A crowd had gathered. They always did.

Gally stood at the front, arms crossed, jaw tight. Behind him, the usual cluster of Gladers—some curious, some bored, some already placing bets on how long before the newbie started crying.

And there he was. Standing. Not crouched, not curled, not blinking against the sun like a lost thing. Just standing, one hand on the wall, head tilted slightly, taking them in.

A beat passed. Then another.

The newt—the boy—stepped out. No stumble. No questions. No fear. He walked to the middle of the crowd like he knew the ground was solid.

This one was something else. Minho couldn't explain it. The boy stood there, still, dust settling on his shoulders like it didn't matter, scanning everything—each face, each corner, each blade of green in the Glade.

He looked like he was counting things. Recording them.

Somewhere behind them, the Maze hummed—distant, low, like a held breath.

And the boy's eyes landed on Minho. Just for a second. Just long enough for Minho to feel like he'd been seen.