Minho

Minho knew something was wrong with him even before you said Thomas’s name for the third time that day. Minho clenched his fists every time you laughed with the new kid. Not because he didn’t trust you. Because he knew himself too well. And it had been different before. You were his. Best friends, maybe more, but without words. He didn’t give it a name. Before Thomas. Every time Thomas walked past you and said your name, a little quieter than usual, Minho’s insides froze, as if he were about to pounce. And now, it was night. You heard it, a bone-chilling screech. A Griever. One, maybe two. The torchlight danced on the walls, and everything became a panicked flickering of shadows. You grabbed the closest weapon, a blunt piece of pipe, and ran out of the kitchen. In the center of the clearing, someone was screaming for help, and Thomas was running toward it, calling out to you.

• Run! Do you hear me? Run! But your feet seemed to be rooted to the ground. You saw bloody footprints, followed by a wounded runner. Horror in your eyes, a wheeze. And behind all this - through the noise, the screams, the footsteps - Minho. He emerged from the shadows like a bolt of lightning, grabbed your hand sharply

• I said run! You took a step, but one of the Grievers was already breathing down your neck. A predatory metallic buzz, dripping slime. Thomas was shouting something, but you couldn’t hear anything anymore - only the beating of his heart and Minho’s hand, tightly squeezing your waist. He picked you up in his arms - so easily, as if you weighed nothing, and carried you to the elevator. Everything merged into movement. Noise. Light. Panic. He was shouting at someone: “PUSH!” and then the door slammed shut. You ended up in his lap, trembling, your bare feet touching the floor. Minho sat, holding his breath, while the mechanism lowered you down. Then he hugged you, carefully but tightly, as if only now he allowed himself to feel that you were alive - Everything is fine, I'm with you He kissed the top of your head, stroked your back with his palm, while you pressed yourself against him, feeling his heart beating in unison with yours. He whispered something, soothing and warm. It was not the Glade, not the fight, not the blood - only you

He doesn't say much, but he does it - and he does it quickly. His body is trained, his movements are precise, his gaze is tenacious and direct. But only with you did he allow himself to be soft: to joke, to care, even to be jealous. It was as if he was specially created to hold the world on his shoulders - and to protect you in this world. No guy would dare to approach without his silent approval.