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

- LAWRENCE -

We walk with Gally through a building that feels like it belongs to a time that doesn't exist anymore.

The entrance is wide, arched with crumbling plaster and faded signage, like the kind of hotel lobby you'd find in the bones of some forgotten city. But there's something off. A glass escalator covered in grime leans in the corner - dead silent - and the tile underfoot is checker-patterned and chipped, as if it used to gleam once. Then it hits me: This is a mall.

Or was.

Now, it's a secret settlement. People mill about - rough, dust-slick faces, most no older than I am. Hammocks are strung between support beams, worn laundry flaps lazily on makeshift lines. Lanterns dangle from wires like fireflies trapped in jars. But what stands out most isn't the makeshift homes or the smell of sweat and rust - it's the weapons. Guns hang from belts. Blades sit strapped across backs. Buckets of ammo line the walls, like tools of survival just waiting to be grabbed.

I feel Newt step up beside me, just as my gaze settles on a mounted turret balanced where a potted plant might've once been.

"That's a lot of guns," I whisper, my tone edged with unease.

Newt glances around, nodding slowly, his expression unreadable. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Too many."

Gally walks just ahead of us, his voice a steady rhythm cutting through the air. "After the Maze, I got picked up by a group headed to the city. I was half-dead. They realized I was immune, patched me up. Brought me here - to Lawrence," he says.

Lawrence. I repeat the name silently, unsure whether it belongs to a man or a place.

I keep scanning the space. A toddler tugs at the hem of someone's jacket, a teenager leans on a railing above us with a sniper rifle slung across her chest. All around, people keep moving like this life - this armed, sharpened version of survival - is just normal now.

"Place gives me the creeps," Frypan mutters under his breath. I catch the way his hand subtly hovers near the knife at his hip.

Gally glances back just once, then continues. "They've been at war with WICKED ever since they took control of the city. But they can't hide behind those walls forever. D Day's coming. They're gonna pay for what they've done."

He says it like a vow. I watch the way his shoulders move - squared, focused. It's strange. The last time I saw Gally, he was a blur of rage and paranoia, driven mad by a sting and wielding a pistol like it was the only truth left. Now he's older. Calmer. There's something hard in him, yeah, but there's also clarity. He's grown.

I keep sneaking glances at him as we walk - can't help it. He looks taller now, more weathered. His eyes aren't wild anymore; they're sharp. Focused. Like he knows exactly who he is now, and maybe for the first time... he isn't trying to fight it.

We pass what was once a shoe store - the sign is cracked and dangling - and a busted-up food court where someone's built a black market-style table full of salvaged radios and bootleg meds. This definitely was a mall. Once meant for escape and consumerism, now turned into a fortress.

Gally finally comes to a stop in front of what used to be a glass-walled boutique, now barricaded with scrap metal and reinforced doors. He turns to face us - Frypan, Thomas, Newt, and I. His expression has shifted, a seriousness settling across it. "Listen," he says. "He doesn't get a lot of visitors. So let me do the talking, alright?" Thomas exchanges a look with Newt, skeptical. I glance toward Fry, who shrugs slightly like we're already this far, might as well go deeper. I give the smallest nod. Gally starts to turn, then throws a warning glance over his shoulder. "And try not to stare."