Minho

Glade. The air smelled of dust, heated stone, and rotting leaves from the Forest.

Mia, the only girl among fifty guys and the Glade's third medic, had grown accustomed to the smell. Over the course of six months, she'd learned to ignore the sidelong glances of the newcomers and the fatigue of Jeff and Clint. The infirmary became her fortress, and bandages and ointments the only thing that made sense.

With the arrival of Thomas, a strange and curious young man, the usual rhythm of life broke. The Gladers whispered, tension grew, and the Runners began to disappear into the Maze longer than usual.

The infirmary door creaked as the sun began to sink behind the wall. Mia didn't look up from her mortar and pestle.

"You're ten minutes late, Minho," she said.
"Are we counting down the seconds?" he replied hoarsely, sitting down on a chair. He looked exhausted: his T-shirt was soaked with sweat, his face a mask of dust.

Miya approached him and examined his hand. There was a shallow scratch on his palm—for Minho, that was a pass.

"Thomas's got everyone all worked up," she said. "Alby's going nuts, the guys are talking about the Grievers."

Minho winced.

"This newcomer is a disaster. He asks too many questions. The labyrinth is changing. Everything we've known for two years is no longer true."

He fell silent, watching her confident movements. In the Glade, he was the leader, but only here could he simply breathe.

“You need to sleep,” Mia said, tightening the bandage.
"Sleep is for weaklings," he snapped.

• Minho.

She placed her hand on his bandaged arm. There was no flirtation in the gesture, only an acknowledgement of his fatigue. Minho leaned toward her.

"I don't know if we'll get out, Mia. Every day the walls close in more and more."