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

- HARSH REALITY -

Then Newt rises and walks away. Minho doesn't move. His fists are clenched at his sides, jaw locked. Frypan puts a hand on his shoulder. "We should go," he says quietly, but Minho's eyes stay fixed on Winston. He doesn't want to leave. None of us do.

But Winston waves them off weakly. "Go," he rasps. "Please." One by one, they begin to move. Teresa turns away first, Thomas behind her. Aris and Jack linger, but eventually follow. I stay frozen, watching as the others disappear into the heat shimmer. It's just Winston and me now. I kneel beside him, my shadow falling over his broken form. He doesn't look afraid. Just tired. So, so tired. He looks up at me, his voice barely a whisper. "(Y/n)... take care of them?"

I bite down the lump in my throat. My eyes sting, but I don't cry. I owe him that much. I offer a small nod. "I'll try," I say.

He nods back, and it's enough. I stand. Pick up my bag. My limbs feel heavier than ever before. My boots drag in the sand as I walk away, one step, then another.

The gunshot rings out.

It echoes across the barren land like a thunderclap, sharp and final.

No one speaks. But we all look back.

Then we have to keep walking.

~~~

We sit around a small fire that night, huddled close but feeling more distant than ever. The air is heavy with everything we don't say. Grief, fear, uncertainty - it all clings to us like the sweat and dust coating our skin. No one really talks. Not anymore. Words feel too thin to hold the weight of what we've seen.

The fire crackles in the center of us, its light throwing shadows across tired faces. I stare into the flames, mesmerized. They twist and curl like they're dancing through pain, licking upward into the darkness, orange turning to blue at the core. The embers spit and hiss, and I can't help but think how cruel it is that we're still capable of building warmth... even as the world around us goes cold.

The disease is called the Flare. Something about that name feels too poetic - like it was meant to sound beautiful when all it brings is decay. Fire should be life. Light. Heat. But in this world, it's a warning. Destruction disguised in glow. Just like the Flare.

"I thought we were immune," Jack says suddenly. His voice is rough, small.

Teresa, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, doesn't look up. "Not all of us, I guess." That's all she says. It lands like a stone.

Silence returns, swallowing everything again.

I sit close to Newt, shoulder brushing his. Neither of us acknowledge it. We don't need to. Just being near each other is enough for now. We've spent so much time running lately, but sitting here beside him feels like the first solid thing in hours. "If Winston can get infected," Newt finally says, "we should assume so can the rest of us." We all asked Jack how he was feeling - after being grabbed by the Cranks. His shoulder didn't display the same disease as Winston, yet of course we're all still on edge.

Newt's voice was steady, but there's something buried underneath. A tremor. Maybe resignation. I say nothing. But my thoughts scream in every direction.

What if he's wrong?

What if he's right?

My mind drifts, unspooling memories I'd rather leave buried. My father's voice echoes in the hollow corners of my brain - cold, clinical: "Your progress is the most promising we've seen." I never wanted to cling to his words, not after what he did... but I do. God help me, I do. Because they suggest I'm different. That maybe I'm safe. That maybe I'll survive this. I think of Thomas and Teresa. How the three of us were always praised, always separate from the rest of them in subtle, uncomfortable ways. Maybe we were built for something more. Or maybe that was just a lie wrapped in hope.