As the first whirring blade clicks just outside the gate, Thomas grabs a makeshift spear. He doesn't know why he remembers the layout of a place he’s never been, or why the name tastes like copper in his mouth. All he knows is that the walls are moving, and for the first time, the prey is going to hunt the predator.

"Fight?" Minho scoffs. "With what? Sharpened sticks against three tons of spike and saw?"

"We can't just hide," Thomas says, his pulse thrumming with a strange, frantic energy. Since he arrived in the "Box" two days ago, he’s felt a pull toward those stone corridors, a sense of recognition that terrifies him. "We have to fight. If they find us here, we're trapped."

Thomas doesn't look away from the ivy-covered entrance. "Minho was out there. Alby was hurt. I couldn't just watch."

Newt looks from Thomas to the darkening Maze. "It’s suicide."

"You shouldn't have done it, Greenie," Newt mutters, leaning against the wooden lookout. "Running into the Maze when the doors were closing? That’s a death sentence."

The trio stands at the edge of the forest, the only part of the Glade that offers even a sliver of shadow. Deep within the Maze, a mechanical shriek pierces the air—the sound of metal grinding on bone. The Grievers are waking up.

The heavy metal doors of the grind shut, echoing against the stone walls as the sun dips below the horizon. For Thomas, the sound isn't just a signal of night; it’s a reminder of the prison they call home.