Minho

Jorge's lair seemed like paradise after the sands of the Brazier. The Gladers had settled into their rooms, and all Mia wanted was to fall into unconsciousness. She had her eye on a spot on the second tier, but Minho cleverly beat her to it. "Me first, rookie!" he chuckled, expecting the usual barb.

But Miya, unable to even take offense, silently retreated to a dark corner and collapsed onto the cot, boots still on. Minho froze, his smile fading. The silence cut deeper than any rudeness. He'd long since seen that she was working herself to the bone, drowning out her fear of the Labyrinth with endless toil.

That night, she was overcome with nausea, ringing in her ears, and a leaden heaviness. Her body gave up. Mia trudged to the sink in the hallway and splashed icy water on her face. The fog didn't clear. She clutched the edges of the sink, trying simply to breathe, when she heard the soft sound of footsteps behind her.

"Hey," Minho's voice was unusually quiet. He stopped next to her, his confidence replaced by concern. His hand touched her shoulder almost weightlessly. "You're as pale as a Griever, Mia," he said, his voice dripping with concern. "Stop playing the hero. You can barely stand."