The Griever's carcass smoked behind us, the stench of oil and scorched metal thick in the air as we tore down the corridor of the Maze. Its death cries still echoed like a haunted violin string being slowly snapped. My arms burned where its claws had raked me open, but Cell Activation was already patching me up—like getting stitched by ghostly ants wearing tasers for shoes. Weirdest sensation ever.
"Move your asses!" Minho barked, shoving Jeff ahead as the ground rumbled behind us. "Sector Five's about to shift!"
The walls let out a deafening groan, like two continents grinding their teeth. We dove through just as the slabs slammed shut behind us with finality. I half expected one of us to leave a limb behind. Spoiler alert: I checked—still had all ten fingers and the rest of me, though I was pretty sure my dignity had taken a hit somewhere along the way.
And then, like the universe was rewarding us for not dying horribly, the Glade came into view—wide open, bathed in molten gold from the setting sun, safe. Peaceful.
For about three seconds.
"They're back!" Chuck's voice pierced the calm as he tore across the clearing like a chubby little hurricane. Behind him were Newt, Alby, and even Gally, skulking in the shadows like Batman with a migraine.
Newt was first to reach us, his eyes scanning our bruises, blood, and grease-streaked faces. "What the bloody hell happened out there?"
Minho, always the drama queen, clapped a hand on my shoulder like I'd just survived the Hunger Games. "Greenie here just bagged himself a Griever."
The silence hit so hard it was almost funny.
"…Bullshit," Gally snapped. "No one's ever—"
I pulled the trump card: a hunk of twisted Griever plating, still leaking that eerie bioluminescent blue goo. I chucked it on the ground where it landed with a clang that echoed across the clearing like a mic drop.
Cue the chaos.
"Holy—"
"No way!"
"That's from a real one?"
Chuck practically vibrated beside me. "That's the coolest thing I've ever seen in my whole life! Can I touch it?! Wait—can I keep it? No, wait—can I name it?!"
"I suggest 'Stabby,'" I deadpanned. "Or 'Sir Screams-a-Lot.'"
The crowd surged. I was slapped on the back so many times I might've been diagnosed with whiplash by the end of it. Even Gally looked like he'd just been handed a lemon he wasn't sure if he wanted to eat or throw at me.
Newt crouched by the plating, giving it a once-over. "You serious? You killed one of these buggers on your first Maze run?"
"Got it wedged in a crevice," I said, modestly. "Turns out they don't like being stabbed in their emotional support motherboard."
Alby raised an eyebrow. "And you just happened to know where to stab?"
Crap. I hesitated a beat too long.
Behind Alby, Kiryu popped into view, floating lazily and miming a zip motion over his mouth like a very unhelpful mime. His idea of support was borderline criminal.
"Lucky guess?" I tried.
Alby didn't look convinced, but Frypan chose that exact moment to swoop in like a greasy culinary angel, shoving a bowl into my hands.
"Eat up, Killer. You're tonight's main event."
I sniffed the bowl. Smelled like meat. Possibly not squirrel. I took that as a win.
By nightfall, the bonfire was lit, and the Glade was transformed. Someone cranked up a hand-cranked music box they'd rigged out of Maze scrap, playing a warbling tune that somehow fit the vibe. Laughter spilled through the air. Even Gally hadn't punched anyone yet, which felt…illegal.
Chuck sat glued to my side, bouncing like he'd inhaled sugar straight from the bag.
"So, were you scared?" he asked, wide-eyed. "The Griever, I mean."
"Terrified," I admitted. "Way scarier than Frypan's mystery meat stew."
Frypan, across the pit, flipped me off without missing a beat. "You want seconds or what, wiseass?"
"Not unless I want a spontaneous third arm."
The others laughed, and I soaked in the moment. Warm firelight. Full bellies. No one bleeding (much). A real sense of community. I was still wrapping my head around how quickly I'd come to care about these lunatics.
Minho slumped beside me, sipping something he claimed was moonshine but smelled suspiciously like fruit juice and bad decisions. "Still can't believe you pulled that off," he muttered, half-awed. "Griever on day one? That's insane."
"Guess I'm just built different," I said, taking a dramatic sip and nearly coughing my lungs out. Oh yeah. Moonshine confirmed.
Newt dropped down on my other side. "Built stupid, more like."
"Hey, just because I'm pretty and deadly doesn't mean you gotta hate."
"Pretty? Mate, I've seen soggy bread with more sex appeal."
I gasped. "You wound me."
"Not as much as that Griever nearly did," Minho muttered, chuckling.
We shared the firelight and the kind of easy camaraderie forged in blood and chaos. Even Gally wandered over eventually, looming like a thundercloud. I tensed instinctively—habit at this point—but instead of throwing a punch, he shoved a cup at me.
"Don't let it go to your head, Greenie."
My eyes widened. "Wow. Gally just gave me a compliment. Someone mark the calendar."
"It wasn't a compliment," he grunted, then stalked off like Batman after a hug.
Progress.
Later, after most of the Gladers had wandered off to pass out in hammocks or tents, I stayed behind by the dying embers. The stars above were impossibly clear. Too many. Like the Maze hadn't just trapped us on Earth—but somewhere else entirely.
Kiryu hovered nearby, lazily munching an apple he conjured out of nothing. I still hadn't figured out if his snacks were real or metaphysical metaphors.
"You're grinning," he said eventually.
"Am I?"
"Like an idiot." Crunch. "Why?"
I thought of Chuck, the way he'd clung to me. Of Minho and Newt arguing about who snored louder. Even of Gally's awkward attempt at social interaction. I thought of the way they cheered, laughed, shared everything they had—even hope.
"They're not just survivors," I murmured. "They're… family."
Kiryu didn't respond right away. He hovered in the silence like he was weighing the universe.
"You're getting attached," he finally said, voice softer than I expected.
"Yeah." I stretched out on the grass, watching the stars like they had answers. "Worst idea ever, right?"
"The worst," he echoed.
But as I closed my eyes, somewhere between the creak of settling wood and the sigh of night wind, I thought I heard him whisper something else.
"…But maybe not so bad."
Sleep came easy that night, the kind of deep, bone-melting sleep only people who had survived a Griever and moonshine-fueled bonding could understand. And just before I drifted off, I swore I felt a soft breeze carry the scent of apples and a laugh that wasn't entirely mortal.
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