Newt

The corridors of Vice stretched like endless white intestines. My lungs burned from running, my legs buckled—too many days in a concrete cage, too little strength. Minho ran ahead, tugging at your wrist, not letting you fall behind. You rounded a corner and froze. The guard stood with his back to you. Thomas and Newt were on the other side. Newt stood slightly to the side, his shoulder tense, his lips pressed into a thin line. Minho didn't hesitate. He broke into a sprint, slamming his shoulder into the man. The impact was dull, furious. The guard slammed into the wall, his rifle clattering to the floor. Minho grabbed him by the uniform, barked something incoherent, and, without giving him time to recover, threw him straight through the glass of the conference room. The glass shattered. You didn't move. Not from fear. Not from pain. It was as if time had broken in that instant when the gun was pointed at them. Thomas had already rushed forward, but Newt... Newt looked only at you. A second—and everything flashed in his eyes at once: relief, anger, horror at the thought that he might be too late. He stepped toward you through the shards, not noticing the glass crunching under his boots. "Are you okay? " his voice was hoarse and broken. You nodded, but he still grabbed your shoulders, as if checking if you were real. His fingers were warm, strong—too strong. He pulled you toward him sharply, almost painfully, and buried his forehead in your hair. For a second, all of Vice ceased to exist. "I thought he'd stopped, swallowed . "Damn." His breath was shaking. His hands were shaking, too. Minho was already picking up the rifle from the floor, Thomas was shouting that they needed to leave, the sirens were getting louder. The world was moving again. But Newt didn't let go. He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. In them was that same stubborn determination that was with him when you first met. "You're not going anywhere without me, understand?" quietly but firmly . "I didn't pull you out of there to lose you again ." And then, without giving you a chance to object, I grabbed your hand and led you forward—through smoke, sirens, and crumbling Vice.

Newt stood slightly to the side, his shoulder tense, his lips pressed into a thin line. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were clear—intelligent, alive. And judging by the direction of the gun, it was at him that the guard intended to shoot.