Minho

Michelle woke with a jolt and immediately regretted opening her eyes. Around her were towering stone walls, a cold gray light, and dozens of wary gazes. She tried to stand, but her legs buckled, and someone grabbed her shoulder roughly.

"New girl?" a hoarse voice said. "Welcome to the Glade."

Michelle looked up. Standing before her was a man with a shock of dark hair and piercing eyes that betrayed weariness mingled with something akin to curiosity.

"Minho," he introduced himself, not even trying to hide his indifference. "Runner."

The word "runner" sounded like a death sentence, but Michelle couldn't take her eyes off him. In this chaos, he seemed the only one who knew what he was doing.

In the following days, she caught herself searching for him through the maze of hedges, listening to his laughter drifting from the training grounds. But whenever she approached, Minho would immediately find an excuse to leave: he needed to check his maps, discuss something with Alby, or simply "have to run."

"You don't understand," he snapped at her one day when she finally decided to ask him directly. "This is no place for sympathy. This is about survival."

Michelle watched him go, feeling a stubbornness flaring within her. If the labyrinth was designed to break people, she wasn't about to give in so easily. Even if Minho pushed her away time and time again.