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

- LEAP OF FAITH -

Minho stands amidst the destruction, chest heaving, blood on his hands, jaw clenched tight. He doesn't look like a soldier. He looks like someone who's been clawing his way out of hell - and somehow, he made it.

His eyes meet ours, flicking from Thomas, to Newt, to me.

And then everything breaks.

We don't speak. We don't think. The three of us just move.

We crash into each other all at once, like gravity's yanked us together. Arms tangle and tighten. The world shrinks to just this- this knot of desperation and disbelief and relief that wraps around Minho like a second skin. My arms are locked around his back, and Thomas grabs his shoulder so hard it must hurt, and Newt - Newt's hand finds Minho's neck, foreheads pressed one another.

No one lets go.

No one says anything for a long time, because we're all holding onto something more than words. We're holding onto the fact that we made it here. That he's real. That he's not just a name we whisper when we're trying not to cry.

Minho is warm and solid beneath my fingers. I feel his heart hammering like mine, like all of ours. I hear the small, shaky breath he exhales into the side of my neck.

Newt's voice breaks the silence, rough and low. "Bloody hell, mate. You're alive."

"I thought-" Thomas starts, but his voice catches. He doesn't finish the sentence.

Deep down, we all thought we were chasing a fool's hope.

We stand there for a few seconds more, arms still draped over each other like we're afraid letting go will make this a dream. Around us, the lab remains a wreck - lights flickering above, computer screens smashed and sparking, carts overturned. Medical files and syringes litter the floor like leaves.

Everything's chaos. But this? This feels like the only thing right in the world.

Finally, Minho leans back, just enough to see us properly. "Is this real?" He asks, and his voice is small in a way I've never heard from him before. Fragile. Like part of him still doesn't believe we're actually here. That we're not some fever dream conjured by too many days alone, trapped, tortured.

"Yeah," Thomas breathes, his hand still clasped around Minho's shoulder. "It's real."

Minho laughs, but it's fractured, uneven - like it's been stuck inside him too long and forgot how to come out properly. "You guys really came back for me?"

I pull back, just enough to see his face. His skin is caked with dried sweat, streaked with blood and soot. His cheek is raw where something must've scraped or burned it. But it's Minho. Alive. Breathing. Still him. That spark is still there beneath the damage.

"Of course-?" I start to say.

But the moment is cut clean in half.

Shouts echo down the corridor behind us. Boots on tile. Barked orders. More coming. Too many to fight.

"Come on!" Thomas yells, grabbing Minho's arm, and just like that, we're running again. Our reunion shattered mid-sentence, torn apart by the never-ending chaos.

The hallway blurs around us as we sprint, adrenaline surging like fire through our veins. Our breaths come in sharp bursts. We're not even trying to be quiet anymore - it doesn't matter. They know we're here. They're literally right behind us.

We round the next corner-

Janson. Of course it's Janson.

And not just him - at least four men at his back. All of them armed. All of them aimed.