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

- A DODGY TUNNEL -

Then I see it.

A rusted, leaning road sign, half hidden behind a collapsed metal frame:

MANDATORY INFECTION CHECK - 2 MILES

It snaps me back into full attention.

I grip the wheel tighter and ease my foot on the gas. The road narrows, winding down into a valley that grows darker the deeper we descend. Trees fall away, replaced by sharp rock faces and steep cliffs on either side. We pass a series of crumbling fences and what used to be traffic checkpoints. The remnants of something enforced. Something cruel.

And then we reach it.

The tunnel.

It stretches before us like the entrance to another world - its massive mouth blackened with soot and shadow, framed by an arch of barbed wire and hanging signs that clang softly in the morning breeze.

There are dozens of abandoned cars scattered like bones across the road leading into it. Some are rusted clean through, others still bear the signs of a panic too quick to finish - a door left swinging open, luggage spilled across the asphalt, shattered windows, claw marks.

I can tell this was a checkpoint. The checkpoint. This is where the world stopped for so many. A massive, bullet-riddled sign hangs just above the tunnel's arch:

SENSITIVE CONTROL POINT - PERPETRATORS WILL BE SHOT.

I slow the truck and ease it to a stop, tires crunching over shattered glass and scorched debris. "We should think about this," I say quietly, cutting the engine.

Newt sits up slowly. "Should we go in there?" His voice is thick with sleep but sharp with instinct. We all step out anyways, boots hitting the pavement. The air smells like rust and old fire. Thomas flips the map open and walks a few paces ahead. I fall into step beside him, my fingers brushing the edge of the paper map. The line of the road disappears into the tunnel. There's no detour. No hidden trail cutting through the desert. Just this path forward - dark and uncertain. "I don't want to come across as too negative," Newt says, eyeing the tunnel with wary curiosity, "but if I were a Crank, that's exactly where I'd be."

There's a half-grin at the corner of his mouth, something sharp and dry. It's a joke. A way to lighten the weight of the moment. But the image hits me like a gut punch anyway. The thought of Newt - or any of us - becoming one of them. Lost in a body we don't control. Minds torn apart by something we never asked for. Thomas keeps his eyes on the map, not reacting to the comment. His voice is steady when he speaks. "I don't think we have much choice."

He folds the paper and slips it into his jacket. I nod. "I'll drive."

Newt raises a brow. "Then I get shotgun," he says.

We pile back into the car, a quiet urgency moving our bodies like clockwork. I grip the wheel again, settle my foot onto the gas, and guide us slowly into the tunnel's yawning mouth. This time, I flip every single light on.

High beams, interior bulbs, the console strip - anything that can make this stretch of darkness feel a little less like a tomb.

"Well, here we go," Fry says from the backseat. His voice is calm, but I hear the tightness in it. The forced lightness of someone who knows what this place probably holds.

He and Thomas are each armed with heavy-duty torches, flicking them on as we pass beneath the first patch of overhead light. They move them side to side through the windows, scanning the tunnel walls, the ceilings, the blind spots our headlights don't touch.