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

- LAWRENCE -

Brenda steps up beside me, brows furrowed. "Stare?" she echoes, skeptical.

I exhale. "No idea," I reply, but my grip tightens instinctively on the strap of my jacket.

Whatever we're walking into, it's something none of us are ready for - but Gally is. And that might be the strangest thing of all.

The door swings inward, revealing a strange, beautiful space that looks like someone stitched three buildings into one.

It's part museum, part greenhouse, part quiet library, and none of it makes any real sense, but somehow, it fits. Skylight windows stretch high above, fractured but mostly intact, letting in shafts of late-afternoon light. Dust floats in the beams like gold thread in water. Moss creeps along some of the bricks, and tall leafy plants thrive in large pots positioned like sculptures. Books are stacked everywhere - in shelves, on chairs, even on the floor in organized piles - and mismatched lamps cast warm glows across old wooden tables and rusting iron desks.

It's surreal. Like stepping into another world entirely.

My eyes catch movement, and I pause. There, standing just in front of the far window, is a man - or rather, a silhouette. The light streams in behind him, casting him in shadow. He's positioned beside a jungle of green plants, tall ferns and flowering vines winding toward the sun. I can't make out his face at all, but his presence is imposing. Quiet, sure, but commanding.

"Gally," the silhouette says, voice low but crisp. "Glad to see you made it back. Jasper told me what happened."

Off to the side, I spot another man. He's bent at the waist, carefully cutting roses from a bush growing out of what looks like a deep, cracked ceramic basin. His hands are practiced, almost gentle. For a moment I assume that's Jasper - then I hesitate. The muscular figure we all noticed earlier steps away from the plants, adjusting the strap of his tank top. His arms are thick with scars and wiry strength, and for a second, the room tilts. The voice came from the man with the roses, not the bodybuilder.

So that's Lawrence.

"It was a slaughter," Gally says, stepping closer to the plants. "There's nothing we can do against those guns."

"No," Lawrence replies simply. The muscular man - maybe Jasper - disappears through a side passage, leaving just Lawrence and the roses. His voice is calm, deliberate. "But they can only poke the hornet's nest so long... before they get stung."

He raises one of the clipped roses, holds it near his face, and inhales deeply.

That's when I see it.

The rose doesn't brush against his nose - because there is no nose. The closer I look, the more details reveal themselves in the light. The skin around his face is deeply scarred, melted and pulled, almost smooth in places it shouldn't be. The bridge of his face is flat, absent. A long, narrow medical stand is positioned beside him, feeding a dark fluid into his arm through a tangled IV line. He's leaning slightly, one hand on a cane, the other wrapped around the pole. The drip keeps him tethered to that spot like a dying flower held up by string. He doesn't look old - maybe late thirties - but he looks like he's lived through every kind of pain a person could.

"Now," he says, turning slightly so the light catches the ridges of his ruined features, "who are these people? Why are they here?"

Gally had told us not to speak - to let him handle it - - before he can say anything, Thomas steps forward. Typical. "We need to get into WICKED," Thomas says, tone steady but edged with urgency. "Gally said you could get us through the walls."

I barely stop myself from groaning aloud. I glance at Gally, whose expression shifts. He looks sideways at Thomas, and the judgment is clear. Honestly, I can't blame him. Thomas catches my eye, and I raise my brows in a silent why? Why couldn't he just keep quiet to better our chances?