The healer [Maze runner Newt x OC]

The first rays of dawn painted the Glade in muted tones as the West Door creaked open at 6 a.m., the grinding of stone against stone rousing the sleeping Gladers. Grace stirred, curled tightly against Newt's side, his arm draped protectively around her waist. The chill of the night still lingered in the air as she rubbed her eyes, gently shaking Newt awake.

"Newt, wake up," she murmured, her voice thick with sleep but laced with urgency.

Newt sat up groggily, blinking as he peered into the now-open corridor. His face darkened as he let out a sigh. "Told you, Chuck," he said quietly, his voice resigned. "They're not coming back."

He pulled Grace closer, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her head, his gesture more of comfort for himself than for her. Around them, other Gladers began to stir, the weight of his words settling over the group like a heavy fog. Slowly, many began to walk away, shoulders slumped in defeat.

But then, Zart's voice broke through the stillness, filled with disbelief. "No way."

The murmurs stopped. Heads whipped toward the corridor, where two figures stumbled into view.

"Yeah! Yes!" Chuck's cheer rang out, shattering the tension. Grace's heart leaped as she sprang to her feet, rushing toward the group.

Jeff and Clint were already moving as well, their Medjack instincts kicking in. Grace reached Minho and Thomas just as Alby's limp body began to tilt dangerously. She and Jeff quickly took his weight, easing him to the ground.

"We've got him," Grace assured Minho, her voice steady despite her racing pulse. "We've got him!"

Clint knelt beside them, already assessing Alby's injuries. His fingers pressed against Alby's neck, searching for a pulse as Grace hovered close, ready to assist.

"What happened out there?" Jeff asked, his eyes darting between the unconscious Alby and Minho's exhausted face.

"How did you guys make it out?" someone else asked.

"You saw a Griever?" Chuck's voice was high-pitched with fear and excitement as he stepped closer.

Grace's eyes flicked to Minho, taking in his scraped hands and hollow stare. He looked like he'd been through hell, and Thomas wasn't much better.

Thomas nodded, his voice hoarse but steady. "Yeah, I saw one."

Minho straightened slightly, the weight of his words landing hard on the group. "He didn't just see it," he said, his voice low but filled with something like awe. "He killed it."

The crowd erupted into gasps and exclamations, but Grace barely registered the noise. Her focus was on Minho and Thomas, the gravity of what they had faced weighing heavily on her chest.

As the chaos of Alby's return died down and the Gladers dispersed, Grace caught sight of Newt and Minho heading toward the Homestead, their expressions grim with determination. She jogged to catch up, weaving through the dispersing crowd.

"Hey, wait up!" she called, breathless as she reached them. "What's going on?"

Newt glanced back at her, his face set in a rare mix of exhaustion and resolve. "Keeper's Gathering," he said shortly. "Minho's gonna explain what happened."

Minho gave her a tired nod, his face streaked with dirt and his voice gruff. "It's gonna be a long one, Grace."

Grace frowned, walking alongside them. "You think they'll believe you? About the Griever? About Thomas?"

Newt ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "They'll bloody well have to. Minho's not one to spin tall tales." He cast a sidelong glance at her, his expression softening slightly. "You're not a Keeper, love. You can't come in."