Threads of Hope | A Newt x Reader Story

The first thing I noticed was the quiet.

The kind of stillness that only comes when the world is just waking up. The camp was dark, save for the faint glow of embers from the dying bonfire. The wind had died down overnight, and the air was cool—crisp, but not uncomfortably so.

I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders, shivering slightly, still lost in the haze of sleep when I heard the familiar sound of footsteps crunching through the dirt.

A shadow moved toward me.

"Time to wake up, Greenie," Minho's voice cut through the silence, low and teasing.

I blinked groggily, squinting against the dim light as I rubbed my eyes. "Minho, it's still dark out."

He grinned, his teeth flashing in the low light. "You're a Runner now. And we don't sleep in." He crouched down beside me, his hands already moving to pull my blanket off.

"No, no—" I protested, half-laughing as I quickly yanked it back. "Five more minutes..."

Minho chuckled, unbothered. "You can sleep after you've run your first Maze." He tossed a small bundle of cloth into my lap. "Get dressed. I'm not waiting all day."

Groaning, I sat up, still half-asleep, but the weight of the conversation—what it meant—finally settled into my bones. Today. I was really doing this.

I stood up, shaking off the remnants of sleep, and grabbed the clothes Minho had given me. The standard Runner gear: lightweight, flexible pants and a fitted top, combat boots and gloves, buckled straps for my torso, made for mobility, and finally a thigh holster. I pulled them on quickly, my hands still not quite awake enough to be steady, but I couldn't help the flutter in my chest.

Running the Maze.

When I stood up, Minho was already pulling out a small pack of supplies—water, a knife, a few rations, and some rope. His expression was serious now, businesslike, but there was an edge of excitement underneath it all.

"You've got a lot to learn," he said as he handed me the pack, adjusting the straps over my shoulders. "This isn't just about being fast. You need to learn the Maze. What's inside it. The patterns. The walls." He looked me in the eye then, like he was assessing something in me. "And, trust me, it's not easy. You ready for this?" 

I swallowed, moving the knife to the holster on my mid thigh. My heart was racing, but not from fear. From anticipation. "I'm ready."

He didn't say anything else but turned to lead the way.

I followed him, trying to keep my steps in time with his. We passed through the main camp, now waking up with the sounds of voices and the clang of metal tools. Most of the Gladers were starting their work for the day, but there was a nervous energy around me. Some of them had seen me running the night before, but running in the Maze—facing the danger head-on—was a different beast entirely.

Minho led me to the heart of the Glade, past the large clearing that marked the center of camp, toward the far side where a narrow, winding path cut through the trees.

"Here we are," he said, stopping in front of a tall, steel door, set against a wall of stone.

The Map Room.

It was a small, inconspicuous building—nothing fancy—but it was everything to a Runner. Inside was a table, a maze prototype meticulosity built on top. 

Minho led me in, motioning for me to take a look around. The walls were lined with maps—hand-drawn by the Runners who had been here before, constantly updated after each expedition. I stepped closer, my eyes scanning the detailed grid, the shifting walls of the Maze, the paths that were sometimes open and sometimes blocked.