𝐓𝐇𝐄 ━━ early morning chill clung to every surface of the Glade like a second skin. Wisps of silver mist rolled through the tall blades of grass, curling around trees and stones as if nature itself refused to sleep.

A subtle breeze whispered across the open field, catching the golden strands of Sylvia's hair where she lay curled atop a slumbering sheep. Its warmth shielded her from the biting cold, the rhythmic rise and fall of its breath grounding her in the moment, but her mind was far elsewhere.
She had dreamt again.

Not just any dream—this one felt intrusive, real, like a memory that wasn’t hers. The images lingered just out of reach as she blinked into the pale light. Flashes of blinding corridors, a sterile voice echoing in the distance, and shadows moving behind glass.

Every time she tried to focus, the details unraveled like smoke. These dreams were becoming more frequent, and each one left her waking in a daze.

The grass beneath her was soaked with dew, cold enough to sting through the fabric of her pants. She pushed herself upright slowly, brushing stray clumps of grass off her thighs as she shifted her weight. Her blouse, once white, now hung from one shoulder in a loose mess of dirt stains and frayed seams.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. Hope you didn’t crush the poor sheep in your sleep."
Sylvia turned toward the voice, her face relaxing when she spotted Minho approaching. He crossed his arms, a devilish grin spread across his face. He looked effortlessly confident in the morning light, his lean muscles flexing under his t-shirt, making him resemble something out of mythology. He always looked like he had just stepped out of a storybook and into their miserable reality.

"Hey, just because I butcher animals doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate their fluff," she shot back, giving a sleepy stretch. "You should try it sometime, Mr. Biceps. Might soften you up."

"Yeah, yeah, keep dreaming, Blondie." Minho smirked and tilted his head toward the Blood House. "Frypan's looking for you. Said if you don’t bring him meat soon, he’s gonna serve your sarcasm for breakfast."

Sylvia groaned. "Great. Nothing like a death threat to start the day."

Minho chuckled and started to jog backwards, already shifting into Runner mode. "Better get moving or I’ll tell the Grievers you’re oversleeping. That’ll get them running."

She gave him a mock salute, watching as he disappeared toward the Maze. His figure faded quickly into the mist that lingered around the Maze's looming walls.

Sylvia’s eyes lingered on the stone monoliths, their moss-covered faces towering high enough to blot out the sun. The ivy that clung to them waved gently in the wind, a haunting reminder of every failed attempt to climb, every crushed hope, every broken bone.

Three years. That’s how long they’d been here. Running. Surviving. Failing.

Despite the strict routines, the Glade still held moments like this—quiet, surreal, caught between the nightmare of the Maze and the numb repetition of life.

Sylvia never understood why the Runners kept going back in. The walls never changed. No patterns, no paths, no signs of an exit. Just dead ends and shifting corridors designed to drive people insane. And still, they ran. Minho. Ben. Dan. Hank. Like soldiers marching into hell just to make sure it was still there.

She gave the sheep a quick pat, murmuring a soft apology as she headed toward the Blood House. Her boots crunched across the frost-kissed grass. Morning activity had already begun. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the distant clatter of tools and the low murmur of voices signaled the Gladers were awake and busy.

Inside, the Blood House was a stark contrast to the peace outside. The metallic scent of blood hung in the air, mingling with the smoky aroma of firewood and raw meat. The walls were stained, worn down by years of butchering, and every surface was lined with tools—hooks, cleavers, blades, and buckets of soapy water.

"Look who finally showed up," Winston greeted her, tossing a rag over his shoulder as he passed her a knife and an already dead chicken.

Sylvia caught it with ease, twirling the knife once in her hand before getting to work. "Sorry, I was having a moment with a sheep."

Winston snorted. "You and your damn sheep. One day you’re gonna cuddle one and it’ll be your dinner the next."

"Yeah, and it’ll be the softest betrayal in Glade history."

