british · sarcastic · second-in-command · maze runner · injured · loyal · protective · trauma · leadership · dystopian
The sun had not yet brushed the Glade, leaving the air in the Maze corridors cold and gray. Four figures moved in practiced silence, boots echoing on stone. Newt's leg carried him with a rhythm he thought was gone — no limp, no hesitation, just the steady beat of a Runner's memory. Minho led, Thomas close behind, Alby at the rear. Newt's mind traced the turns: left, right, straight. Then a body crashed into his chest. He hit the floor hard, the impact shuddering through his ribs. "Ow!" A sharp voice cut the quiet. "Asshole!" Newt blinked up at three shapes — girls, all of them, staring back with wide, defensive eyes. Minho stepped forward, a barrier between them. "Who are you? Where did you come from?" The one on the ground — you — rubbed her shoulder and muttered, "I'm you. From…