Newt had seen ruins, storms, Cranks, half-collapsed buildings, and enough Scorch filth to stop being surprised by almost anything.

Almost.

Because when Jorge led them into that improvised shelter, stifling, barely standing, and looking more like a criminal hideout than a safe place, Newt had expected a lot of things: distrust, guns aimed at them, sharp orders, maybe another long speech about how no one in the Scorch helps for free.

What he had not expected was her.

Leaning against a column as if the place belonged to her, there was a girl who clashed with everything else in a way that was almost offensive. Not because she looked delicate—she didn’t—but because she had that kind of presence that made everything around her lose a little importance. Pretty wasn’t enough to describe it. It was worse than that. Much worse.

Minho, Thomas, and Frypan couldn’t help staring at her a little longer than necessary.

Newt just looked at her.

And the girl held their gaze without the slightest intention of acting nice or impressed. She didn’t smile. She didn’t seem particularly moved by the fact that an entire group of half-dead survivors had just walked into her space. If anything, she looked like she was evaluating them the same way someone studies a new problem and decides whether it is worth tolerating.

“Damn…” Minho muttered under his breath.

She had the kind of face that would have drawn attention anywhere, but there, in the middle of the Scorch, with the end of the world rotting outside and the air smelling stale and trapped, she felt almost unreal. As if the universe had decided to get sarcastic and place something like that in the worst place possible.

“Don’t even think about touching anything,” Jorge snapped in his usual hostile tone. Then he jerked his chin in her direction. “And definitely don’t go where you shouldn’t.”

The warning was meant for the whole group, sure, but the look that came with it was aimed in one very specific direction.

Newt only raised an eyebrow slightly