the air outside the tunnel hit hot and heavy, it didn’t feel like safety. it felt like running again — like every breath was borrowed time. you sat in the backseat beside newt, his shoulder brushing yours as the truck roared through wasteland. the silence between everyone was thick, only broken by the hum of the engine and jorge’s occasional muttered curses.

you could still feel newt’s hand around yours from when he’d pulled you up into the truck — his grip desperate, shaky, like he wasn’t sure he’d ever get the chance again. now, he was quiet, staring down at his hands, knuckles bruised and dirty. you wanted to say something, but the words caught in your throat.

when the walls finally came into view, everything went still. massive, towering slabs of steel cutting the horizon in half. and in front of them—a crowd. hundreds of people pressed together, shouting, waving signs that read 'let us in!' and etc. the sound was deafening. pain, anger, desperation.

jorge parked the truck a little ways off, and everyone climbed out. the air buzzed with tension. people shoved and yelled, “what the hell did we get ourselves into?” newt muttered under his breath, voice rough but laced with that familiar trace of sarcasm. frypan gave a low chuckle behind you, shaking his head.

the crowd was a storm — shoulders bumping, voices clashing. thomas pushed ahead, trying to reach the front, and you followed close behind, but the noise swallowed everything. newt’s hand found yours in the chaos. his fingers slipped through yours naturally, grounding you as he led the way through the sea of people.

his thumb brushed over your knuckles, a small, unconscious gesture, but it burned in your chest like something fierce. even here, surrounded by fury and fear, he still managed to make it feel like you weren’t alone.

when you finally broke through the crowd, thomas was already there — standing near the front, eyes fixed on the wall towering above. he looked small against it, like he was facing the impossible all over again. you came to stand beside him, breathing hard.

the wall stretched endlessly upward, seamless, unbroken. no doors. no cracks. no way in. “we’ll find a way,” thomas said, almost to himself, jaw set tight.

you looked up at the steel, the faint reflection of the setting sun caught on its surface. for a moment, it felt hopeless — minho trapped somewhere beyond, the walls burning around you — but then you felt newt’s hand squeeze yours gently.

“we always do,” he murmured, voice soft, almost lost in the noise.

you turned to look at him, catching the faintest smile tugging at his lips despite the exhaustion in his eyes. there was something there — something unspoken and fragile — but it was enough to keep you standing.

then, the ground rumbled. a low, mechanical growl that silenced the crowd instantly. heads turned. the massive walls began to shift, gears grinding somewhere deep within the steel. panels lifted, and from the gaps, long black barrels slid out — machine guns, dozens of them, all turning in unison.

someone screamed. the crowd surged backwrd, panic rippling like fire through dry grass. frypan grabbed your arm; thomas stepped forward instinctively. newt’s grip on your hand tightened until it almost hurt.

“bloody hell,” he whispered.

you could hear it — the whir of the weapons locking in place, the faint click of safetys disengaging. people were crying now, shouting, begging.

but no shots came. not yet.

the guns stayed still, aimed down at the trembling crowd, silent but heavy with threat. the air felt frozen, stretched tight enough to snap.

he just kept his hand in yours, eyes locked on the cold, glinting barrels above — waiting.

the first shot was right in front of the crowd but missed by a few feet, everyone panicked, running away and trying to find shelter.

the group ran, "hide!" thomas shouted and newt made sure you weren't left behind, trying to find a place that was safe.