The First Runner

I think I'm going to be sick

Rewritten

The next morning, I was up before the sun. I dressed in my running gear, hands moving on autopilot, and headed to the kitchen. No one else was up yet. I grabbed a chunk of bread and a piece of hard cheese, stuffing them into my pack along with my notebook. My limbs were stiff, my eyes gritty from lack of sleep, but my mind was already in the Maze.

Stephen was still out there. I hadn't found him yesterday, but that didn't mean I wouldn't today.

Bark padded beside me as I made my way through the dewy grass toward the North Doors. The air was cold and quiet—unnervingly so. The kind of silence that makes your skin itch.

I stretched in front of the towering stone slabs, the cool morning air biting at my skin. Bark sat at my feet, tail flicking anxiously. As soon as the doors started to grind open with that familiar low groan, I gave him a scratch behind the ears and took off.

"Stay," I told him. "Be a good boy."

The moment I stepped inside, the Maze swallowed the world behind me.

It felt heavier today. Darker. Even with the morning sun filtering in, the walls cast long, jagged shadows that reached like claws across the floor. I kept moving, my breathing syncing with my strides, calling out Stephen's name every few minutes.

"Stephen! Can you hear me?"

Nothing. Just the echo bouncing back like a cruel joke.

I took turn after turn, marking paths in my notebook when I paused to eat a few bites and drink some water. The quiet was relentless—too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you start imagining things. A shadow becomes a figure. A breeze becomes a whisper. I shook it off.

"Come on, Stephen," I shouted again. "Say something!"

Still nothing. My voice cracked, raw from yelling, but I didn't stop.

And then—my heart dropped.

Blood.

It was smeared across the stone like a warning sign. Not a huge pool, but fresh. Still dark and glistening. My stomach twisted.

I dropped to a crouch, inspecting the smear. Too much to be a scratch. Not enough for it to be fatal. At least—I hoped not.

"Stephen!" I yelled, louder now, more desperate. "I'm here! Just shout back!"

I followed the trail, heart in my throat. The Maze felt like it was closing in on me, the walls too tight, the shadows too long. My feet moved fast but careful, eyes scanning every crack, every crevice, for movement.

The blood led me deeper in.

And then I saw it—Stephen's shirt.

Crumpled and soaked through with blood, half-draped over a jagged piece of stone. My legs nearly gave out. I stumbled over, kneeling down and picking it up slowly, like it might vanish if I moved too fast.

It was his. No doubt.

My throat tightened. I stood and spun around, scanning every direction.

"Stephen!" I screamed. "Please!"

The Maze gave me nothing back.

I clenched the shirt in one hand and kept moving. The blood trail continued, though it was thinner now. Fainter. I followed it, refusing to slow down even as panic clawed at my insides.

And then something caught the light.

His watch.

Lying facedown in the dust. Cracked. Streaked with blood.