"Now we’re all watching," Minho snaps, limping toward them. His clothes are shredded, his face coated in the grey dust of the Labyrinth. "The will be out in minutes. We don’t have the walls to protect us tonight."

"We use the Maze against them," Thomas insists. He remembers the map Minho showed him—the shifting sectors, the way the walls move at midnight. "There’s a section in Sector Seven that narrows. If we can lure one there right as the shift happens..."

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.

"It’s better than waiting to be slaughtered in our sleep," Thomas counters.

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

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.

"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."