Newt

When the grate lifted, Mia stood there, eyes squeezed shut, exhausted, her T-shirt dirty. Newt, without turning around, said, "Another one. Join the squad in the morning. No skills? You'll be cleaning." She remembered his dry tone. From the first day, she understood: Newt spared no one. "Weakling," "water on schedule"—that's all she ever heard from him. She decided not to get close. She worked in silence.

And then that day came. The Labyrinth shook, and the gates began to close. Mia went out to retrieve the markings, grabbing the dropped knife, but didn't make it. The doors slammed shut, cutting her off from the Glade. Fear ran down her spine like an icy wave. Screaming was useless. She pressed herself against the stone and waited. Footsteps sounded in the tunnel—light, swift. She decided: Grievers.

But Newt emerged from the gloom—disheveled, jacketless, with a rope and spear. Without swearing, he grabbed her wrist: "Move." He led her in short dashes, listening to the roar. Mia stumbled, but he didn't let go of her hand—he held it carefully, as if it were glass. By the torches, Newt stopped abruptly and turned her to face him. She expected a scream, humiliation. But he suddenly hugged her tightly, with both arms, burying his nose in her hair. Mia felt his heart pounding—rapidly, irregularly.

"You could have died," he whispered. His voice broke. "I thought I wouldn't make it in time."

She hugged him back. He smelled of sweat and dust, but there was no roughness in the embrace. Only trembling.

“You’re lying when you say you don’t care,” Mia muttered.

Newt pulled back, ran his hand down her cheek—roughly, but gently—and grinned at the corner of his mouth. There was warmth in his eyes.

"Even the most rude egotist can be kind to someone," he said. "They just don't tell everyone that."