The First Runner

Actions, Meet Consequences

I woke with a strangled gasp, heart racing, lungs dragging in air like I'd surfaced from drowning. My shirt clung damp to my skin, and my hair was plastered to my forehead. Five hours of sleep. That's all I'd managed before the nightmares tore me back to reality, leaving me shaking.

I sat up slowly, pressing my palms to my eyes until the darkness behind them steadied. My room was quiet, lit only by the small lantern on my desk. Its glow stretched warm and orange, painting the corners in long shadows that flickered like restless ghosts.

Dragging the blanket around my shoulders, I drifted toward the window. The Glade spread out below me, silvered in moonlight. The Homestead loomed dark, the fields still, the watchfires guttering low. And beyond it, the Maze shifted with its grinding groans—stone scraping stone, walls shuddering into new patterns. That sound had haunted me at first. Now, I wasn't sure I could sleep without it.

My eyes strayed toward the area where Bark usually curled up these days. Not in my room anymore. He'd found other company—boys who laughed, who tussled with him in the grass. He deserved that. Still, I missed his steady breathing, the way his presence used to anchor me when the nightmares came.

A soft sigh left me. Maybe I'd head to the kitchen, make tea, hope for another hour of rest. I turned toward the door—

The faint creak of wood froze me.

My head snapped around. The door was half shut. A figure slipped inside, closing it behind him with a quiet click.

The lantern threw enough light for me to see his face. Familiar. One of the boys.

My stomach hollowed out.

"What are you doing in here?" I demanded, my voice sharp but tight.

He smiled. Crooked. Wrong. His eyes glinted with something that made my skin crawl. "Oh, just hush, sweetheart. This'll all be okay."

The words dripped like oil, and fear spiked through me, cold and electric. My body stiffened. Oh, hell no.

He stepped closer. My heart hammered. My back hit the wall before I realized I was moving. His hand brushed my arm—too casual, too claiming. Then he shoved, hard enough that my shoulder cracked against the wood. Pain shot down my arm.

I froze for half a second. The fear was sharp, primal. His weight, his closeness, the fact that I was trapped—every instinct screamed danger.

And then something else surged up, hot and clean. Rage.

I snapped forward, driving my knee up between his legs with everything I had. He choked on a groan, doubling slightly. I tore myself free, swinging. My fist met his nose, the crunch immediate, wet. Blood sprayed as he stumbled.

I didn't stop. I caught his arm, hooked my hip under his, and flipped him. The lantern rattled as his body hit the floor with a thud that shook the room. He tried to groan, but I was already bringing my elbow down, hard. His face met it. Then silence.

I staggered back, chest heaving, pressing into the wall like I could melt into it. My hands trembled, a wild mix of adrenaline and shock buzzing in my veins. My brain scrambled to catch up with what had just happened.

The door burst open.

Newt. Alby. Minho. Nick.

They stopped dead. Their eyes swept the scene—me against the wall, the boy sprawled and bleeding on the floor.

No one spoke. For a heartbeat, the only sound was my ragged breathing.

Then Newt moved. He crossed the room in seconds, his face thunderous, protective. He didn't ask. He didn't press. He just opened his arms, steady, safe, unshaking.