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

- MEMORIES OF BEFORE -

I watch, frozen, as the boys fight for air they cannot grasp - eyes wide with terror, bodies trembling against invisible chains.

One tank draws my attention - Alby's. His eyes meet mine across the glass, wide with panic and desperation. His mouth opens in a silent scream, gasping for breath that doesn't come. The soundless terror of his struggle pierces through me. I stand helpless before the tank, my hand pressed against the cold glass as if I could somehow reach through and pull him free. His screams echo in my mind, an unrelenting reminder of the helplessness that threatens to drown me.

The fear claws at my throat, squeezing tighter until it burns - hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.

Then the vision shifts.

Chuck appears next, calm as ever, his steady hands preparing for something. For the Maze. There's a weight in his eyes, the burden of what's to come pressing down like a physical force. I see the determination etched in every line of his face, but beneath it, I feel the quiet fear he hides so well.

And then, the man - the older one who isn't a doctor like the others, who I've seen before in shadows and dreams, the one who speaks in riddles and half-truths - steps forward. This time, I don't hesitate.

My voice breaks as I yell at him, words spilling out with raw anger and desperation. "This is wrong!" I shout, each syllable a fracture in the sterile walls around me. "I don't want to be a part of this anymore."

The echo of my defiance rings loud and clear, bouncing off every cold surface, filling the room with my refusal. But the silence that follows is heavier than before - thick with the terrible truth I'm too afraid to fully face.

I don't want anything to do with WICKED.

~~~

The first thing I feel is the weight in my chest - dull, aching, heavy like sand in my lungs. Then the sting of ash beneath my fingernails, packed in and sharp, like I'd clawed my way back to the surface from a burning grave.

My breath shudders as I wake, the world blurry and muted, like I'm underwater. The light hurts my eyes, and for a moment, I can't tell what's real.

"Hey, Darling."

His voice cuts through the fog first.

Newt.

Soft, low, frayed around the edges like he hasn't slept in hours. Or days. He's crouched beside me, knees tucked in close, one hand resting just beside mine - not touching, but near enough that I feel his warmth anyway. I blink slowly, struggling to focus, and my gaze finally locks on his.

God, his eyes.

Why have I never fully appreciated them? Brown, gold-flecked, filled with worry and relief all at once. There's something about the way he's looking at me - like he can't quite believe I'm alive. His hand finally lifts and brushes lightly against my cheek, and I lean into the touch without meaning to.

"Newt?" My voice is cracked and hoarse, a rasp through my dry throat.

"You're here. We're here," he says, almost like he's reminding himself.

I try to sit up, groaning at the pressure in my skull. My head spins. "What the hell happened?" I ask.

There's soil under my palms. My body feels wrung out, stretched thin like paper. Thomas and Chuck are nearby - sitting in the dirt pit with me - and Teresa is kneeling just behind Newt, her brow furrowed in concern. Everyone looks like hell. "Aside from you stabbing yourself?" Newt says, with a soft bitterness that only masks his deeper panic. "You scared the shit out of us." He shifts back slightly, but only so he can face me better, his knee brushing mine. His voice lowers. "You were out for hours."