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

- A FINAL DESPERATE SPRINT -

The city burns behind me, but I don't look back.

I run.

It's not like running in the Maze - not at all. Back then, I was chasing things that felt distant and intangible: answers, hope, maybe even freedom. But this? This is something else. This is me chasing time itself, and it's already slipping through my fingers like smoke.

The pavement is cracked beneath my boots, littered with glass and ashes, but I barely feel it. My legs ache from the hours of sprinting and hiding and hauling Newt through a war zone, but none of that matters now. Every step pounds into the ground like it's carving seconds off a countdown I can't see.

The weight of everything I've done - and everything I still need to do - pushes me forward harder than fear ever could.

The WICKED tower looms ahead. Half its facade has been blown open by the uprising's chaos, and there's still smoke curling out of broken windows like the building itself is trying to breathe. It's eerie, grotesque, like a corpse too stubborn to die properly.

I slow as I reach the shattered loading dock. Alarms are whining from inside - weak, glitching pulses that serve more as background noise than an active warning. Most of the guards are probably dead, scattered, or fighting battles in other corners of the city. That's my only chance.

I crouch behind a steel container, peeking into the dim corridor just ahead. Blood smears the walls. The bodies of two guards lie crumpled near a collapsed stretch of ceiling, their weapons just out of reach. My stomach lurches, but I don't hesitate. One breath in. One breath out. I rush forward and kneel beside the closest body.

There's a sidearm still holstered at his thigh.

My fingers tremble as I unclip it, the cold metal sliding into my palm like it was waiting for me. A standard-issue WICKED pistol. Loaded. I check it anyway, click the safety off, then pull it close to my chest as I slink deeper into the corridor.

The lights flicker above me, sputtering with dying electricity. I move slow now, hugging the walls, every sense on edge. I step over broken glass and twist around corners, avoiding the main walkways. The scent of burning plastic and something more bitter - chemicals, maybe - makes my eyes sting. Somewhere far off, I hear the staccato rhythm of gunfire. Another explosion rumbles through the floor beneath me. The building is wounded, but it's still alive. Still hiding secrets.

My grip tightens around the pistol.

I'm not here for vengeance. I'm not here for answers anymore. I'm here for Newt. And I won't leave without something that gives him a fighting chance.

The upper floors of the WICKED building are quieter - eerily so. The further I go, the more the chaos below becomes a dull, distant hum, replaced by the sterile stillness that defined this place even before everything went to hell.

I reach the labs. A sharp electronic buzz fills the hallway as I scan for movement. Lights flicker in broken intervals, casting long, skeletal shadows through frosted glass panels. The whole floor smells of bleach, scorched circuits, and iron-rich blood.

Then I see her and thank the little luck I have left.

Teresa.

She's in a room down the hall, hunched over a steel table beneath a lone overhead light. Her sleeves are rolled up, white coat stained with old and fresh blood. She's carefully examining a vial - red against the fluorescent blue tone of the room - and jotting something down. Nearby, a cloth soaked with blood is discarded on the metal, the edges curling like it's been sitting there too long.

I don't hesitate.

I sprint to the door, shove myself in with a bang, and slam it shut behind me. The sudden sound makes her jerk upright. "(Y/n)?" She says, stunned. Her eyes lock on mine - then drop to the pistol clutched in my hand. She straightens instinctively, guarded.