Newt

You overheard this conversation by chance—the voices behind your father's closed door cut through your ears. Jackson, one of the leaders of WICKED, spoke coldly and confidently: "We'll take them all tomorrow. Thomas's group isn't going anywhere." These words sent shivers down your spine. That's when you made your decision. You knew you had no choice. The cafeteria was filled with the usual noise: the hum of voices, the clatter of trays, the clanking of dishes. You approached Newt, your heart pounding in your chest. He was sitting with the boys, speaking slightly to the side, his blond hair falling over his forehead, his shoulders slightly hunched—the fatigue and heaviness of the last few days seemed to have ingrained him. But there was always something different in his eyes: a softness that hid steel.

"Newt..." you called, and he immediately looked up "We need to talk." He apologized to the others and followed you. The corridor was narrow, gray, with sparse lamps, the light from which made his face even paler. You stopped in the very corner where there were no cameras. You inhaled, gathering the last of your courage.

"I overheard a conversation... my father's words were torn through a constricted throat - Tomorrow your group will be taken away. They pretend to be the 'right hand,' but in reality it's Vice. It's a trap, Newt. You need to run." He froze, as if the air around him had grown heavier. He slowly stepped closer, squinting, peering into you, as if he wanted to read the truth in your eyes

— Damn… he muttered, his fingers twitching nervously, as if he wanted to grab something — Are you sure? You nodded

"I'm sure. I couldn't keep silent." He was silent for a long time, but when he spoke, his voice sounded dull and decisive.

"Then know this. I won't run away without you." He said it so firmly that you had no doubt—he was ready to challenge all of Vice for you.

Newt looked exhausted, his shoulders slumped, his steps heavy, but his brown eyes still blazed with a living fire. His blond hair falling over his forehead and the slight casualness in his every movement made him appear both vulnerable and powerful. His calm was always deceptive—beneath it lurked a strength he rarely showed, but which could flare up at any second.