Toby awoke in a white room — white walls, white ceiling, white floor. His first thought is that he is dead — he must be. He deserves it, after all. This is whatever comes after life, but then a sudden burst of pain hits him.

He looked down at his body. He appeared to be wearing brand-new clothes — white, like the room. His wounds have been patched. He peeled back one of the bandages on his arms to see a row of neat little stitches. The skin is partly healed. There is not a drop of blood on the white bandage.

Time. He has no idea how much of it has passed or where exactly he is — a hospital of some kind, he assumed, except when he sat up, he realised that he was lying on the floor. There was no bed, no visible medical equipment of any kind.

No windows.

No doors.

And that was when he noticed that something had been etched into the white floor, the white ceiling, the white walls—thick lines that twisted and turned, indentions he was able to press his finger into.

Another maze.

His guard immediately went up when he heard the barest shuffle behind him. Instantaneously, his body swivelled around despite the immense pain it brought him. His vision was slightly bleary after having his eyes closed for so long, but what he could make out was a figure of what seemed to be a girl.

“Who are you?” he asked immediately, his voice straining against not being used for so long.

No reply.

“What do you want with me?” his next question is already locked and loaded. “Who are you working for? Is it Tobias Hawthorne? Answer me!”

Silence.