MINHO WOKE UP to the last sound of his snore and Thomas, shaking him awake.

"Minho. Wake up."

"Huh?" Minho opened his eyes slowly and coughed. His eyelids still felt heavy and, if it was up to him, he would like another minute (or hour) of sleep. "What? What's going on?"

"Nothing. I just want to know what happened. Did Hans get the thing switched off? Are we fixed?"

Minho nodded through a big yawn. "Yeah, both of us. At least, he said he did. Man, you wigged out big time. You remember all that?"

"Of course I do," Thomas said. His face flushed red in embarrassment. "But it was like I was paralyzed or something. I kept trying, but I couldn't stop whatever was controlling me."

"I don't get any memories back. Do you?"

Thomas shook his head, "Other than the ones I got from my dreams, no."

"Would you guys shut up?" Reggie moaned from another chair, "I really want to sleep. Five minutes."

Brenda, Jorge, and Hans walked in from the mysterious side door with serious look on their faces.

"Is it fixed?" Thomas repeated his question, this time to Brenda.

Minho punched his arm playfully, "Dude. You don't trust me? Gotta ask from the girl, do you?"

"It worked," Brenda said, "Judging from the fact that you're not trying to kill us anymore, it's deactivated and, well, you shouldn't be able to talk to or hear from Teresa and Aris again."

"Suits me fine."

"Well, Hans and his wife are going to leave, but he wanted to tell us something first."

"Sit down," Hans instructed, forcing Reggie and Minho out of their stupor. They shifted in their seats —all six of them forming a distorted circle. The old man's face suddenly looked serious, much more serious and intimidating than he did earlier. Like he was going to announce his death day or terminal sickness to his family.

It had to be something important.

He lifted his gaze from his lap and searched the group, searching for a proper starter sentence, and ended up looked directly at Reggie, "Your implant. Is it fixed, or are you refusing to fix it because you're not Immune?"

Reggie blinked. "I am Immune."

"I'm pretty sure you're not," Hans frowned, "From what I remembered. You and another girl."

"Oh, it must be the weird brain thing," Reggie said, "Frances and I were categorized as Immune recently. Some doctor chick said the Flare's just enveloping our brain instead of eating it or something. Besides, I got through the test getting into this city just fine, didn't I?"

The old man pursed his lips in doubt.

"What?" Minho asked impatiently, crossing his arms. If this had something to do with Frankie, he really had to know. "Just tell us already. Maybe we can make use of that information."

Hans leaned forward, as if someone was listening. Then he said in a voice only a notch louder than a whisper. "Do you know what Candidates and Final Candidate really means?"

"The one whose brain will lead to the cure, isn't it?" Brenda said.

"I'm not even sure how that's related," Jorge added.

"You know, at first, we had the best intentions. Find a cure, save the world. It was clear you kids were the key, because you were immune. But why?"

Hans paused for a few second dramatically, looking to each and everyone in the circle, before continuing.

"Eventually we found an answer —it's something only a few with top clearance knows. Me, Chancellor Paige. An enzyme produced by the brains of the Immune. Once separated from the bloodstream, it can serve as a powerful agent to slow the spread of the virus."

"So you actually found a cure?" Thomas asked, voicing everyone's question.

"The enzyme can't be manufactured, only harvested from the Immune. And, if injected to the infected, it only slows down the symptoms. Not heal them completely. Of course, that didn't stop WICKED. If they had their way, they would sacrifice an entire generation for that gift of biology. An evolution —one clearly not meant for all of us."

"So," Reggie interjected, "You're saying Immunes have like a natural Bliss?"

"Similar, yes, but one shot of the Bliss only works for a day. A quarter shot of this enzyme can give the infected a few weeks, even month. It's different for each people."

"Then why didn't they harvest the enzyme—"

"I thought you're smart," Hans retaliated, "Do the math, boy! Immunes only make up 1% of the world population. Imagine if this knowledge leaks —you'll all be captured, your blood drained, and eventually killed. They will always demand for more. More time to live, more enzyme. In the end, Immunes will be extinct and the world will be completely filled by Cranks.

"The catch is there are a handful of subjects that produce much stronger enzyme with more lasting effects. Those are the Candidates. If their plan hasn't changed since I ran away, the Final Candidate is someone whose enzyme can actually cure the Flare. One shot, once and for all."

"Thomas," Brenda gasped, "Both of you were Candidates, but Thomas... Last I heard, you might be the final one."

Minho looked at Thomas, who was looking at him as well. "We can— You can save Newt."

"I won't say save exactly, muchacho," Jorge said, "WICKED wouldn't be taking Immunes and restart the Maze Trial all over again if they had the cure in their hands."

"Or maybe, they did the math and thought one Final Candidate won't cut it. Maybe they need more Thomases. That's a possibility, right?" Reggie offered.

"Don't get your hopes up either way. Here," Hans reached into his worn jacket pocket and took out two glass vials with thick, light blue, see-through liquid inside.

It looked exactly like the Grief serum —used after being stung by Grievers in the Glade.

Even the vials had W.C.K.E.D. engraved on them. It was probably one of the things Hans took with him when he left the organization years ago.

"I took your blood when you two passed out. I thought this guy right here might need it, at least to buy a few more months, but apparently he doesn't."

"We—" Minho cleared his throat, eyes still glued to the 'cure'. Hope and excitement flourished within his chest. Shuck, he almost exploded in happiness. He couldn't wait to tell Frankie.

And Newt, of course.

"We need it. We have an infected friend."

"Worst scenario, that friend of yours get more time of sanity, then he turn into a Crank. Best scenario," Hans nodded, "He's cured."

Minho couldn't believe it. All those klunk WICKED had been sprouting —about finding a cure, forming variables, developing killzone patterns. They really were on the verge of breakthrough. They weren't lying.

But that didn't make him feel less angry for being used and forced to watch his friends die one by one. He was still furious.

"Aren't you gonna take it?" Hans offered again, annoyed.

Minho couldn't bring himself to take the fragile vial.

"I'm afraid I might break it," Reggie murmured with wide eyes, "Thomas."

"We have to get it safely to Newt," Thomas murmured, too, "Brenda."

"I'll take it," Brenda reached over and took the vials in her hands. Then she wrapped it with her handkerchief, bundled it securely, and stuffed it into her bag.

"Why are you telling us this?" Thomas asked, still dazed.

"Because you've been through a lot." Hans' tone turned solemn. "This much, you deserve to know. Consider this as a gift."

"Were you the only one who knows how to harvest this... enzyme?"

"No. But, except me, those who knew were killed during the Purge."

The Purge.

"There won't be more," Hans said, "Two vials. Use it wisely."