ACT I   SCENE XXXVIII
HELEN

   IT BEGAN the way dreams always did—soft around the edges, colour bleeding into shadow, time slipping sideways.

Cassandra floated through a blur of images, voices and faces she couldn't hold onto. A door closing. A scream muffled by glass. The sterile scent of antiseptic clinging to her skin. For so long, her memories had been stitched together by fog and doubt, refusing to give her answers. But this time, the memory didn't feel like it was lying to her.

This time, she finally saw a glimmer of truth.

The overhead lights were dimmed to a dull glow, casting a blue haze across the room. Cassandra lay on her back atop the thin mattress, one leg bent, arms resting over her stomach. Beside her, Nick was stretched out on his side, propped up by one elbow. The soft thrum of electricity buzzed faintly in the walls, the beeps of machines monitoring their vital signs.

Between their rooms stood a wall of frosted glass, translucent enough to catch vague shapes moving on the other side. It made privacy feel like a suggestion rather than a reality. But here, with him, it still felt like the safest place in the world.

"Do you ever wonder if we made the right choice?" Cassandra asked suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper in her own mind.

Nick didn't answer right away. He glanced at the ceiling, then at her, reading something in her face that she hadn't said out loud.

"You mean coming here?" he murmured.

She nodded slowly. Her fingers fiddled with the edge of her blanket. "I thought... if there was a way to fix the world, this was it. But now..." Her voice trailed off. She swallowed. "I don't know anymore..."

Nick's eyes drifted to the observation window on the far side of the room, where the glass shimmered faintly. "They say it's for the good of humanity. That we're the lucky ones. But every time I hear them talk about the variables and the patterns and calling us subjects like we're just numbers instead of people—" He exhaled sharply, cutting himself off.

Cassandra turned her head to look at him, their eyes meeting in the low light. "Do you regret it?"

He hesitated, then lay back fully beside her, their shoulders brushing. "I regret believing they were different from everyone else who let the world fall apart."

She was quiet for a long moment. "I can't believe we're going into the Maze tomorrow. I'm going to miss you and Minho, and the others."

Nick reached for her hand. "We'll see each other again."

She nodded, biting back the lump in her throat. "Don't forget me..." she whispered.

He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. "Never."

The next thing she remembered was waking up in the Glade. Blinding sunlight caressed her face, shining through her eyelids. She was lying on her back in the grass, the blades cool and damp against her skin. Overhead, the sky stretched out in an endless blue. It felt like a dream within a dream.

Then came a voice.

"Hey—hey, can you hear me? Wake up."

Hands gripped her shoulders, shaking her gently but firmly. Cassandra blinked, the light splitting across her vision, until a face came into view. A girl was crouched beside her, with tangled blonde hair falling around her face and round brown eyes.

An inexplicable wave of familiarity washed over her, warm and perplexing all at once. As if she had lived this moment once before, in a different time and place. Her lips parted slightly, her breath catching. A name hovered over her tongue, balanced on the edge of memory like a secret trying to claw its way to the surface.

Sonya.

   Cassandra woke to the murmur of voices and the clink of tin spoons against metal. A fire crackled in the stove nearby, its heat thickening the air and making the room feel stuffy. She blinked, disoriented, then spotted the boys gathered on the carpeted floor, laughing over something she'd missed. With a groan, she stretched her legs over the edge of the sofa. A few heads turned.

"Cassie!" Minho turned around, grinning. "Look who finally decided to join the living. We were just about to head back out."

He poked her side out of habit.

She jolted and winced. "Ow! What the heck, Minho!" she snapped, more out of instinct than real anger.

He snickered without a hint of remorse. "Okay, drama queen. Want me to kiss it better?"

"Honestly, I don't know whether I want to throw up, laugh or cry whenever I look at them," Archie remarked.

"All the time, man," Newt grumbled. "That's how I feel all the time."

She swatted Minho away with a groggy glare and pushed herself upright, grumbling as she rubbed her eyes. Frypan handed her a tin of sausages and beans, and she tore into it gratefully.

"You're gonna love this, Cassie," Minho said, dragging a heavy crate across the floor with a smug grin.

Curious, she shuffled over and knelt beside him, peering into the crate. Her eyes swept over an assortment of weapons—switchblades, machetes, throwing axes—until something caught her eye. Nestled among the mess was a sleek, lacquered sheath that gleamed even in the dim light.

