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

- CHAOS AND ACTION -

I stumble against the wall, breath catching, and Thomas is immediately there, steadying me. I glance back at the glass as it locks into place with a metallic thud.

Janson's furious shouts come from the other side. I hear the sharp crack of gunfire - two shots - followed by the echo of the bullets' placement in the reinforced glass.

Janson rushes forward, pounding fists against the barrier. A dark echo of déjà vu washes over me.

I lock eyes with Teresa through the thick glass. Newt slowly pulls off his mask, sweat dampening his tousled hair - just like Thomas beside him. Both discard their masks as we dont need them anymore. Teresa gives me a brief nod. It's small but loaded - maybe reassurance, maybe a silent promise.

Then, without hesitation, we bolt.

Down the endless corridor we run, adrenaline pounding in our veins.

I clutch at hope that Gally is out there on time, that Brenda is waiting for us with the bus - the fragile lifeline that could pull us all through this nightmare.

"Where are we going?" Newt breaks the silence, breathless but determined.

"To find Minho," Thomas says, voice low and steady - knowing that answer barely scratches the surface.

As we approach a busier section, we slow, adopting the casual gait of people who belong here. Heads lowered, eyes scanning, always watching.

"My mask is on the other side of that door," I mumble.

Thomas doesn't skip a beat. "Just keep walking," he orders, but then curses under his breath. "The radio's on the other side too," he realizes, frustration biting into his words. It's usually tucked under the back of the mask.

"Thats what I meant," I snap back, my tone sharp with urgency.

We can't stop. We keep moving forward, every step a silent prayer that we're not already too late.

The alarms scream through the halls now - loud, mechanical, insistent. Red lights flash in rhythm with the sirens, painting everything in jarring pulses of color. It's chaos, but in that chaos, we manage to keep moving. We walk with a pace that's almost too deliberate, pretending we belong here. My heart is hammering in my chest, and every step feels like it echoes louder than the alarm itself.

People glance up from their terminals or from rushing down corridors - workers, doctors, technicians. Some blink at us, brows furrowed, uncertain. They see our clothes, our boots, our weapons tucked just out of full view, and I can see them hesitating. They're not sure whether to question us. That uncertainty buys us time. No one stops us. Not yet.

We don't know where we're going - not exactly. But we keep moving. That's all that matters right now. Forward.

We slip off to the side as the thunder of boots grows louder. Guards sprint past the corridor ahead, radios buzzing, rifles tight in their arms, expressions sharp and focused. We're pressed into a shadowed alcove, crouching behind a vent shaft, hidden behind the angle of a wall. My shoulder brushes Newt's, and I feel his breath, quick and uneven. I hold mine. If one of them glances left - just once - we're done.

When they're gone, the silence returns like a vacuum.

I glance sideways at Newt. He tries to smile - that crooked grin I know so well - but it's faint, forced. He's pale under the hallway lights, and sweat clings to his hairline, matting golden strands to his forehead. His jaw is clenched tightly, and his hand trembles faintly where it grips his weapon. I don't know if its the Flare. I don't know if it's exhaustion, fear. I just know I can't take my eyes off him.