The world was fire and falling glass. Thomas’s lungs burned with concrete dust and the bitter tang of ozone from a dozen spent charge rifles. He could taste the city’s death on his tongue. Janson stood ten feet away, a spectre in the swirling ash, his face a rictus of triumphant madness. The last of his personal guard were dead or dying around them. It was over. It was finally over.
“It was always for you, Thomas,” Janson said, his voice raw. He raised his pistol, the movement unnervingly steady. The black circle of the barrel was a full stop at the end of a very long, very bloody sentence. Thomas didn’t flinch. He was too tired to flinch. He just hated the sound of the safety clicking off. It was too much like the finality of the Maze doors grinding shut. A lock turning on a cage.
“Everything I did,” Janson continued, taking a step closer over the rubble. “To protect you. To prepare you. They never would have understood.”
“Understood what?” Thomas’s voice was a rasp. “That you’re a monster?”
A gunshot shattered the thought.
It wasn't from Janson’s pistol. His eyes widened in surprise, a flicker of betrayal clouding his features before the impact threw him backward. He landed hard, a spray of red blossoming high on the chest of his immaculate grey suit.
Thomas’s head whipped around. Teresa stood twenty feet to his left, her own pistol extended, smoke curling from its barrel. Her expression was grim, resolute. Necessary.
For a second, the world held its breath. Then, a roar went up from the mouth of the alley. Vince was there, his face split by a grin of savage relief. “He’s down! Janson’s down!”
The cheer was echoed by Minho, a sharp, fierce bark of victory. Gally let out a whoop, clapping a Right Arm soldier on the back so hard the man stumbled. It was a wave of pure, unadulterated joy. The war was won. The tyrant was dead.
But Thomas wasn’t cheering. His world had narrowed to the single, falling point of Janson’s body. He saw the way his head hit the concrete. He saw the expensive fabric of his suit jacket bunching awkwardly under his shoulder. He saw the spreading stain of blood.
“Tommy?” Newt was beside him, his hand warm on Thomas’s arm. “It’s okay. It’s over.”
Thomas didn’t hear him. He was moving. Not away, but forward. Toward the man everyone else was celebrating the death of.
“Thomas, what are you doing?” Minho’s voice was sharp, confused. He grabbed Thomas’s other arm. “Hey! The fight’s over, man. We won.”
“Let go of me.” It came out as a low growl. Thomas tried to yank his arm free, but Minho’s grip was iron.
“Shank, are you crazy?” Gally stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “There could be more of them. Get back!”
“He’s not dead yet,” Thomas bit out, the words tasting like poison and panic. He could see the slight tremor in Janson’s leg. The shallow, agonized rise and fall of his chest.
“Good,” Vince shouted from the alleyway, jogging closer with Jorge at his side. “Let the bastard bleed out. Thomas, fall back!”
But Thomas shoved. He put all his weight into it, wrenching his arm from Minho’s grip and ramming his shoulder into Gally’s chest. The surprise of it sent Gally stumbling back a step. It was all the room he needed. He broke into a dead sprint, ignoring the chorus of shocked and angry shouts erupting behind him. Newt’s pleading “Tommy!” was the one that cut the deepest.
He skidded to his knees on the slick, bloody concrete beside Janson. The smell of his blood was coppery and thick. Janson’s eyes, hazy with pain, found his. A weak, gurgling sound escaped his lips.
Thomas’s hands hovered, useless, before one reached out, not for the wound, but to smooth the rumpled, blood-spattered lapel of Janson’s suit. The compulsive need for order, for one straight line in the chaos, took over for a split second. A single, insane gesture of care.
“Dad?” The word was a choked whisper. It felt alien in his own mouth. He’d never said it aloud before.
The silence that fell behind him was more profound than the gunshot had been. The cheering had died. The world was nothing but the crackle of distant fires and Janson’s ragged breathing. Thomas could feel his friends’ disbelief like a physical weight on his back.
Janson’s lips moved again. “Stephen…” he rasped, his gaze unfocused. A name. Not Thomas’s.
Before Thomas could ask, the crunch of boots on glass announced new arrivals. Six WCKD security personnel, clad in black tactical gear, rounded the corner, rifles raised. They fanned out, their weapons sweeping the scene—Vince, Jorge, Teresa, and his friends, all frozen.
Minho swore under his breath. Gally started to raise his own weapon.
The lead guard’s eyes fell on Thomas, kneeling over Janson. His posture changed instantly. The rifle lowered a fraction of an inch.
“Director,” the guard said. His voice was muffled by his helmet, but the deference was unmistakable. It was a title of absolute authority.
Thomas looked up, his face a mask of grief and fury. For a moment, he was the boy from the Glade again, helpless and lost. Then something hardened in his eyes. He rose slowly to his feet, placing himself between the guards and Janson.
“Med-team,” Thomas commanded. His voice was not his own. It was cold steel. Unquestionable. “Now. Secure a perimeter. No one touches him.”
The five other guards immediately lowered their rifles, turning outward to form a protective circle. Their obedience was instant. Unthinking. The lead guard was already speaking into his comms, his voice a stream of urgent, coded instructions.
Thomas stood in the eye of the storm he had created. In front of him, WCKD soldiers obeyed him with the chilling efficiency of machines. Behind him, his friends—his family—were statues of shock and betrayal. He could feel Newt’s gaze, not warm anymore, but sharp and questioning, boring into his back. The firelight glinted off the visors of the guards, hiding their faces, turning them into a wall of anonymous loyalty he never knew he had.