Minho

The sound of giant glass closing and the crash of stone echoed across the Glade—the Labyrinth's gates were closing for the night. Minho burst out of the doorway, barely clearing the threshold. His breath came out in ragged gasps, his shirt was soaked with sweat, blood caked his cheek, and his legs buckled with exhaustion. Another day without leaving.

Miya was waiting for him nearby. The mute girl clutched a clean cloth and a wooden mug of cold water. When Minho sank heavily onto the grass, leaning on his knees, she quietly approached and sat down next to him, holding out the mug.

"What do you want?" he waved her off sharply, without looking. His hand brushed the mug, and water splashed onto the ground. "Get to work. I don't have time for your pantomimes."

Miya didn't flinch. She was used to his protective armor: when the Labyrinth won, Minho became bitter and unbearable. A deep scratch on his shoulder—a mark left by the Griever. Miya wet the edge of the cloth and reached for the wound again.

"I said, back off!" Minho leaped to his feet, towering over her, his voice seething with blind rage, masking the deadly fatigue in his voice. "You think I need pity? A couple of bandages won't change anything! Do your gardening and stay out of the Runners' way, you're just getting in the way with your constant worrying!"

The Gladers fell silent, but didn't intervene. Mia stood up, her lips pressed into a line. It wasn't his words that hurt her, but the weight he carried every day. He burned inside, trying to save everyone, and vented his fear through aggression. She couldn't scream back—she had no voice.

Instead, she calmly approached the stump and carefully placed a clean bandage, resin ointment, and the remaining water on it. Then she turned to Minho, looking at him without offense—with deep, genuine concern. She placed her palm over her heart and pointed to it. The simple gesture meant, "I'm worried about you." Turning, she walked silently toward the shelters, leaving him in the evening twilight.

Minho remained standing, his hot anger giving way to a heavy, sticky shame.

• Stupid... Why the hell do you care about such an idiot?