The sun hadn't even fully risen when I made my decision—today, I wasn't setting foot in that godforsaken Maze.
Call it self-preservation. Call it a mental health day. Call it what it truly was: the rare, beautiful realization that I didn't feel like getting chased by a screaming Roomba with blades for limbs before breakfast.
Instead, I dragged my still-sore-from-yesterday body straight to the epicenter of culinary chaos: Frypan's kitchen.
He stood like a war general at the stove, looming over a bubbling cauldron of his infamous "mystery stew." The smell alone could peel paint. He stirred it with a ladle that looked like it had seen combat and probably witnessed a war crime or two.
"Morning, sunshine," I said, leaning in the doorway like the world's sassiest health inspector. "Smells like regret and childhood trauma in here."
"Touch my stew and I'll stew your fingers in it," Frypan replied, not even glancing up.
"You know," I said, walking in, "most people say good morning."
"I'm not most people. And you're not welcome until you stop insulting breakfast."
"This is breakfast?" I peered into the pot. "I thought you were preparing to summon a demon."
He finally looked up, a slow grin spreading across his flour-dusted face. "Aren't you supposed to be Runnin' with Minho right now?"
"Took a personal day. Maze and I are on a break." I grabbed an apron and tied it around my waist with dramatic flair. "Today, I become your sous chef of doom."
"Oh, this is gonna be good," Frypan said, and I couldn't tell if he meant good like entertainment, or good like 'get the bucket, we're gonna need it.'
Two hours later, the kitchen looked like it had been hit by a flour bomb.
Flour coated every surface, including my shirt, my hair, and somehow my left ear. A suspiciously thick batter sat on the table, burping ominously like it had just become sentient.
"I don't think bread is supposed to growl," I said, slowly backing away.
"That's not bread," Frypan said. "That's a war crime."
"Same difference."
Kiryu floated in through the wall like the ghostly jerk he was, flicking an apple core at my head. "You're worse at cooking than you are at lying."
"Cooking doesn't involve stabbing things," I muttered.
"You stabbed a potato earlier."
"It looked at me funny!"
Still, against all odds—and possibly the laws of nature—we produced something edible. Frypan named it the "Samuel Special" with the kind of tone you reserve for sarcastic awards like "Least Helpful in a Crisis" or "Most Likely to Die First in a Horror Movie." It was some unholy cross between a pancake and a tortilla, smothered in honey that may or may not have been stolen from the Beekeepers.
Look, no one died. That's what I call a win.
After the culinary apocalypse, I wandered over to the gardens. Zart was already knee-deep in dirt, sweat running down his neck as he wrestled with stubborn roots.
He looked up at me with that tired expression of someone who just wanted to garden in peace and not be interrupted by a walking catastrophe.
"Please tell me you're better at planting than you are at cooking," he groaned.
"Define 'better,'" I said, grabbing a trowel. "Because if you mean less explosive, then yes."
Zart sighed like a man whose soul was gently breaking, but he let me help anyway. Together we planted a row of carrots. And I only uprooted three of them on accident, which I felt was worth celebrating.
"I'll be honest," Zart said after a bit. "Didn't think you were the gardening type."
"People contain multitudes," I said. "For example, I can plant carrots and fight nightmare robots with knives for arms. I'm a man of culture."
"You're a menace," Zart muttered.
Kiryu chimed in from a tree branch above, munching on an apple like the world's sassiest reaper. "He screamed at a butterfly earlier."
"It flew straight at my face!" I yelled, throwing a clump of dirt at him.
Zart blinked. "You were talking to yourself again, weren't you?"
"I was talking to my emotionally unavailable spirit guide, thank you very much."
Zart laughed. It was rare, that sound—short and rough but real. For a moment, I forgot we were trapped inside a giant concrete rat maze designed by sadists.
By midday, I'd been drafted into roofing duty by the Builders. Specifically, by Gally, who looked positively thrilled to see me approaching with a hammer.
"Oh joy," he said flatly. "The guy who nearly burned water is here to fix the roof."
"Your confidence in me is overwhelming," I said, climbing the ladder.
"I just don't want to die in my sleep because your patch job leaks and the ceiling collapses."
"Fair."
To everyone's shock, including my own, I didn't die. I did drop a hammer on Gally's foot, but considering he once threw me into a mud pit for "fun," I called it even.
By the end, the roof didn't look like a disaster. It was actually kind of... solid. Gally squinted at it like he was trying to find a reason to complain.
"Huh. Not terrible."
"Stop. I'm gonna cry."
"Shut up."
"I'm putting that in my diary: 'Gally complimented me. End times confirmed.'"
"Still shut up."
Progress.
Later, I found Chuck feeding scraps to the pigs. He waved frantically when he saw me.
"Samuel! Samuel! Tell me the Griever story again!"
"Kid," I said, plopping down next to him, "you've heard it so many times I could probably record it and play it back to you."
"But it's better when you tell it!"
How could I say no to that face? I launched into the tale for the twelfth time, embellishing with dramatic gestures and sound effects, which I'm pretty sure the pigs were also enjoying.
Right as I hit the part where I "heroically elbow-dropped the Griever into submission," Newt showed up, arms crossed, shaking his head.
"You're corrupting the child."
"Someone's gotta," I said. "Might as well be someone charming and dangerously handsome."
"That rules you out, then."
"Wow. Brutal. Chuck, remind me to teach you the art of sass."
"Noted!" he beamed.
Newt chuckled. "Minho's looking for you, by the way."
"Am I in trouble?"
"He had that 'I'm going to punch something and it might be you' look."
"Delightful."
I found Minho by the fire pit, glaring into the flames like they owed him money.
"You ditched us," he grumbled when I sat beside him.
"Correct. And look at me—still alive. You're welcome."
"The Maze route today was boring as hell. No Grievers. No new paths. Just running in circles."
"My bad. Next time I'll schedule a near-death experience just for you."
"You better."
We sat in comfortable silence, watching sparks drift up into the darkening sky. Around us, the Glade buzzed with low conversation, laughter, the clink of bowls. Even Kiryu seemed mellow, lounging nearby like a death god on vacation.
I leaned back, arms behind my head.
"You know," I said, "I didn't hate today."
"You made the kitchen explode, nearly nailed Gally's foot to the roof, and told Chuck a story so exaggerated it could be a Marvel movie."
"I said I didn't hate it. Doesn't mean it wasn't chaos."
Minho shook his head, smiling despite himself.
As the stars blinked awake overhead, I found myself relaxing in a way that felt dangerous—like I was letting my guard down.
But I couldn't help it.
This place—this pit of danger, mystery, and questionable food—it was starting to feel like home.
And somehow, against all odds, I wasn't just surviving anymore.
I was living.