Minho

In the Glade, Mia was used to noise and stares—especially the irritated ones from Minho. They never got along: from the first day, he called her a burden, and she remained silent, unwilling to argue.

When it turned out Miya was a medic, she was sent to the Infirmary. Minho just rolled his eyes: "Great, now I'll tolerate her even when I'm wounded." But he rarely came, usually with scratches.

Everything changed the day the Labyrinth resurfaced. An hour before sunset, a crash was heard at the gates. Mia ran out and saw two runners dragging an unconscious Minho: his face was bloodied, and the wound on his side was gushing so much that the grass instantly darkened.

"Grievers," one breathed out. "He was covering us."

What followed was a blur: alcohol, needles, gauze. Mia cut, cleaned, stitched—silently, only occasionally whispering, "Be patient..." Minho didn't come to, only groaned.

When it was all over, it was night outside. Mia sat up, wiped her forehead, and checked the bandages—dry. Everything was done. Time to go.

She picked up her bag, stopped at the door, and turned around. The candlelight made Minho's face vulnerable. She whispered, "Good night," and stepped toward the exit.

Suddenly, hot fingers burned her wrist. Minho didn't open his eyes, but held on tightly. He moved his lips:

• Don't go...

Mia froze. She slowly sank onto the stool, took his hand in hers, and stroked his knuckles.

“I’m here,” she said barely audibly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He didn't answer, but his fingers relaxed and he fell asleep. Mia remained sitting until morning.