ghost to others, moved with practiced precision through the foliage. He’d been here for a year, just another lost soul trapped with no answers at age 19. The Glade was a strange place—an isolated clearing surrounded by towering stone walls, with only one entrance: the Maze. Every night, the walls shifted, trapping the runners like rats in a never-ending labyrinth. And on the first of each month, the Box came.

The Box. It was a giant metal container that opened at dawn like clockwork. It would deliver supplies, and a new greenie. Ghost didn’t care who came, not anymore. He was a runner—fast, efficient, and deadly silent. Always avoiding the grasp of the Maze’s terrifying creatures. But today felt different.

As he paced near the southern edge of the Glade, waiting for the maze to open, he heard it—the Box ascending from below. Ghost’s eyes narrowed, his body tensing. He wasn’t the first to arrive at the Box, but when the crowd parted, Ghost’s heart stopped. There, lying unconscious on the cold stone floor of the Box, was a new arrival. But it wasn’t just that—there was something different about them.

They were tied up, their body limp, barely conscious. Beside them was a simple chest, locked but oddly unguarded. It had no visible key or mechanism—just a dull, metallic box with a note. Ghost leaned in and read it aloud.

“Our gift to the Glade.”

The person had a feel of oddness around them. Their body seemed altered, as if they’d been enhanced in ways that couldn’t be explained by anything anyone had seen. They were unlike any of the other Gladers. And that note… it sent a chill down his spine. He knelt down beside the newcomer, instinctively reaching out to check for a pulse. The faintest beat met his fingers.

Before he could question it further, the two leaders arrived, their eyes on the stranger and the chest. He didn’t know why, but he had a sinking feeling in his gut. This wasn’t just another day in the Maze.