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

- A DODGY TUNNEL -

Thomas doesn't move for a long second. Just stares at Fry, then at me, then Newt. His lips press into a tight line. He looks like he's going to argue again - but then he stops. He exhales. Shakes his head a little. And finally says, "Okay." There's a beat of silence as that word lands. "Let's go get him back," Thomas finishes.

I nod once. Newt claps a hand on Thomas's shoulder. "I'll drive," Fry deduces from inside the truck, starting the engine. The sound is low and gritty, rumbling through the floor beneath our boots.

Thomas walks past us slowly, adjusting the strap on his shoulder again. He's still half-wracked with guilt, I can see it in every move he makes. But there's a flicker of relief, too. Maybe he knew all along we wouldn't let him go alone. Maybe he was hoping for this. As he passes Newt, he mutters under his breath, "Thank you."

Newt gives a quick shrug. "Don't thank me. (Y/n)'s predicted your movements."

Thomas turns to look at me. And this time, there's no guilt in his eyes. Just something raw. Something quiet and real. I see the emotions behind his stare - the ache, the fear, the memories of what we've lost and what we're still holding onto.

I see all of it.

And I don't look away.

"We're in this together," I tell him, my voice low but steady. "Now let's go."

~~~

I wanted to get Brenda in on it too.

She's smart - smarter than the rest of us sometimes. Quick. Capable. Loyal. She would've come without asking questions, without hesitating. But Thomas said no to dragging her and Jorge into it.

Still, I couldn't just vanish on her.

So I left a note. Scribbled fast on the back of an old ration card and wedged under her mug on the shelf beside her bed. I didn't say goodbye. Just a few lines. A thank you. A sorry. A hope that she'd understand why we didn't wake her. Why we didn't ask her to come. We're diving straight into the fire, and they've already been burned more than once.

It was the best I could do.

But my mind doesn't stay on Brenda for long. It drifts. Always drifts. Back to the same place.

Minho.

I can't stop thinking about him - where he is, what state he's in, if he's even alive. The image of him strapped to that gurney all those years ago still haunts me. I picture his wrists chafed raw. His voice hoarse from shouting. A desperate, furious look in his eyes. The fight was still in him then, and WICKED will see that. They'll abuse it. Because I know for a fact that Minho will keep fighting even when everything else has been taken away.

Jorge once told me it's better not to imagine the specifics. But that advice? Useless. Like trying to tell the tide not to come in. The mind goes where it wants. It paints the worst-case scenario in full color whether I want it to or not.

We drive through the night.

No one talks much. Conversation feels like a luxury we can't afford, or maybe just too painful to start. We're all caught up in our own thoughts, staring out into the endless dark, headlights slicing the silence ahead of us.

We only stop to switch drivers. Quick, wordless rotations. Fry, then Newt, then Thomas. And now it's me.

The sun is beginning to rise. A cold, pale dawn. Its light creeps slowly over the horizon, brushing the tops of the twisted trees and broken guardrails with a kind of soft gold. The kind of light that would've meant something beautiful once.

Now it just reminds me how far we are from the Glade - the closest thing we had to a home.

Newt is next to me, curled sideways in the passenger seat with his hoodie pulled halfway over his face, trying to block out the world. Thomas is in the back again, legs sprawled and the map balanced across his knees. His head is against the window, eyes half-closed but not asleep. None of us have really slept. We've only learned how to pretend.