His Teddy-Bear 🥾Minho TMR💨 (Pre Thomas)

Lost Comrade

~~~~💨🥾~~~

Delilah sprinted through the Maze, her breaths rhythmic as her feet pounded against the stone floor. The walls loomed around her, casting long, cool shadows in the early afternoon light. Beside her, Minho ran with ease, as if he could navigate the endless corridors in his sleep. Their usual silent camaraderie had settled between them, but today, Delilah felt a restless tension in the air. Something about the day felt... off.

Minho glanced over at her as they rounded a sharp corner. "You good?" he asked, his tone casual but tinged with concern.

"Yeah," she panted, though her mind was elsewhere.

It had been two days since Thomas's outburst about becoming a Runner, and she still couldn't stop thinking about it. His determination had struck a chord with her, even if it had annoyed the others. She knew what it was like to want more, to feel caged by the Glade's rules. But running the Maze wasn't a matter of willpower—it was survival, plain and simple.

"Then focus," Minho said, snapping her out of her thoughts. His voice was sharp, but his gaze was steady, almost reassuring. "Daydreaming in here'll get you killed."

Delilah nodded, shaking off her distraction. She knew he was right. There was no room for error in the Maze.

~~~~💨🥾~~~~

By the time they returned to the Glade, the sky was beginning to darken, the sun dipping low on the horizon. Delilah felt the familiar ache in her legs and shoulders, but there was also the satisfying buzz of accomplishment that came with finishing another day in the Maze.

"Another section down," she said, wiping the sweat from her brow as they entered the map room.

"Yup," Minho replied, his tone distracted as he set his pack down.

Delilah noticed the shift in his demeanor immediately. His usual smirk had vanished, replaced by a tightness around his mouth. He was tense, his eyes scanning the Glade like he was looking for something—or someone.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her stomach twisting.

Minho didn't answer right away. Instead, he nodded toward the direction of the Homestead, where a small group of Gladers had gathered. Their voices carried faintly through the air, sharp and agitated.

"Something happened," Minho muttered, his brow furrowing.

Delilah's pulse quickened as they made their way over. The crowd parted slightly as they approached, revealing Alby and Newt standing at the center of the commotion. Thomas was there too, his face pale but defiant.

And then there was Ben.

Delilah's breath caught in her throat at the sight of him. He was being held back by two other Gladers, his body thrashing violently as he snarled and growled like a wild animal. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin slick with sweat, and his movements were erratic and jerky.

"What the hell—" Delilah started, but Minho grabbed her arm, pulling her back.

"Stay out of it," he said quietly, though his grip on her arm was firm.

"What's going on?" she whispered, her eyes darting between Thomas and Ben.

"He's been stung," Minho said grimly, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

Delilah's stomach dropped. She'd heard about the stings before, the way they drove people mad. But she'd never seen it up close.

Ben let out a guttural scream, his head snapping toward Thomas. "It's his fault!" he bellowed, his voice raw and filled with rage.