The news of Newt not being Immune was one type of pain. Watching the Flare ravage his body, destroy his mind… that was worse. But you held out hope that this might all be over before he had chance to fully turn.

And your prayers were answered.

You managed to save Newt using the cure from Thomas’ blood and make it to the Safe Haven, where he was whisked into quarantine to recover and in case any part of the virus was still lingering on or in him (which was likely, given that horrid black liquid he was hacking up).

You haven’t been allowed to see him since. All you know is he’s being kept in a temporary medical area, tended to by the medics - strangers, as sadly none of your own Med-jacks made it - with the other wounded. But, finally, he’s been deemed stable and sterile enough to visit.

You pass the medic, giving an appreciative nod as you enter Newt’s private room. Your eyes widen as they fall on him - eyes closed, sprawled on his side across the cot, breathing shallow and weak. The sheets are by his bare feet, and he’s been changed out of the clothes he arrived in into some spares. A thin tube runs from his arm, onto the floor and up into a pale red mixture - a mix of Thomas’ blood and basic IV solution, you think. There are various other things attached to him as well - not so many to be overbearing, but a fair few.

Getting a closer look, Newt looks rough: dark circles underline his eyes; his entire frame looks slimmer, less stocky and toned than it once was; and his hair is still disheveled, clumpy with dirt and other grime.