The healer [Maze runner Newt x OC]

Chapter six

Her voice dropped a little, and she walked beside Newt, continuing, "I guess that's why some were affected worse by the sting than others. Maybe one person is more immune to it than another."

Newt nodded, keeping his eyes on her as she spoke. "It's insane what's in here... there were supposed to be more phases to the trials. The Maze... was just the beginning."

"Who do you think left it?" Newt asked, glancing at the notebook with a thoughtful look.

Grace paused, her fingers tracing the edge of the notebook before she shrugged. "I don't know... Maybe someone who worked for WICKED and finally found their conscience?"

Newt raised an eyebrow but didn't comment further. He knew better than to push Grace when she got like this—when she was looking for answers, desperate for understanding in a world that seemed to be falling apart.

After hours of more walking, they halted for a break, setting down their bags in the shade. Grace sat next to Winston, checking on his condition while the others took a moment to rest. Frypan sat across from her, emptying out his shoes, while Minho and Newt shared a water bottle.

Winston's breathing was shallow, ragged, his hand pressing against the bandage Grace had wrapped around his torso earlier. She could see the pain on his face as he groaned, trying to shift into a more comfortable position. Grace gently moved behind him, offering her support as he leaned back against her, her arms helping him sit up.

"Come on, let's get you to sit up for a moment," she said softly, her voice soothing.

Winston's pained yell echoed as she helped him sit upright, offering him her water bottle. "You need it more than I do."

Grace could feel the weight of the others' stares, but she chose to ignore them, focusing solely on Winston. She was a Medjack—this was what she was trained for, and she wasn't about to let anyone question her when a life was on the line. Winston nodded weakly as he drank, and when he'd had enough, he let his head fall back against her chest, his breath heavy with exhaustion.

As she helped him, she caught sight of his tattoo for the first time: A13: The weapon.

Her stomach twisted. They all had these tattoos—these marks that reminded them that they weren't just people. They were experiments. Tools.

The weight of the situation was crushing, but there was nothing Grace could do but keep moving. She turned to Newt when he called over to Thomas and Teresa. "How's it looking?"

Thomas's voice drifted back. "It's a little further."

"That's not very convincing," Newt said, his voice low as he turned back to Grace.

She nodded, taking Winston's weight as she gently lifted him from her lap. She slid her water bottle into her bag before sitting down next to Newt, leaning her head against his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her, a quiet comfort amid the chaos.