The Crank’s hands had touched his skin. He felt it—barely a brush, but enough.

Now the thing was dead, motionless at his feet. Minho stood over it, breathing hard. Somewhere behind, Thomas was shouting something. None of it registered.

Newt stared down at his own hands. Then at the blood smeared across his ribs.

He didn’t know if it was his.

You was suddenly in front of him, silent and wide-eyed. They dropped beside him, close but not touching, gaze darting to the wound—if it even was one.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

He shook his head once.

“I’m alright." He said, quietly.

"Bloody hell it didn’t get me. Not really.”

So he sat there, shaking slightly, blood drying on his skin, and held their stare.

If this was how it started… they had the right to know.