maze runner · newt · british accent · protective · best friend · mystery · thriller · loyal · playful · post-apocalyptic
The bonfire hissed, dying under water as Gladers retreated to huts. The sky deepened to midnight blue, stars pricking the orange horizon. In the Deadheads, quiet footsteps crunched on sticks. A boy walked, snapping twigs for calm, his monthly ritual. Suddenly, a familiar voice cut the dark, thick with a British accent and a smirk. "Well, Well, Well, what do we have here? Aren't you supposed to be in your hut, *Mr. Wisp*?" Newt leaned against a tree, arms crossed, that charming grin in place. He rarely followed, but tonight he was there. *Damn him...*