Two months.
That's how long it had been since I first woke up in that damn Box. Two months of running the Maze, dodging Grievers, and somehow becoming a functioning member of this ragtag group of lunatics.
Progress.
I stretched my arms above my head, rolling my shoulders as I stepped out of my hammock. The early morning air was crisp, the kind that made you feel alive—or, at the very least, awake enough to curse the universe for making you a glorified lab rat.
Kiryu, ever the morning person (if you could call a Reaper a "person"), floated lazily nearby, crunching on an apple he'd probably stolen from thin air.
"You're getting slower," he remarked, tossing the core over his shoulder.
"And you're still ugly," I shot back, grabbing my blade from under my pillow.
"At least I don't snore like a dying Griever."
"Lies and slander."
Banter aside, he wasn't wrong. My body had changed over the past two months—leaner, harder, every muscle honed for survival. Enhanced Reflexes had leveled up to Level 3, making dodging Grievers almost second nature. And Cell Activation?
I flexed my hand, feeling the familiar hum of energy beneath my skin. What had once drained me in minutes now lasted hours, my stamina adapting as fast as my reflexes.
Intermediate level, I mused. Not bad for a glorified lab experiment.
The Glade was already buzzing when I made my way to the kitchen. Two new Greenies had arrived in the past month—Ben, a wiry kid with a knack for climbing, and Alex, who could fix just about anything with a piece of string and sheer stubbornness. They'd integrated surprisingly well, all things considered.
Frypan was, as usual, manning the breakfast chaos.
"Samuel!" he barked, tossing me a loaf of bread. "Eat. And don't complain."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I said, biting into the bread. It was... edible. A solid step up from his early attempts. "Wow. You're almost a real chef now."
Frypan flipped me off, but there was no heat behind it.
Minho and the other Runners were already gearing up near the Maze entrance.
"Took you long enough," Minho called as I approached.
"Had to look pretty for my adoring fans," I said, adjusting my arm wraps.
Jeff snorted. "Only fan you've got is Chuck."
"And what a fan he is."
The Maze doors groaned open, revealing the familiar labyrinth beyond. Two months of mapping, and we still hadn't found an exit. But we were close—I could feel it.
The run was... routine.
That was the weird part. After two months, even the Maze started to feel predictable. Left at the ivy-covered wall, right at the broken pillar, straight through the narrow pass where the Grievers rarely ventured.
"Sector 9's clear," Minho called, marking the map. "No changes from yesterday."
"Boring," Jeff muttered.
"Boring is good," I said. "Boring means we're not being chased."
As if on cue, a distant screech echoed through the stone corridors.
Minho groaned. "You just had to say it, didn't you?"
We ran.
Not in panic—not anymore—but with practiced precision. The Griever that rounded the corner was one of the older models, clunky compared to the sleeker ones we'd started seeing.
"Samuel," Minho said, nodding toward it.
"On it."
I didn't hesitate. Cell Activation flared, energy surging through me as I lunged. The Griever's tail lashed out—I ducked, rolled, and came up swinging. My blade found the weak spot between its armored plates, sinking deep with a satisfying crunch.
The Griever shuddered, then collapsed.
"That's two for you," Jeff said, nudging the carcass with his foot.
"Three, actually," I corrected. "There was that one last week—"
"We don't talk about that one," Minho interrupted. "Because someone almost got us killed."
"Details."
We made it back to the Glade just as the walls began to shift, the doors sealing behind us with their usual finality.
Newt was waiting, arms crossed. "No deaths? No near-death experiences? I'm almost disappointed."
"Give us time," I said, grinning.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of chores and training. I helped Zart in the gardens, sparred with Gally (who still refused to admit I'd beaten him more than once), and even managed to fix the squeaky hinge on the Homestead door—though Alex had to "supervise" (read: do most of the work).
By evening, I was sprawled by the fire, listening to Chuck recount my Griever kills to the newbies with increasingly dramatic embellishments.
"—and then Samuel leaped off the wall, did a flip, and stabbed it right in the eye!"
"I did not flip," I interjected.
"You could have," Chuck insisted.
Kiryu, invisible to everyone else, cackled from his perch above us. "You're a legend in your own mind."
"Quiet, you."
Newt dropped beside me, handing over a cup of something that smelled suspiciously like alcohol. "To another day survived."
I clinked my cup against his. "To not being Griever food."
We drank. The concoction burned all the way down.
"So," Kiryu said hovering beside me, eyeing me. "You've been quiet about that 'system' of yours lately."
I stiffened. "What about it?"
"Just wondering if it's given you any new... missions."
I frowned. That was the weird part. The System had been silent for weeks—no new missions, no random world-hopping, nothing. When I'd tried asking, it had responded with eerie silence.
"Nope," I said, forcing a smirk. "Guess even cosmic forces get bored of me."
Kiryu didn't look convinced, but he let it drop.
Later, as I lay in my hammock, I tried again.
System. Status update.
Nothing.
Hello? Anyone home?
Silence.
Kiryu hovered nearby, watching me with uncharacteristic seriousness. "Still ignoring you?"
"Seems like it." I rubbed my face. "You'd think after two months, it'd at least say something."
"Maybe it's plotting."
"That's comforting."
Kiryu shrugged. "You've done fine without it."
He wasn't wrong. I'd survived this long on my own—well, with the Gladers, and Kiryu, and the occasional stroke of dumb luck.
But the silence nagged at me.
What are you waiting for?
The Maze walls creaked in the distance, as if laughing.