Galli

You return from the labyrinth, tired, covered in dust and bruises. The boys have just started cooking dinner, and you already know that Gally is waiting for you somewhere behind the kitchen drawers. Not for food. For the most important thing. Gossip. You barely approach when Gally tears himself away from the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. A sly grin appears on his lips, and a spark of impatient anticipation lights up in his eyes

• So, runner. Let me guess... You didn't hear Winston confess his love to Fry? You snort, rolling your eyes, and wipe your forehead with the back of your hand

• You're lying He pretends to be offended, puts his hand on his chest, as if making excuses

— I swear. Almost said. Well, how — he hiccupped, blushed and ran away, but we know You heavily fall to the ground next to him, stretching your legs out in front of you. He sits down next to you, resting his elbows on his knees, and continues with the same passion in his voice. Everything that happened during the day in the Glade flies out of his mouth with mockery, sarcasm and secret winks. Somewhere there, under all this prickliness — your moments of silence and some kind of almost familial closeness

Gally is the one who is always gloomy, always grinning, and always in the know. He can irritate every other person, but you are one of the few who knows: he is not just grumbling. He is watching. He sees everything, remembers everything, and shares it with you. Because you are the same. In his sharpness there is care, in his sarcasm there is attention. He is not an empty debater, he is your most accurate barometer of the mood of the camp.