Gladers choice | TMR | Thomas | Minho

Chapter Thirty Six

When Lyra opened her eyes, she felt the stiff weight of her exhaustion slowly easing, a thin blanket covering her. She blinked, bleary, realizing that someone had placed a pillow beneath her head. She shifted, still feeling the soft press of sleep around her, and caught sight of Newt and Minho nearby, their expressions tense, locked in hushed conversation. Her heart stirred with a low pulse of worry.

"What's up?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep as she propped herself up on her elbow. Her gaze met Newt's first, and the worry in his eyes sent a chill through her, jolting her fully awake.

Newt turned toward her, lips pressing into a thin line as he nodded. "Everyone's still waiting... hoping we'll hear something, maybe see someone. But..." He trailed off, looking away, his face pinched.

Lyra's brow furrowed. "Waiting for what? They're just going to leave us here?" She wrapped the blanket tighter around her, the coolness of the air making her shiver, and glanced at Minho, who was staring at the floor, his jaw tense.

Minho shook his head. "There's no food either," he added, his tone bitter, like he'd had hours to stew in the frustration of it all.

Just then, Thomas wandered into the room, rubbing his eyes. His face looked worn, his gaze distant. Lyra noticed the slight redness around his eyes, the way his posture slumped. Her heart sank a little further; he looked haunted, and she could guess the kind of night he must have had.

No one said much after that, and a quiet despair seemed to settle over all of them. And the waiting went on. That day turned into another, and then another. Time became a hollow echo, marked only by the slow drag of hunger that gnawed away at all of them. For two full days, they lay on the bunks, letting the hours pass, feeling weaker with every tick of their desperate thoughts. Water, at least, was a mercy; they took turns slipping to the bathroom, sips from the faucet to stave off the worst of their thirst.

Each day was a grind of waiting, watching the others drift in and out of restless sleep, their bodies growing weaker. Lyra felt her own energy dwindling, her mind fogged, her limbs heavy, but there was nothing left to do but lie there, closing her eyes and letting the hours bleed by. She'd never felt so powerless.

** **

Lyra's stomach groaned in protest as she lay flat on her back, staring up at the blank ceiling of her bunk. Hunger had turned her insides into a gnawing, hollow pit. Her body was exhausted, but her mind wouldn't quiet, looping the same bitter thought: three days and nothing. The sterile air of the facility had long since become suffocating, and even with her fiery nature, she had run out of complaints to voice. What was the point? The Gladers were all trapped in the same miserable situation.

The faint hum of machinery—the only constant sound in this place—suddenly shifted, growing louder. Lyra's brows furrowed. It wasn't enough to alarm her, but it was different, almost rhythmic. She told herself it didn't matter, burying the curiosity under a wave of fatigue.

"Lyra. Wake up."

The voice was soft but urgent, accompanied by a firm shake of her shoulder. She groaned, squinting up to see Newt standing over her, his face half-lit by the dim, artificial light. His blond hair was sticking up in every direction, and his tired eyes held a glimmer of something unusual—was that hope?

"Go away, Newt. I'm starving and dying. Let me do it in peace," she muttered, rolling onto her side.

"You'll want to see this," Newt said, ignoring her dramatics. "There's food."

That snapped her out of her stupor. Lyra bolted upright, her eyes wide. "What?"

Newt just nodded toward the door.