Running with you

Variable

You didn't speak to anyone for two days.

Not even Thomas.

They tried. Newt brought you food and set it down without saying much, just a quiet glance before turning away. Minho hovered outside the Homestead a few times, pacing like he wanted to ask you something and couldn't find the words. Chuck stopped by with one of his handmade figures—something shaped like a bird, folded from paper.

You didn't take it.

It wasn't that you were angry.

It was that you were ashamed.

You'd spent the better part of two days staring at the metal tag, tracing the number etched into it with your fingernail like it might vanish if you wore it down enough. 09. Over and over. Not your name. Not your story.

Just a role. A function. A variable.

The boy from the Box—Subject 10—had been placed in quarantine in the storage shed under guard, but it didn't stop the whispers from spreading. That you knew him. That you'd been part of something before the Maze. That maybe you weren't even really trapped here like the rest of them.

That you were a spy.

At first, you'd laughed. Quiet, bitter.

Then you realized you didn't have the proof to say they were wrong.

On the third night, you dreamed of white rooms and cold hands.

Metal tables. A woman's voice.

"Subject 09 shows consistent empathic stability under extreme simulated duress."

"Maze fluctuations decrease within twelve hours of her reentry. Suggest extended testing."

You gasped awake, drenched in sweat, fingers clutching your blanket like a lifeline.

It wasn't just memory anymore. It was proof.

You had affected the Maze. You'd altered it. Maybe without knowing—but that didn't change what it meant.

You were different. Not because you wanted to be. But because someone made you that way.

The next morning, you walked out of the Homestead and into the Map Room.

Minho was there, alone, frowning at three pinned-up charts on the wall.

He looked up when you entered. His jaw tensed.

"Didn't think you'd show your face," he muttered.

You didn't flinch. "You think I'm the enemy?"

Minho paused. "No. But I think the enemy used you."

That stung more than anything else. Because deep down, you feared it too.

You moved past him, to the oldest maps. "I need to see the Maze layout from Day One."

Minho raised a brow. "Why?"

"Because I think I was already here."

The paper was brittle, yellowed from age, but the lines were still visible—curved corridors, symmetrical sections, open gates. The original Maze had been almost elegant in its design. Predictable.

Then, two weeks in, the changes started. And not just any changes—surges. Randomized walls. Patterns that broke logic. Routes that bent back on themselves.

Right around the same time a new variable was introduced.

You.

Minho joined you, his tone skeptical. "You think it changes because of you."

"I think it needs me," you said softly.

He was quiet.

"Why else do you think the Grievers leave me alone?" you added. "Why do the walls stop shifting when I pass?"

Minho's eyes narrowed. "You've seen that?"

You nodded. "The Maze isn't alive. But it's programmed. Responsive. And I'm the trigger."

Minho didn't speak for a long time. Then, finally: "What are you planning to do with that kind of power?"

You didn't know. Not yet.

But that night, after the others slept, you stood at the threshold of the Maze.

And for the first time, it opened just for you.

No Grievers. No growls. No death waiting in the dark.

Just a path.

You stepped inside.

Not running. Not scared.

But with your head held high and your heart breaking quietly in your chest.

Because maybe the Maze wanted something from you.

And maybe—for the first time—you were ready to give it.