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

- PARTY COMPOUND -

The sky is bruised black as we move in. The city's hushed chaos fades beneath the pulse of music. Not the kind that lingers through ruined alleyways or echoes in memory - this is loud, real, alive. The bass thuds like a heartbeat through the pavement beneath our boots.

"Are we sure this is it?" I whisper, ducking behind a low concrete barrier, my fingers white-knuckling the grip of a pipe.

Frypan nods. "I was asking around for Thomas and Brenda. Some sketchy guy said he saw them go into that place," he gestures toward the structure pulsing with light and sound, "called it 'the Compound.' Like everyone's just supposed to know what that means."

We all glance at the building. From the outside, it's grim and towering, boarded-up windows flickering with neon light through cracks. Broken speakers are strapped to makeshift posts, blaring distorted music into the night air. A mess of people spill out the front doors, swaying, laughing - some screaming.

Minho crouches beside me. "Okay. Remember the plan," he says. "Front entrance is too packed. We sneak in through the service tunnel."

I nod. "Once inside, we find Thomas and Brenda. Get in, get out. No hero stunts." Minho gives me a pressed smile.

We move.

Jorge and Aris flank the back with Frypan. Teresa splits off with Fry. Newt and I take a lead, Minho close behind. The service corridor reeks of rot and piss. Every step feels like a descent, a crossing of a line. We pass the edge of cracked tile, torn posters for pre-Flare concerts, and rusty doorframes that groan as we press through.

Then we reach it.

The hallway opens to a balcony that overlooks the party compound below. It's overwhelming. Lights - too many lights - flicker in time with the pounding music. Colors swirl and strobe over half-naked bodies dancing in a haze of synthetic smoke. The air is thick with alcohol, drugs, sweat.

And worse.

Below us, a group of partiers circle a Crank - half-chained, drooling, eyes wild. They jab it with glowsticks, laughing hysterically as it shrieks. Another one is blindfolded, made to stumble while people bet on how long it'll take to bite someone. It's not a party. It's a circus. A nightmare painted with neon.

"What the bloody hell is this?" Newt mutters beside me, appalled.

"Some kind of drug den meets rave," Minho says, grim. "Only they're using infected people as entertainment." We scan the crowd. It takes time. There are too many bodies, too much movement. Then-

"There," I breathe. Thomas. He's slumped against a wall near the far end, close to what looks like a VIP lounge, Brenda curled beside him. Both of them look dazed. Their pupils are blown wide, limbs loose and floppy like puppets with their strings cut. Someone must've drugged them. Maybe something in a drink? "I'm going down," I say.

"I'll go with you," Newt answers immediately.

"No," I say firmly. "You need to watch your arm. I can move through the crowd faster."

Newt hesitates, his jaw clenching, but he nods. Minho taps my shoulder. "Take this. I'll be coming round your other side." He slips me a stun rod from Jorge's scavenged gear. "Don't be afraid to use it."

I nod, heart hammering.

The moment I step into the light, the smell hits me harder - chemical sweet and wrong. I push through dancers with elbows and muttered apologies, stepping around people lying on the floor in blissful stupor. A girl grabs my arm, laughing wildly, before I wrench away.

Thomas is only ten meters from me.

Five.

He recognises when I get to him. Thomas blinks slowly, squinting through the fog in his brain. "(Y/n)?" he slurs. "Hey... you came...?"