They fell into a steady rhythm. Sylvia's hands moved with the ease of repetition—cut here, bleed there, strip the feathers. Blood splashed her apron and soaked through her blouse. She didn’t flinch anymore. You couldn’t, not here. Not if you wanted to survive.

"Frypan wants extra bacon today," Winston said after a while. "Said the last batch tasted like cardboard."

"He’s lucky we even have pigs to begin with," Sylvia muttered.

The door creaked open and Frypan stepped inside, his face already creased with irritation. "Where’s the rest of the damn meat? We’ve got fifteen Gladers bitching about being hungry, and I’ve got three eggs left."

"Coming, Chef," Sylvia replied without looking up. She wiped the blade on her apron, grabbed another chicken, and got back to work.

Frypan rolled his eyes. "Fifteen more minutes. If it’s not ready by then, I’m serving toasted grass and rage."

Sylvia snorted, half-amused, half-exhausted. The day was already dragging, and her muscles ached from repetition. The Blood House was a place of grim necessity—gritty, practical, and devoid of sentiment. But still, in this world of sharpened knives and clotted blood, it had its own rhythm. A cadence that distracted the mind from darker thoughts.

By the time the meat was finally hauled off to the kitchens, Sylvia’s shirt was soaked in sweat and blood, her arms streaked with grime and faint bruises from lifting. She stepped outside, finally, gulping down the crisp air like water. The sun had climbed higher now, piercing through the dispersing mist and casting harsh shadows across the Glade.

The vast expanse opened before her. Boys ran, worked, shouted—daily life surging around them like ants in a disturbed nest. Yet her eyes were drawn again to the Maze. Always the Maze.

It pulsed with something unspoken. Like a beast sleeping with one eye open.

“You spacing out again?”

Newt’s voice reached her gently, tugging her back from the edge of her thoughts. He moved toward her with that subtle limp, his gait graceful but undeniably strained. She didn’t need to ask how he got hurt. Everyone knew. The Maze had a hundred ways to mark you.

"Just thinking about how much I love being covered in chicken guts," she muttered dryly, brushing her forearm across her forehead.

Newt chuckled, the sound warm despite the somber setting. “You’re not the only one. Place smells like a butcher’s nightmare.”

"Better than the Maze, though."

He didn’t respond immediately. His gaze shifted to the looming walls. The silence that stretched between them wasn’t empty—it was loaded. A shared weight pressing down on their chests.

"You ever think about why they picked us?" he asked at last.

Sylvia stared ahead, her throat tightening. “Every single day.” She hesitated, trying to put feelings into words. “I think about who I was before, why I remember flashes of white rooms and people behind glass. But nothing ever sticks. Just that damn voice sometimes in my dreams.”

Newt’s expression darkened slightly, like her words reflected the same battle waging inside him. “Minho said something similar. Said it felt like we’re being… watched. Tested.”

Sylvia nodded. “Like rats in a maze.”

He looked at her, his eyes filled with unspoken understanding. “You ever want to be a Runner?”

The question hit unexpectedly. Sylvia folded her arms, glancing at the ground. “I’m not sure. Part of me does… but I’d probably punch the wall after the first dead end.”

Newt laughed, genuine and unguarded. “Yeah, you would.”

A hint of a smile tugged at her lips, but it faded as quickly as it came. “It’s not just the dead ends I hate. It’s the feeling. Like the Maze isn’t just walls. It’s watching. Breathing.”

Newt’s jaw tightened, a flicker of recognition flashing across his face. “Like it’s alive.”

They stood in silence again, surrounded by the ordinary chaos of the Glade. Hammers, shouts, footsteps—life trying to convince itself it was normal. But it wasn’t. Not here.

"Come on," Newt said, nudging her elbow. "Let’s get some water before Alby throws a fit."

They moved toward the garden barrels, footsteps echoing along the packed dirt paths. Sylvia dipped her hands in the cool water, savoring the sting of it against her skin. She splashed her face, rinsing the blood and sweat, but not the heaviness in her chest.

