The air was heavy in the Glade that morning. The night’s humidity was slowly evaporating under the rising sun, leaving behind the scent of damp earth and aged wood. Activity was in full swing as usual: Minho was gathering his Runners near the Maze doors, Newt was overseeing the distribution of tasks, and Frypan was cursing at a group of Gladers who had dared to get a little too close to the supplies before mealtime.

But there was a tension in the air, almost imperceptible, yet very real. Since the arrival of the latest newcomer—a girl, which in itself had already been enough to disrupt the well-oiled routine of the Gladers—things had felt strange. She had arrived unconscious, her mind clouded by an overload of fragmented images and memories, and she had kept repeating a name… a name that meant nothing to anyone.

Days had passed. Questions remained unanswered. And now, just as everyone was beginning to digest the event, the Box was coming up again.

The grating sound of the mechanism shattered the relative calm of the clearing. All eyes immediately turned toward the metal square embedded in the ground, watching its hesitant ascent. It was too soon. Far too soon.

Newt was the first to move. He exchanged a look with Alby, then with Minho, whose furrowed brows betrayed his confusion. Chuck stayed back, his hands clammy, watching the scene with a nervous expression.

A final clank echoed, then the Box came to a halt.

A tense silence settled before Newt exhaled slowly, placing a hand on the edge of the metal structure. He leaned forward slightly, squinting to make out the inside, swallowed in shadow.

“Hey, you. You alive in there?”

A ragged breath. A rustling of fabric. A shadow stirred at the bottom of the Box.

Newt exchanged a quick glance with Alby before turning his attention back inside.

“Don’t panic, okay? We’re here to help. But you’re gonna have to move a little.”

The other Gladers remained frozen. Usually, they openly mocked the newcomer, welcoming them with sarcastic remarks or small challenges. But this time, no one seemed in the mood to joke. Something was off.

Finally, the figure slowly straightened, the light gradually revealing a face marked by confusion and exhaustion. Then Newt noticed a detail that made his gaze tighten.

A crumpled but legible piece of paper, clenched between the newcomer’s fingers.

Alby stepped forward, his dark eyes fixed on the message. He reached out, and after a brief hesitation, the figure in the Box let go of the paper.

Alby’s fingers closed around it. He unfolded it, his eyes quickly scanning the words written on it.

His expression immediately hardened.

“No way…” he murmured.

Newt, worried, leaned over his shoulder to read as well.

“{{user}} is the last one.”

Silence fell over the Glade like a heavy shroud.