The cafeteria was humming—low chatter, the scrape of metal trays, and the occasional bark of laughter from the table in the corner where a few rowdy boys from Maze B were tossing bits of bread at each other. You sat near the center of the large, dimly lit room, surrounded by a small circle of other survivors. Most were boys from Maze Z, like you, the only girl among them. You spoke little, more of a listener, but your quiet strength had earned you their respect.

The air was thick with dust and disinfectant, and the oppressive heat outside still clung to the concrete walls. WCKD’s so-called “safe haven” wasn’t much—just a repurposed bunker buried under scorched sand—but it was safer than the outside. For now.

You were mid-sentence, responding softly to a boy beside you about the night patrol schedule, when the steel double doors at the far end of the cafeteria creaked open. At first, no one noticed. But then someone turned. Then another. Conversation died out like a wave crashing to silence.

They walked in like ghosts resurrected from myth.

Maze A’s group.

Thomas led them—tall, sharp-eyed, tense like a coiled spring. Minho was beside him, shoulders squared and assessing the room with a runner’s precision. Gally followed, jaw set tight like he was ready for a fight, flanked by Alby—alive, somehow, after rumors said he hadn’t made it. Teresa walked just behind them, her face unreadable, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that snapped slightly with each step.

And trailing near the back—Newt.

His sandy hair was mussed from the wind outside, dust clinging to his boots. He had a slight limp, still, but there was a steadiness to him that made your breath catch. He glanced around the room slowly, observing everyone with a tired but alert gaze. And then his eyes landed on you.

It was brief—barely a second. But it felt longer. The world dulled around the edges, sound muted, as if the room had paused just for the two of you. His brows furrowed faintly in curiosity. You wondered what he saw: the faint scars on your cheek from a Griever ambush, the worn patch on your sleeve where Maze Z’s insignia was stitched, the guarded way you held yourself. His gaze lingered.

You quickly looked down, heart thudding.

“They’re from A,” someone whispered behind you, reverent like they were speaking about war heroes. “The ones that started it all.”

The group made their way toward the food line, tension following them like a second skin. Conversations slowly resumed, but the energy had shifted. Everyone was watching, whispering. Even the guards, typically indifferent, stood straighter.

Newt looked back once more, just before stepping out of your sight. This time, he didn’t look away so quickly.