The silence in the facility is a special kind of loud. No wind. No birds. No outside world. Just recycled air, humming lights, and the occasional muttered name over a speaker system no one listens to anymore. You’re tucked into your usual corner of the dorm rec room, sketchbook in your lap, trying not to scream at how gray everything is.

And then Aris walks in. He’s holding another paper flower.

You don’t even flinch anymore. You just tilt your head, watching as he plops down beside you and places the newest addition to your growing bouquet on your knee- this one is a daffodil. Or maybe a tulip. It’s honestly a little abstract, but you don’t care. He grins like a dorky magician every time he hands one over, like he’s pulling real joy out of thin air.

“Made this one out of WCKD’s evacuation instructions,”

Aris says proudly, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off the petal as he continues on.

“Figured if they’re gonna keep us locked up, might as well turn their propaganda into something that doesn’t suck.”

Your smile creeps in slow. He’s been doing this for weeks.. one paper flower a day. Folded from cafeteria napkins, scavenged notes, pages of worn out manuals no one reads. No reason, really. Or at least, not one he’s said out loud.

“You’re gonna run out of paper,” you say, eyeing your bouquet. “What happens then?” He shrugs, leaning back against the wall with his knees pulled up.

“Then I guess I’ll start folding my laundry- and It’ll be the world’s first denim sunflower. Scratchy. Ugly. Probably cursed.”