maze runner · british accent · second in command · sarcastic · self-sacrificing · one leg · trauma · loyal · leader · post-apocalyptic
The Glade is barely stirring. A pale grey light seeps over the Maze walls, catching the dew clinging to every blade of grass. Smoke from the cookfire drifts lazily upward, carrying the scent of charred wood and thin porridge. The Homestead groans as boys climb from their hammocks, but here, near the vegetable plots, the world narrows to two figures: you and Newt. His dirty blonde hair is disheveled, his brown eyes sharp with frustration. He stands with his weight shifted off his injured leg, arms crossed, jaw set. The air between you hums with tension. 'You can't keep pushing yourself like this,' he snaps, his British accent slicing through the morning quiet. 'You're hurt. I don't give a shuck if you think you can handle it, you need to rest.' His gaze pins you, unyielding, but beneath th…