Finally, the day that would change everything arrived. The alarm of the Box shrieked through the air, a piercing sound that signaled the end of the status quo. Quinn stood among the crowd of Gladers, his arms crossed as he watched the metal doors crank open. Thomas—though nobody knew his name yet—emerged from the dark, looking like a cornered animal. The first thing the Greenie did was bolt. He ran with a desperate, frantic energy, only to trip over his own feet and face-plant into the dirt, much to the amusement of the onlookers.
As Thomas was hauled off to the Pit by Alby, Quinn watched the scene unfold with a faint smirk. He didn't join in the jeering. He simply adjusted the strap of the tattered cloth bag hanging at his hip—a makeshift satchel he had fashioned from scrap fabric. Most people thought it held gardening tools or seeds, and Quinn let them think that. In reality, it held the ingredients that would soon change his destiny. He turned back to his work, his hoe striking the dirt with a sharp, rhythmic thud. The protagonist was here. The clock was ticking.
That evening, a massive bonfire illuminated the Glade for the welcoming celebration. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and the fermented "moonshine" Gally brewed. Quinn sat on the periphery, watching the wrestling circle. Gally, acting as the resident bully, shoved Thomas out of the sand circle with enough force to send him sprawling. The crowd roared as Gally shouted his own name, claiming his dominance. It was a boisterous, violent display, but Quinn's eyes were on the Maze walls, not the fire.
The next morning, the "real" plot began to move. Alby took Thomas to the wall to show him the names carved into the stone, a privilege Quinn hadn't bothered to ask for. Soon after, the peace was shattered. Ben, one of the Runners who had been stung by a Griever during the day, came sprinting out of the woods. He looked skeletal and crazed, his eyes bloodshot as he lunged for Thomas, screaming about how it was all the Greenie's fault. The Gladers swarmed over him, pinning him down and eventually dragging him to the Pit.
By that afternoon, the atmosphere in the Glade had turned somber. Ben was banished. The Gladers stood in a line, using long poles to push the screaming, pleading Runner into the Maze just as the doors began to groan shut. Quinn watched from a distance, his expression unreadable. As the doors slammed shut, he turned away without a word, heading back to his garden.
Later that night, as the Glade settled into an uneasy silence, Thomas sat near the hammocks talking to Chuck.
"Do you think he'll survive?" Thomas asked, his voice low.
"Ben?" Chuck shook his head. "No one survives a night in the Maze. Well... maybe except for that guy."
Thomas looked up, curiosity piqued. "What guy?"
"The guy who came to the Glade through the Maze," Chuck whispered, leaning in.
Thomas sat up, his eyes wide. "What? Someone walked in through the doors?"
"Yeah. We all came in the Box, but he just... showed up from the corridors one evening. It's a legend around here. Alby and Minho said he probably doesn't remember anything important either, so they just let him work."
"What's his name?"
"Quinn," Chuck said. "He usually stays at the garden to help the Track-hoes."
Thomas lay back in his hammock, staring at the stars. "Quinn, huh..." he muttered before finally drifting into a restless sleep.
The following morning, Thomas tracked Quinn down in the garden. Quinn was busy pruning a vine, his movements efficient. The tattered satchel hung at his waist, clinking slightly with the weight of the glass vial and the metallic chip. Thomas approached cautiously. "I heard you came out of the Maze and—"
Quinn didn't even look up. "Dude, if I knew anything useful, I would have found a way out by now. Take your questions elsewhere. I've got work to do."
Thomas stood there for a moment, stunned by the cold dismissal, before walking away to find other answers. Quinn watched him go, then quickly retreated to his hidden stash. He checked his ingredients—the chip, the essence, the pure water—and whispered to himself, "The door awaits its master."
By that afternoon, the sky turned a bruised purple, and rain began to pour in sheets. A crowd gathered at the Maze doors, waiting for Alby and Minho to return. They were late. Thomas and Quinn stood at the front of the line, staring into the gray mist of the Maze. As the massive doors began to grind shut, the panic in the crowd spiked. Suddenly, two figures appeared in the distance. Minho was stumbling, carrying an unconscious Alby on his back. They were too slow.
