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

- VALUABLES -

A sudden beep breaks through. Not a gunshot. A soft electronic chirp - a pulse from her device. She steps back. The guard hoists us to our feet. "You were right," the girl murmurs, handing the device to Jorge with calm formality.

Jorge lifts his head. He stares at the device, then up to me - eyes sharp as a hawk spotting prey. "Right about what?" I demand quietly.

Jorge chuckles low and slow. "Sorry, hermana-" he fixes me with his gaze, "-looks like you're tagged." He taps a finger to the device. My blood runs cold. I look over at Newt, then Thomas, as they glance at the back of my neck. "You all came from WICKED," Jorge states, his voice filled with calculated menace. "Which means... you're very valuable." My fingers twitch as I feel over the smooth skin where I know the tattoo lies.

A heavy weight settles in my chest. Pressure in my ears. Cold splinters of fear crawling up my spine. The guards close in tighter, boots grinding dust off the floor, rifles clutched, nostrils quivering with anticipation.

My vision blurs for a second ... bright lights above flicker.

My temple throbs sharply - like truth is crashing through my brainwaves.

~~~

I wake up disoriented, head pounding as blood rushes to my brain - every beat of my pulse a hammer in my skull. I'm upside down, dangling in midair, legs bound by coarse rope. Below me yawns a vast cylindrical hole - an abyss that stretches into oppressive darkness. There's no floor, no walls. Just emptiness.

All around - Thomas, Minho, Newt, Teresa, Frypan, Aris - there's all of us suspended by our feet. The ropes bite into our ankles. Each breath is a gasp for stability. And then I hear it: "Well, this was a great plan," Minho grumbles from his inverted position. His voice is thick with sarcasm.

I groan. Dread pools in my chest. "Shut up, Minho," Thomas snaps. "Maybe we can reach the rope?" I hear strains of grunting as Thomas and a few others contort, trying to hook their hands upward, desperate to claw at any loose fibers or snag a knot to shift their position. The ropes are just out of reach, mocking them.

I try to raise my own foot but the rough fibers stay stubbornly out of reach. My head throbs harder - blood flooding the wrong direction. Every tiny movement jolts a shooting pain across my temples.

Across from us, the door to this brutal chamber opens with a metallic squeal. A tall figure appears. It's Jorge. He strides in like an executioner surveying his charges. The air instantly thickens, his presence adding tension to the already electric atmosphere. "How's the view?" He taunts, his voice dripping with mock kindness and cruel amusement.

"What does he want now?" Thomas mutters, his tone defeated.

Jorge stops at the railing near where I'm dangling. I'm closest. His shadow stretches thin and cruel across my strained form. "My men want to sell you back to WICKED," he announces, voice low but resonant. "Life has taught them to think small. I'm not like that. Something tells me you're not like that either."

My stomach clenches. He's prodding, pushing. Why toy with us? Minho grunts. "Is the blood rushing to my head, or is this shank not making any sense?"

I can't help but reply, voice cracking: "A bit of both."

Jorge's lips twitch with annoyance. He steps toward me. "Tell me what you know about the Right Arm," he commands. His eyes burn, scanning me for secrets.

I stare back, furious at the helplessness choking me. "I thought you said they were ghosts?" Newt interjects on my behalf.

"I happen to believe in ghosts," Jorge retorts softly. "Especially when I hear them chattering on the airwaves." He moves, pacing slowly around our suspended circle of fear. "You tell me what you know, and maybe we can make a deal."

I swallow hard. My gaze flicks to Newt, then Thomas. "I actually don't know anything," I whisper. My voice is small.

Jorge steps farther away, toward a lever embedded in the wall. He sniffs. "You're hiding more than you say."

He yanks the lever - suddenly, our ropes go slack, and gravity pulls us down. We drop a foot. A collective scream erupts, rope cutting into heels. "Hey! No!" Thomas shouts mid-fall. The ropes clamp tight again. Our bodies jerk, knuckles white, breath stuttering. Gritting my teeth, I force more air into lungs already raw, choking on fear. I force my head forward and catch Thomas's eye. He's drenched in sweat, panic and rage lighting his features. "They're hiding in the mountains!" Thomas shouts at Jorge's retreating back. "They attacked WICKED to liberate a bunch of kids. That's all we know!"

His voice echoes. Somewhere, a guard stirs, but Jorge takes no pause. He steps out of the room. A guard slides out alongside. I hear Jorge's voice fade behind him: "Hang tight, hermano. We'll get you back to where you belong," he purrs.

The door clangs. Echoes reverberate. We hang, necks snapping back and forth, eyes gliding involuntarily over that indefinite damnation below.

The ropes hold us stunned, staring at the floor - waiting, hoping, dreading what comes next.

~