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

- WELCOME TO THE SCORCH -

We dive into the alcove, Thomas nearly tripping over Jack who has Fry's jacket over his shoulder. The space is small, hot with shared breath and thick with fear. "Shhh!" Teresa hisses as I slide in beside her. We all hold still.

I press my back against the wall, heart in my throat. The Cranks shriek just outside. Their feet slap the tile. One runs past the entrance, laughing - a guttural, unhinged sound that chills the marrow of my bones. Another follows, dragging something metallic behind it. The rest are close, the air thick with their presence.

I don't breathe. None of us do.

Winston sits in the corner, propped up against Frypan. Blood soaks through his shirt, and his hands tremble as Newt presses palms to the wounds. His face is pale. He's trying to stay quiet, but every breath is a struggle - shaky, pained, shallow.

"We have to stay," Thomas whispers. "Just for a minute." No one argues. Weapons still in hand. Eyes never leaving the dark. Like we're expecting another wave to descend at any second.

Winston lets out a shaky groan, clutching his ribs. I kneel beside him, helping Newt to put pressure on the wounds. "We've got you," I whisper. "Just breathe. You're gonna be okay." He nods weakly, biting his lip to keep from crying out again.

The silence is sharp and brittle.

We're not safe. Not even close. But right now, in this tiny sliver of darkness, we're alive.

~~~

Light cracks through the dust-caked windows before I open my eyes.

It's not a warm light. It's pale and sharp, like a blade sliding between the shadows, and it falls across the tiled floor in streaks that make the blood stains look rusted over, forgotten. The others are still asleep, collapsed in their corners, sprawled across makeshift bedding or slumped against walls. No one stirs.

Except me.

I push myself up slowly, wincing at the ache in my legs. My shirt clings to my back with dried sweat and dust. My body feels used, run through, but there's no luxury in resting longer - not here.

Winston groans faintly nearby. I move over to him first. Jack's already awake, sitting beside him, blinking blearily and pressing gauze against Winston's side with gentle but shaky hands. The bandages are soaked through - again. "I've got it," I whisper to Jack. "Then I'll help you," I add, nodding to his shoulder that should get rewrapped.

He nods and lets me take over, his fingers trembling as he leans back. Winston's breathing is labored but steady. His shirt's torn up the side, and the claw marks across his ribs are deep - angry red, surrounded by blackened bruising. I peel back the layers of bloodied cloth as carefully as I can, biting the inside of my cheek at the raw sight of it. "Still hurts like hell," Winston mutters, half a smile twitching on his lips.

"Means you're still alive," I whisper, trying to keep it light. "Let's not lose that streak, yeah?" He huffs, a dry breath that might've been a laugh. I clean the wounds again with the last of the antiseptic and wrap new gauze tight over the gashes. He flinches but doesn't cry out. I appreciate the strength it takes to stay quiet.

When I finish with helping both boys, I glance around.

Newt's sitting near one of the crumbled columns, face tilted toward the soft light. He's awake. Watching. I notice a cut under his right eye, thin but deep, dried blood caked just next to his nose. I grab a spare cloth and make my way over.

He doesn't flinch when I kneel beside him. "I think it was glass, but don't know when it happened," he admits to me.

I don't need an explanation. "This'll sting," I murmur.