"They're not going to make it!" Newt shouted.
The gap was closing. Thomas looked at the closing stone, his face twisting with a mix of fear and resolve. Quinn adjusted his stance, his muscles coiling. He knew this was the moment. As Thomas let out a shout and lunged into the closing gap, Quinn didn't hesitate. He sprinted right behind the protagonist. It was a terrifyingly close call; Quinn had to dive and roll through the narrow slit, the massive stone doors slamming shut just inches behind his heels.
Thomas scrambled to his feet, breathing hard, and looked at Quinn in shock. Then they both turned to Minho, who had collapsed with Alby's weight.
"Good job," Minho panted, his voice dripping with exhaustion and bitterness. "Both of you just killed yourselves." He slumped over, too tired to even argue.
Thomas rushed to Alby's side, and Quinn followed, though he kept his distance, scanning the dark, towering corridors. Minho wanted to abandon Alby and run, but Thomas insisted on taking him along. Minho looked at Quinn, hoping for support, but Quinn just shrugged his shoulders, indicating they were in this together. Reluctantly, the three of them began to drag Alby's limp body deeper into the Maze to find a hiding spot.
They eventually heard it—a sound like metal grinding against bone. The screech of a Griever. Minho panicked, wanting to bolt, while Thomas scrambled to hide Alby. They began to argue, but Quinn remained silent, his eyes fixed on the darkness. Thomas eventually came up with a plan to tie Alby to the wall using thick ivy vines. It was a frantic, clumsy process, and just as they finished, the Griever arrived.
Minho broke first, sprinting into the shadows. Thomas and Quinn ducked beneath a thick canopy of vines, pressing themselves against the cold stone. The Griever lumbered past, its mechanical legs clicking and whirring. Quinn gripped his satchel tightly, his knuckles white, praying the glass vial wouldn't clink. Sweat poured down Thomas's face as they watched the nightmare machine move through the corridor.
Once the Griever had passed, they crawled out to secure Alby's ropes again. But the noise drew the monster back. They hid again, but as they tried to move, Thomas stepped into a puddle of thick, translucent slime. Quinn's eyes widened, his face becoming a mask of grim acceptance. He shifted his weight, preparing for a dead sprint. He knew exactly what was above them.
"The hell of a nasty, ugly abomination is right at our fucking heads," Quinn hissed.
The Griever dropped from the ceiling with a thunderous crash. Thomas tumbled backward, but Quinn was already moving, sidestepping the initial strike. They both took off, running for their lives through the winding corridors. Quinn pushed himself to keep pace with Thomas, his "Wanderer" attribute making his movements fluid even in the cramped space. They hit a dead end, and Quinn instinctively leaped onto a wall of thick ivy, climbing upward. Thomas followed a second later, the Griever's mechanical claw snapping at their heels.
They reached a high ledge, only to find another dead end overlooking a deep abyss. With no choice, they leaped across the gap, catching the vines on the other side. The Griever followed, but its massive weight caused it to get tangled in the thick greenery. Suddenly, Minho reappeared from a side alley, startling them both.
"This way!" Minho shouted.
The three of them sprinted together, Minho leading them toward a corridor that was already beginning to close. Quinn and Minho pushed themselves to the limit, sliding through the narrowing gap first. On the other side, Quinn turned back and saw Thomas standing still at the entrance. Quinn let out a low, dark laugh—a mixture of adrenaline and anticipation.
Minho looked at Quinn, confused by the laughter, then screamed at Thomas to run. Thomas watched the Griever charging toward him, timed his move perfectly, and sprinted forward at the last second, drawing the monster into the trap. Quinn reached into his bag, pulling out an empty iron can he had salvaged.
CRUNCH.
The walls slammed together with the force of a falling mountain. The Griever was crushed instantly, and as Thomas collapsed on the ground, Quinn was already moving toward the mangled, sparking remains of the monster, his iron can ready to collect the final, bloody ingredient.