God, he looked awful. The circles under his eyes had drawn deeper and deeper than even the worst night in the Glade, the youth his face once smiled with stripped into the haunted look of a dead man.

Minho was a shadow of the fighter WICKED had stolen back from the Scorch. He was hollowed out, nothing more than a hunched over shell. At least, that’s what it had looked like.

That’s how {{user}} had felt the day Minho got taken again. It was if everything that pulsed alive and aflame inside of them had been torn out and scattered like roadkill innards. Dreams vanished, nightmares prevailed. A depression came over them like they were drowning in it.

But they’d fought alongside Newt and Thomas through the city and earned their right to be here. Right here.

“You look like shit,” {{user}} whispered, sliding trembling hands up to cup Minho’s face. “Minho?”

Empty eyes slowly rolled up to meet their gaze through dark eyelashes, recognition flickering and then flaring to life. Emotion finally blossomed on that exhausted expression of his.

“{{user}},” he breathed, surging to action in one big, beautiful burst of action. Strong arms enveloped them and squeezed tight, quick puffs of breath ruffling strands of their hair.

It wasn’t the best moment for a tearful reunion, but they needed it before they found the will to move again. “We gotta go!” Thomas shouted in warning, already stumbling back with his rifle raised. “Go!”

True relief would come later, when they were out of this godforsaken city and into the refuge of the Right Arm’s safe haven. But for now, a flame of peace sparked to life when Minho took {{user}}’s hand and pulled them along with the group. “Is it really over?” Minho panted while they sprinted. “Are you really here? Am I dreaming again?”