One week.
Seven days since I shoved a knife into a Griever's screaming metal face and lived to tell the tale. I was officially the Glade's most interesting weirdo.
In the past week, I'd mapped three new corridors, dodged a death trap disguised as ivy, and avoided Gally's fist exactly five times. That last part felt like a personal best.
Progress.
I sat on an old, half-rotten stump near the edge of the Glade, dragging a whetstone down the edge of the blade Minho had handed me days ago. It was a mean-looking thing—sleek, double-edged, and curved slightly at the tip like it was born to stab nightmares. Its grip was wrapped in cracked leather, the kind that told stories of battles past.
"Been collecting dust in storage," Minho had said with that signature shrug when he tossed it to me. "Figured you'd give it more action than the supply crate."
Which, translated from Minho-speak, basically meant: You're one of us now.
I'd smirked so hard that day I nearly pulled a face muscle.
Now, I tested the blade's edge against my thumb, just enough to nick the skin.
"You're going to lose a finger if you keep doing that," Kiryu commented dryly from a low-hanging branch above me. He looked like the grim reaper on vacation—skeletal legs crossed, lazily munching on a spectral apple, cloak fluttering in a breeze that didn't exist.
"Relax," I said, flipping the blade between my fingers like a circus act. "Enhanced reflexes, remember?"
"Enhanced stupidity, more like."
I shot him a one-finger salute without looking. "Love you too, bony."
Kiryu smirked, tossing the apple core into the void. It vanished mid-air. Show-off.
With a deep breath and a last stroke of the whetstone, I stood and rolled my shoulders. Time to put this shiny toothpick to the test.
The forest at the Glade's edge was quiet—birds chirping, wind brushing through the leaves, and no Grievers in sight. Perfect. It had become my unofficial dojo. No distractions. No judgmental Gally muttering in the background. Just me, the trees, and the satisfying swish of steel through air.
Cell Activation surged beneath my skin, lighting my nerves on fire in the best way. My muscles coiled like loaded springs. Then I moved.
Slash. Step. Pivot. Duck. Lunge.
The blade was weightless in my grip, dancing with me as I weaved between trunks and low branches. I imagined enemies in the shadows—Grievers, WCKD agents, or, for fun, Gally's grumpy mug. I flipped, kicked, spun—like a high-octane ballet choreographed by someone with a slight violence problem.
"You look ridiculous," Kiryu called lazily.
"Says the sentient Halloween decoration with commitment issues."
"At least I don't yell while pretending I'm in an anime."
"I don't—"
"HIYAH!" he screeched in a comically high-pitched voice. "I'M THE SWORD WARRIOR OF LOVE!"
I whipped a rock at him. He phased through it and cackled like a banshee on bath salts.
By the time I finished, my shirt clung to my back with sweat, my chest rising and falling like I'd just run laps around the Maze—and I probably had, in sword swings. The blade felt alive now, like it had finally decided I was worthy of wielding it.
Not bad, Greenie.
The river was chaos.
A gaggle of Gladers—shirtless, soaked, and acting like toddlers at a pool party—were splashing around like water was the world's most underappreciated miracle. Jeff waved at me from waist-deep.
"Oi, Greenie! Get in here before we use your scrawny clothes as target practice!"
"Joke's on you, Jeff," I said, peeling off my shirt. "You couldn't hit the side of a barn with a blindfold on and a GPS."
"Oh-ho!" someone yelled.
"Burn!"
"You gonna take that, Jeff?" Winston added, laughing.
"Absolutely not," Jeff muttered. "But I will drown him later."
I waded into the water. Cold as betrayal—but exactly what I needed. I dunked my head under, scrubbing sweat and grime from my hair. When I surfaced, I spotted Chuck paddling toward me like a determined baby duck.
"Samuel!" he gasped. "Is it true? Did you actually stab a Griever in the nose?"
"Right between the nostrils," I confirmed. "Would've been poetic if I hadn't been screaming internally."
Chuck's eyes lit up. "That's so cool! Were you scared?"
"Absolutely. But I screamed in a manly way. Real deep. Very heroic."
Newt, lounging nearby on a rock with his feet dangling in the water, snorted. "Don't encourage him. His ego's already got its own postal code."
"Says the guy who tripped over a root and fell face-first into a beehive," I replied.
"That was one time—"
"Twice," Minho chimed in, paddling by.
"Three times," Gally added from the bank, deadpan.
Newt groaned as the rest of us burst into laughter. Chuck was practically hyperventilating, clinging to my shoulder to keep from sinking.
It was moments like these—laughter, teasing, camaraderie—that made the Glade feel less like a prison and more like… home. Against all odds, these scrappy teens, half-feral and half-brilliant, had become my people.
By the time the sun dipped behind the walls, we were back at the fire pit, hair damp, bellies rumbling. Frypan had worked some kind of witchcraft and made mystery meat stew that didn't taste like cardboard soaked in regret.
I sat between Minho and Chuck, my blade resting across my lap as I used a cloth to polish the handle.
"You're obsessed with that thing," Minho noted, sipping from his cup.
"It's sleek, sharp, and makes me look like a badass," I said. "What's not to love?"
"Other than the fact that it's the only thing between you and disembowelment?" Newt offered helpfully.
"Pfft." I jabbed my thumb at Minho. "That's what his face is for."
Minho kicked me under the table. "Next time a Griever shows up, I'm tripping you."
"Fair. Just let me get a cool one-liner in first."
The fire crackled as the sky darkened, stars peeking through like shy children. Conversations softened. Chuck leaned against my side again, eyelids heavy.
"He's attached to you," Newt murmured.
"Yeah." I looked down at the kid's mop of curly hair. "I'm like a big brother… or a slightly dysfunctional life coach."
"You're good with him."
I blinked. "You serious?"
"You make him laugh. Make all of us laugh, actually. That's rare, mate."
I shrugged, trying to hide the warmth creeping up my neck. "Well. I am objectively hilarious."
Newt grinned. "Don't push it."
Eventually, the Gladers peeled off—one by one, heading for hammocks, cots, and makeshift beds. Newt carried Chuck like a sack of potatoes, grumbling the whole way, but I saw the fondness in his eyes.
Kiryu appeared beside me, eyes flickering like candlelight in the breeze.
"You're getting soft," he said.
"Shut up."
"You like them."
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
Instead, I climbed into my hammock, the blade tucked safely under my pillow. Kiryu hovered close, his usual smirk tempered by something I couldn't quite name.
"You're an idiot," he said.
"Yeah," I murmured, eyes fluttering shut. "But I'm their idiot."
Sleep wrapped around me gently, the kind you only got when you felt safe enough to dream. Somewhere above, I swore I heard Kiryu's voice again—quiet, like a whisper carried by starlight.
"…Not such a bad idiot, though."