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

- BITTER REALITY -

The world shifts beneath my feet.

No. No. Not now. Not here. I wanted to stay naive just a little longer. I wanted to live in the soft warmth of this moment - to hold onto the sunlight before the clouds. But the look in his eyes tells me we're past that now. The tenderness is still there, yes, but so is something darker. Something gnawing. And I know, instinctively, that whatever comes next is going to hurt.

A deep sigh pulls at my chest - ragged and unsure. "What do you need to tell me?" I ask. And I know it. I can hear how fragile I sound.

Newt doesn't say anything at first.

Just looks down, lips pressed into a thin line, as though he's trying to find the strength somewhere in the silence. And then, with one slow, almost reluctant movement, he lets go of my hand.

Our fingers unhook - and even in that simple gesture, it feels like something breaks. He lifts his left hand, silent, and pulls back the sleeve of his right arm.

What I see nearly sends me reeling.

There, sprawling like spilled ink beneath his pale skin, is a thick, jagged web of black veins - threading up from the inside of his wrist and disappearing into the muscle of his forearm. It looks wrong. Sick. Violent. A corruption that doesn't belong in someone like him. The skin around it is discolored, bruised almost, and the black is not still - I swear it moves. Like it's alive. Like it's clawing its way deeper. He flexes his hand absentmindedly, and I watch the blackness contract. Twitch. As if responding.

I feel the blood drain from my face.

My stomach lurches and my throat tightens until it's hard to breathe, let alone think. But it makes sense - why he had tremors, and why his legs gave out in the tunnels.

"It must've been that bloody Crank," Newt mutters, his voice rough - almost flat - but underneath it, I can hear the attempt at normalcy. The need to give me something light amidst the grief. And I know exactly what he's talking about.

That day.

The one I barely let myself think about anymore. The one where he threw himself in the fray for me, reckless and brave and so stupid. Six months ago.

I should have known.

No - I did know. Deep down. I just didn't want to believe it.

And now it's here, a horrible truth revealed in stark black veins, and it feels like the floor is opening beneath me. "How long have you known?" I ask, even though the answer doesn't matter. I think I just want to hear him say it. I want to buy time. I want to delay the tidal wave already crashing toward me.

He shrugs one shoulder, a small, weary movement. "It's been like this for about a week," he says quietly. "Only told Tommy this morning."

My eyes shift, almost without meaning to, toward the building behind us - and there, through the window, I see them. Brenda, looking confused and tense. Thomas beside her, face pulled tight with that guilt he wears too often. His eyes flick away when he notices me looking. Brenda doesn't know. Not yet. But Thomas is trying - and failing - to keep her in the dark.

I turn back to Newt, but it's like I'm not in my body anymore. I hear my own voice, soft and hollow: "Why didn't you tell me?" I'm not angry. I'm not. I just don't understand. I want to understand.

Newt looks away. "I didn't want to worry you." And I know that's the truth. He says it so plainly, so honestly - because he knows me. He knows how I would have unraveled, how I would've looked at him every second like I was counting the time we had left. He knows what this would've done to me.