Minho

At the bottom of the crate, among the wooden crates of supplies, stood a girl in practical sportswear: dark leggings, a worn windbreaker, and dirty sneakers. There was no frailty—her posture spoke of battle readiness. As soon as the light hit her face, she assumed a fighting stance, clenching her fists. There was no panic in her eyes, only a cold, calculating fire.

"Easy there, rookie," Alby said, carefully raising his hands as he lowered himself into the crate. "We're not enemies."

The girl assessed him with her gaze, quickly studying the guys around her and the huge stone walls.

"Where am I? Why are there only guys here?" she asked firmly.

Ten minutes later, they reconstructed the scene: the "rotation" had arrived. One of their boyfriends ended up in another Labyrinth, inhabited only by girls, and the systems decided to balance things out by swapping them: the guy was sent to the runners, and she was sent here.

"I was the Head Runner in my Labyrinth," she declared confidently, brushing off the dust. "Don't think I'm fragile. I know this hell."

Minho stepped forward, crossed his arms and smirked.

"The main runner?" he asked, assessing her. "We're running a real Maze with Grievers, not some girly track and field."

The girl closed the distance, stopping barely half a step away from Minho. Though shorter, she exuded a menacing presence, and Thomas and Newt exchanged glances.

"Listen, feathered one," she looked him in the eye without fear. "I was surviving and cutting sections when you were probably still learning to tie your shoelaces. Call me 'baby,' and I'll see how fast you can run on broken legs."

Newt chuckled softly, covering his mouth, and Thomas whispered:

• It looks like this is a female version of Minho.

"We already have a Head Runner," Minho said, but his eyes gleamed with excitement. "These are my rules and my pace."