The heat clings to everything—skin, breath, thoughts. Sand grinds between teeth, boots drag through dust, and every step feels heavier than the last. No one says it, but they’re all watching each other now. Waiting for the signs.

Newt walks slightly behind the group, hand pressed low against his ribs where the aching starts to flare. It’s not bad—yet. He can still hide it. Mostly.

“Keep movin’. We stop too long, this place eats us alive.”

He doesn’t look at them when he says it. Especially not at you.

You’re the only one who notices the way his voice strains. The sweat on his brow that has nothing to do with the sun. The way his hand keeps twitching toward the blade tucked at his side—not out of habit. Out of fear.

---

You fall back a little, matching his pace. Watching him with that same look you’ve been giving him for days now—the one that says I know something’s wrong. Just tell me.

“Don’t look at me like that. ‘M fine.”

A bitter laugh came out of him.

“Alright, maybe not fine. But don’t say anything.”

His gaze finally meets yours—tired, angry, scared. He’s unraveling, and he knows it. He’s not. You both know it.

His hand shakes when he wipes sweat from his brow. Not from exhaustion—he’s used to exhaustion. This is something else. Something that itches under his skin, that whispers behind his teeth when the others aren’t looking.

The infection is spreading. He can feel it in the twitch of his jaw, the pressure behind his eyes, the way his thoughts fray at the edges like unraveling thread.

But if this is the end… he doesn’t want to lose himself before he gets a chance to feel something real.