"You know," Newt said, handing her a tin cup, "if the Maze is alive… maybe it reacts to us. Maybe it’s changing because of what we’re doing."

Sylvia raised an eyebrow. “You starting to sound like Gally now. What’s next? The Maze has feelings?”

“Not feelings,” Newt murmured. “But maybe it has purpose.”

That word hit her in the gut.

Purpose.

What was any of this for?

Before she could answer, a sharp, primal cry echoed from the edge of the woods.

They both froze.

The scream tore through the Glade like a whipcrack.

It came from the edge of the forest—shrill, guttural, feral. Sylvia was already moving, sprinting toward the chaos with Newt just behind her.

And then she saw them.

Thomas was running—wild-eyed, gasping, legs pumping with everything he had. His shirt was torn, his face streaked with dirt and blood. Behind him, bursting from the trees like a nightmare made flesh, came Ben.

But this wasn’t the Ben they knew.

His skin was slick with sweat, ashen and taut, crawling with dark, pulsating veins that webbed across his neck and face. His eyes were bloodshot, bulging. Madness burned in them like a fever.

“Help!” Thomas shouted, stumbling out of the trees and into the Glade.

Ben followed, snarling. “I’LL KILL YOU!”

Gladers poured in from every corner. Alby, Chuck, Winston, Frypan—everyone came running, some shouting, some frozen in place, their faces contorted in horror and confusion.

“Hey!” someone yelled. “HOLD HIM DOWN!”

Ben crashed forward, tackling Thomas. They hit the ground in a blur of limbs and screaming. Thomas fought back, fists flailing, but Ben was stronger—driven by some dark thing writhing inside him.

Sylvia surged forward just as Newt knocked Ben away from Thomas with his shovel.

“Calm down, Ben!” Gallg shouted, holding the boy’s arms as he writhed like something possessed.

“WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?!” Frypan demanded, breathless.

“He just attacked me!” Thomas choked out, scrambling to his feet.

Ben screamed again, thrashing. “NO! No!”

Sylvia stared in disbelief as Alby knelt beside him. “Lift his shirt,” Alby ordered grimly.

"No!" Ben sobbed.

“Lift it,” Alby repeated.

Gally peeled back the torn, sweat-drenched fabric. Gasps echoed across the Glade.

There, just beneath Ben’s ribs, was the telltale mark—black and jagged, raised like a burn seared by lightning. The Griever sting.

“He’s been stung...” Gally questioned. “In the middle of the day?”

Ben began to cry, mouth trembling, voice breaking. “Help me... Please. Please, just help...”

He wasn’t a monster now. He was a boy—broken, terrified, poisoned.

“Put him in the Pit,” Alby said with finality, his voice like stone.

“No!” Ben howled. “Please, no!”

Hands moved fast—Gally, Newt, others—wrestling Ben into submission, tying him with ropes. He fought with the strength of madness, spitting and flailing.

“MED-JACK!” Newt screamed.

Ben shrieked as they dragged him toward the Pit. “Please don’t do it!" Ben tried to free himself out of the Gladers grip without luck as he cried out. "Calm down Ben!" Gally sent a warning to the aggressive guy.

“GET OFF OF ME!”

Sylvia stood frozen as Ben’s eyes locked with hers. “Listen to me!” he begged. “PLEASE, NO! You don’t understand! HE DID THIS! He did this! Please, STOP!”

Thomas backed away, stunned. Mud smeared across his arms, breath jagged.

Ben’s voice broke into sobs. “No! Please! Help me!”

They reached the Pit. The heavy wooden slats creaked as the hatch opened. It took four boys to force Ben inside. He hit the ground hard, coiled and snarling one last time before the hatch slammed shut.

Silence fell.

Just the sound of breathing. Labored, uneven.

Sylvia turned slowly, eyes locking with Thomas’s.

He looked like he’d just been shattered—like the weight of this place had finally cracked something deep inside.

Because this was the Glade.

And sometimes, it wasn't the Grievers who turned on you.

It was one of your own.