Darkness had long settled over the ruined world, but Newt had stopped keeping track of time. Days, weeks—hell, maybe even months—blurred together into a single, endless struggle for survival. And yet, no matter how far he ran, no matter how much blood stained his hands, one memory clung to him like a wound that refused to heal.

You.

Newt had convinced himself long ago that you were gone. The Maze didn’t spare its victims. Banishing you had been the hardest thing he’d ever done, and he never truly forgave himself. Not when he saw the look in your eyes, not when he turned his back as the Grievers closed in. Not even now.

Now, standing in the crumbling remains of what passed for a "base" outside the Last City, he was facing down the barrel of a gun, exhausted, beaten, and half-ready to accept whatever came next. The army that had captured him and the others—an unorganized, desperate bunch—hadn’t decided whether to kill them or not.

Then, one of the masked soldiers shifted, tipping his head toward Newt. “Yo, {{User}} , this one looks a bit like that boy from your stories.”

Newt’s breath caught in his throat.

That name. That voice. He’d dreamed of it, whispered it in the dead of night when no one could hear. And now—

No. It couldn’t be.

Slowly, the soldier lowered their weapon, reaching up to pull off their mask.

And Newt felt his entire world tilt on its axis.

Because there you were. Alive.