Newt

The elevator rumbled just as it had the day it lifted you. A familiar tension clung to your palms. You'd been here a month. The first girl. The first one who hadn't broken down in the first week. And the only one who'd seen how hard it was for Alby to carry all this on his shoulders. The elevator jerked and stopped. “Ready? ” he asked quietly, not looking at you. You nodded briefly, swallowing. The lid slid open with a clang. Sunlight poured down, illuminating a figure inside. The guy was lying on his side, one arm under his head, as if he’d simply fallen asleep. He closed his eyes as the light hit them and inhaled sharply. He tried to sit up—and immediately staggered, the world was clearly spinning too fast for him . “Hey, hey, calm down .” Alby was already climbing down, holding out his hand. You followed. The guy coughed, looking at you as if he was trying to piece together a picture. "Where am I? " the voice was hoarse, but not hysterical. Rather, it was wary. You handed him the flask. "In the Glade. And you won't like it ." He took a sip, winced, but his gaze became clearer. And then he looked at you more closely. Not surprised. His gaze said, "Who are you? "

• You don’t remember either? — Nothing before the elevator . When they pulled him up, he stood unsteadily, but straight. He clenched his jaw. He was silent more than he spoke. Later, you saw him at the edge of the clearing. He was standing almost at the very wall of the Labyrinth. The stone blocks slowly began to shift—evening was approaching. "Are they really closing?" he asked without turning around. His voice became calmer. — Every evening the Wall began to converge on the other, a shadow fell on his face
• Who's in charge? — Alby. He nodded, as if he already understood it himself. The pause stretched on. Somewhere behind him, the wood in the fire crackled.
• And who are you? You crossed your arms over your chest. "The one who survived for a month ." Now he turned. He looked straight ahead, without a smile. There was no pity or skepticism in his gaze. Only respect—quiet, almost imperceptible. “Then maybe I should stick close to you. ” The walls closed in with a deafening roar.

The boy lay on his side, one arm under his head, as if he'd simply fallen asleep. His light hair was tangled, and there was dried blood on his temple. His chest rose and fell slowly. He squeezed his eyes shut as the light hit them and inhaled sharply. He tried to sit up—and immediately staggered; the world was clearly spinning too fast for him.