IT STARTED WITH A MAZE - Newt x Reader (F)

- SECTION 7 -

We run.

Through corridor after corridor, the Maze twists and widens as we push further and further from the Glade. The comforting familiarity of the inner sections dissolves behind us. The stone underfoot becomes smoother. The vines that once choked the walls thin out, replaced by bare concrete streaked with grime. I've never seen this part of it before. It's unfamiliar, open - less claustrophobic, but not any less terrifying.

Minho doesn't say much. He doesn't have to. I can tell he knows where we're going.

We're running the circumference now, looping around the outer ring. I catch glimpses of the wall's carved numbers as we pass. 5. 6. The tall digits are etched deep and precise into the stone, their edges worn but unmistakable.

And then we hit 7.

At last, Minho slows to a jog, and I do too. My lungs burn. Sweat drips down the back of my neck, clinging to the collar of my shirt. I can barely hear anything over the thundering pulse in my ears. After a few more minutes, even the jog becomes a stroll, our feet dragging slightly now, echoing in the vast, hollow expanse ahead.

"This doesn't even look like a Maze anymore," I say, breathless. The path opens up wider than I've ever seen. The corridors we came from feel like a completely different world - this one stretches in jagged, open slabs of concrete, almost like a runway. Long, flat, and stretching out toward some unknown horizon. No walls hem us in here.

"Believe me," Minho says, eyes narrowed, scanning ahead. "It is."

We keep walking.

The silence stretches between the three of us as we push forward. There's no wind. No birds. Just the steady scuff of our shoes and the distant hum of something I can't place. It's too quiet.

Then I see them.

Far ahead - maybe a hundred meters - sharp, jagged spikes rise from the ground, stabbing up into the empty air like crooked teeth. They shimmer faintly in the sunlight, metallic and unnatural, totally out of place in this otherwise lifeless slab of stone.

"What the hell is this place?" Thomas asks, slowing beside me.

The air here feels different. Heavier. Charged. The spikes aren't uniform - they jut out in different places, thin and long. L They're rusted in patches, clean in others. Like they've been... used.

"We call them the Blades," Minho says. His tone is too casual, like he's forcing indifference. He keeps walking, never even hesitating. That somehow makes it worse. He's seen this before. Probably too many times.

I hesitate, caught between awe and fear. My eyes trail the jagged structures, trying to make sense of their design - if there even is one. Thomas and I exchange a glance but say nothing. The air is colder here. Still. We walk between them.

Minho never slows, threading his way between the Blades with the ease of experience. My heart thumps harder with each step. It's like walking through a graveyard. The metal hums faintly, vibrating at the edge of hearing. I can't tell if it's real or if it's just my nerves playing tricks.

Then I see something ahead - something small, crumpled. I start jogging. No, sprinting. Something in my chest pulls me forward like a magnet. "(Y/n)!" Thomas shouts from behind me, but I barely hear him.

I drop to my knees in front of the object. My hands shake as I lift the torn, blood-stained fabric. The pattern is unmistakable. It's part of a shirt. A familiar one. "It's Ben's," I breathe. The sound of my voice doesn't feel like it belongs to me.

Thomas crouches beside me. So does Minho. The fabric is stiff with dried blood, the edges frayed like it's been dragged. It reeks of fear, old and lingering. My stomach twists. "A Griever must've pulled him out here," Minho says quietly, eyes scanning the area.