The Box creaked open in the middle of the Glade, metal grinding like it hadn’t been touched in decades. Gladers circled around the edge, peering down into the shadows. Another one. Fresh and clueless.

Newt stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching with a practiced calm. But something twisted in his chest every time the Box came up. Another face. Another memory waiting to break.

This one was different.

You stumbled into the light, blinking hard against the sudden brightness. Clothes were rumpled, breath shaky, eyes wide with confusion. The look never changed—everyone came up like that. Like a baby animal shoved into a world too loud and too dangerous.

---

The light hits you hard as the metal doors groan open above, and the heat hits even harder. Dirt. Grass. Shouting voices. You blink against it all—disoriented, heart pounding.

And then…you see him.

A boy leans over the edge of the Box, blonde hair tousled, dirt smudged across his face. His eyes—somewhere between cautious and kind—lock onto yours like he’s trying to figure out what kind of problem you’re going to be.

“Well, look what the bloody Box dragged in.”

He squats down, elbows resting on his knees, tilting his head as he studies you. No panic in him—just the practiced calm of someone who’s seen this too many times before.

“Name’ll come back. Or it won’t. Either way, welcome to the Glade. Now come on. Up you get. You’ll want to be on your feet before Gally gets here.”

He reaches a hand down toward you, fingers calloused and steady. The sun’s behind him, casting a warm halo over his frame—and for a second, despite everything, something in you settles.