She reached for it with both hands, fingers gliding over the polished wood. Carefully, she drew the katana free. The blade sang softly as it left the sheath, catching the glow of the overhead lights. Her eyes widened, reflecting the edge's shimmer. She held it up, transfixed.

"Wow, this is freakin' cool," she breathed.

"It suits you," Newt commented. "Brings out your eyes. Merciless. Soulless. Empty as a friggin' black hole."

She grinned at him. "Thanks, Newton."

"Alright, amigos, break time is over," Jorge's voice called.

He gathered them together and began explaining the route to Thomas and Brenda's location. The Gladers quickly packed their belongings, grabbed extra food, and one by one, slipped out of the safe house.

Cassandra was the first to emerge onto the dusty street, pausing to take in the surroundings as dawn began to creep over the shattered buildings encircling them. Newt followed close behind, then Archie and Frypan.

They filed out quietly until Jorge finally joined them, carefully rolling the cement slab back over the hole. Despite the desolation, the early morning air was surprisingly cool, and Cassandra pulled her jacket tighter around her.

Jorge led the way down the cracked street, slipping through narrow alleyways and weaving between dilapidated houses. The journey didn't take long; the sky above remained a deep purplish shade, streaked with the first hints of orange light brushing the horizon.

"We should split up," Jorge said, glancing down at his device once more. "They should be close—somewhere around here."

Minho nodded. "Alright. Meet back here within the hour."

The Gladers exchanged quick agreements before breaking off into smaller groups. Minho, Newt, and Cassandra veered down a side street to the left. They crossed the cracked road only to find their path blocked by a collapsed building. Jagged shards of glass glittered across the broken pavement, and heaps of rubble cluttered the edges of the street. Occasionally, distant sounds drifted through the air—someone crying, singing softly, or wailing mournfully into the sky.

Suddenly, Cassandra halted, her eyes fixed on a nearby wall. She tugged Minho and Newt to a stop beside her. Both turned to her with raised brows, curiosity piqued.

"Look up there," she whispered.

Their gazes followed hers, settling on words hastily scrawled across the side of a crumbling building.

THOMAS, YOU'RE THE REAL LEADER.

They stared at the inscription in stunned silence. Morning light had begun to spill over the rooftops, casting long shadows and catching on the scattered shards of glass like tiny mirrors. It felt like the whole world was in on the joke too.

Cassandra blinked, then let out a soft, incredulous breath. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

"You've got to be kidding me," she muttered. "Minho, looks like you're not the leader after all."

Newt gave a low chuckle. "Congratulations. You're officially off duty."

Minho scowled, dragging a hand down his face. "What the actual shuck? I've been breaking my back doing that shank's job this whole time? Nah. He owes me big time, it's not even funny."

Cassandra snorted. "It's kinda funny."

A sudden commotion broke out half a block away. Two men were flailing wildly at each other with rubber chickens, the kind that let out obnoxious squeals with every swing. The sounds were so ridiculous that Cassandra nearly burst out laughing, but the moment was cut short as a swarm of Cranks began to gather, jeering and egging them on with disturbing glee.

"Time to go," Minho said flatly, already turning on his heel.

Behind them, a few children crept out from hiding, taking advantage of the distraction. They dashed across the rubble-strewn road, snatching up whatever scraps had been left behind. Cassandra watched one slip through a crack in a wall, vanishing like a shadow.

The three of them doubled back past the collapsed building, keeping low and quiet as they made their way toward the rendezvous point, the chaos echoing behind them with a sour note.

A few of the search parties had made it back before them, each reporting dead ends and no sign of Thomas or Brenda. With nothing else to do, the Gladers sat among the broken debris, idly sifting through the rubble as they waited for the others to return.

"Hey!"

Cassandra straightened, brow furrowed. "You guys hear that?"

"Hey!"

"It's Fry," Archie said, pointing down the street. Frypan was sprinting toward them, arms flailing, a wide grin plastered on his face.

"Reckon he found something?" Newt asked.

"I hope so," Minho muttered. "He looks way too pleased with himself to be running from Cranks."

Frypan finally reached them, doubled over and panting hard as he struggled to catch his breath. Cassandra tossed a small pebble at his foot.

"Spit it out already," she said. "What'd you find?"

"I found them," he wheezed. "Both of them. Back in some alley. They got dragged into some Crank party at gunpoint."

