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

- HARSH REALITY -

"Teresa-?" I begin, voice soft but cautious, trying to reach her.

"Just hear me out. None of you understand," she interrupts, her tone urgent now, almost desperate. "There's more at stake than you realize."

"I think that I do," I say, meeting her gaze head-on, standing firmer.

Her eyes flash, disbelief mingling with frustration. "No, (Y/n), because if you and Thomas just followed the original plan-"

Before she can finish, a gunshot rips through the still air, sharp and unforgiving.

"Hey?!" I spiral, voice cracking through the haze of sun and dust. My boots skid in the sand as I sprint toward the shouting. My heart's already racing, panic pounding through my chest like a war drum. I look around frantically - then catch sight of Newt still standing. Relief slams into me like a wave. "What's going on?" I yell, already closing the distance.

The world narrows into chaos. People are yelling over each other. Frypan is holding up his hands, face twisted in disbelief. Thomas and Teresa are already rushing back with me, alarm sharp in their eyes.

"I don't know- he just woke up and grabbed the gun," Frypan shouts, stepping back as Winston stumbles and slumps against the crumbling stone wall.

"Yeah, and he tried to..." Jack's voice falters, the words stuck like barbed wire in his throat.

He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't have to.

Winston tried to kill himself.

The truth of it hangs in the air like a weight pressing down on all of us. My stomach twists, and for a moment I can't move.

Winston's body lurches forward and he coughs violently, spitting blood into the sand. It paints the ground ebony. He collapses onto his knees, groaning. I rush forward, instinct pushing me despite the horror. "Winston - hey, stop, it's okay-"

But he kicks out at me, weak but desperate. His eyes are wild and full of pain. "Don't," he grits out. "Just don't." He's trembling. His skin is pale beneath the sunburn, but his veins are turning black. The sickness is spreading. "It's growing," Winston croaks, then pulls up his shirt.

I reel back, unable to hide the shock on my face. The gash splits across his ribs like a festering canyon. Black veins twist out from it in every direction, pulsing under his skin like ink in water. It's not just infected - it's poisoned. It's wrong. The wound oozes something too dark to be blood, like whatever's inside him isn't human anymore.

"Oh shit," I whisper. The others are staring too. No one speaks. I glance over my shoulder at Jack - wondering whether his bandages hide this mess. But the boy shows no signs of infected discomfort. "Winston..." My voice is a breath, barely audible. I look around at the group, hoping someone - anyone - has an idea of what to do. But we're all helpless.

"I'm not gonna make it," Winston says hoarsely. He's past denial now. He reaches out, hand shaking. Toward something. The gun. I realize too late.

Newt is the one to move.

Without a word, he steps forward, eyes locked with Winston's. There's pain in them - deep, old pain - but no hesitation. He crouches, picks up the gun from the dirt, and places it gently in Winston's outstretched hand. There's no ceremony. No dramatics. Just two boys who've known each other a long time, and one of them doing the last hard thing for the other.

It's mercy.

Winston looks up at Newt with glassy eyes, and his lip trembles in a faint smile. "Thank you."

Newt gives a small nod. Swallows hard. "Goodbye, Winston," he says softly, crouching just long enough to meet Winston's gaze eye to eye. There's something silent passed between them - something that doesn't need words.