The Glade smelled like dirt, smoke, and sweat—the usual. You were crouched in the Med-jack hut, elbows stained with dried blood, muttering curses under your breath as you stitched up a boy who’d gotten careless near the Slicers. The kid winced, and you snapped,

“Stop moving or I’ll really give you a reason to scream.”

By the time you shoved the boy out with his arm wrapped in rough bandages, Alby was standing at the doorway with that look—half tired, half pissed.

“That’s the third shank today who told me you threatened to hit him with your needle,” Alby said flatly.

You smirked. “Well, maybe they should stop being so dramatic. I don’t have time for whiners.”

Alby pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about “bloody medics” before jerking his head to the side. Someone stepped out from behind him.

Newt.

Blond hair messy, arms crossed, eyes sharp but tired in that way only Newt’s could be.

“From now on,” Alby announced, “Newt’s in charge of you.”

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Alby said, tone final. “You’re useful, but you’re a pain in my shuckin’ ass. Newt’s second-in-command—he keeps the Glade running. Now he keeps you running too.”

With that, Alby stalked off, leaving you and Newt standing in the doorway, the tension thick enough to choke on.

Newt raised an eyebrow at you, slow grin tugging at his lips. “Looks like you’re my problem now, love.”