Minho's expression sharpened. "What kind of party, Fry? How many were there? What were they doing?"

Frypan shook his head, still breathless. "Didn't get a good look. But there were a lot of 'em, and totally high off their heads."

From above, Jorge dropped down from his perch atop a stack of bricks, landing with a heavy thud on the broken pavement. He clapped a fist into his palm, a smirk spreading across his face.

"Well then," he said, eyes gleaming. "Let's go crash the party."

Frypan led them back the way he came. They took cover in a derelict house across from the alley where the party was raging. Heavy bass pounded through the dry air, thudding like a second heartbeat beneath the encroaching heat.

Cassandra spotted a staircase that hadn't yet collapsed and immediately slipped toward it. Without waiting, she climbed quickly, her steps making the old floorboards groan beneath her. Behind her, Minho called out in a low voice before following.

The upper floor was dim and dusty, a narrow hallway stretching ahead with four doors. The first one on the right opened into a bathroom that looked like it had been rotting since the world ended, thick with mold and a smell that made her gag. No way was she going in there.

The door opposite was locked or jammed shut. She gave it a half-hearted shove before moving on just as Minho reached the landing, his eyes tracking her with mild amusement.

"Looking for inspiration on interior design?" he asked, raising a brow.

She rolled her eyes at him and turned away.

Only the last room looked halfway livable. She pushed the door open and stepped inside. It had clearly belonged to a girl. There was a white vanity tucked beside the entrance and a matching wardrobe opposite. The walls, once a soft mauve, were now faded and peeling, with water stains bleeding through the corners. Posters of boy band idols still clung stubbornly to one side of the room, their smiles warped and yellowed with age.

Cassandra walked over to the vanity and wiped a thick layer of dust from the mirror with her sleeve. She blinked at her reflection. Holy crap, her hair was a disaster.

Behind her, Minho wandered in and stopped at the centre of the room. A ragged four-poster bed sat in the corner, its canopy hanging in shreds like wilted petals. Cassandra was still fussing with her hair when a sharp crack split the air. She turned just in time to see Minho's foot plunge through a broken floorboard.

A snort escaped before she could stop it. "Minho, I think you need to cut back on the beans."

He gaped at her in mock offence. "Are you calling me fat?!"

She bit her bottom lip, trying and failing to stifle her laughter as her shoulders shook. Minho lifted his foot from the hole, cocked his head, then crouched down.

"Whoa. Look at this."

He reached in and pulled out a shotgun.

Her eyes lit up. She scrambled forward, wide-eyed. "Holy crap, are there still shells in it?"

Minho racked the pump back with a sharp clack, then tilted the shotgun to check the chamber. "Empty. Wait a sec."

He reached back into the hole and pulled out a couple of shell boxes, grinning. "Oh yeah. That's what I'm talking about."

Setting them aside, he thumbed a few shells into the loading port beneath the barrel, each one clicking into place with smooth efficiency. Once the tube was full, he pumped the action forward, chambering the first round with a satisfying chunk. Then he flicked the safety on.

Bracing the stock against his shoulder, he peered down the sights then glanced at her sideways with a small smirk.

"How do I look?" he asked.

"You look pretty hot," she said, the words slipping out carelessly.

His smirk grew wider as he looked back at her, but there was something quiet and unspoken in his eyes that made her heart falter. Cassandra's pulse stirred beneath the weight of his gaze, the world around them melting into a quiet haze, until all that remained was him and the fragile silence that stretched between them. Their noses nearly touched, and she could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

Up close, she could see everything: the curve of his lashes, the faint scar near his temple, the subtle crease between his brows. The moment hung heavy, thick with memory and emotion she wasn't prepared to admit.

It felt so achingly familiar, but she couldn't remember why. The memories were gone, ripped out of her reach, but the feeling lingered like the echo of a dream. She wanted to lean in, to let herself fall into it, but fear held her back. What if this was all wrong? What if it was a mistake?

"Hey! What are you two doing up there?!" Newt's voice rang out, sharp and suspicious.

Cassandra rolled her eyes, turning away from Minho with a flush of embarrassment, as if caught red-handed. She was pretty sure Newt was doing this just to mess with them. Beside her, Minho let out a soft exhale, almost a laugh, and rose to his feet. He offered her his hand without a word. She hesitated, just for a breath, then slipped her fingers into his. Time to go rescue the Golden Boy.

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