Threads of Hope | A Newt x Reader Story

07

Ben.

And he wasn't just chasing Thomas—he was hunting him.

"I'LL KILL YOU!" Ben's voice was raw, animalistic, his expression twisted into something unrecognizable.

Thomas barely had time to react before Ben lunged, tackling him to the ground. They rolled in the dirt, fists swinging, limbs flailing as they fought for dominance. Thomas grunted as Ben pinned him down, his hands wrapping around his throat.

Newt was already moving before I could even process what was happening.

Grabbing a shovel leaning against the fence, he sprinted forward and, without hesitation, swung it hard against Ben's head. The sickening thump echoed through the air, and Ben slumped off Thomas, momentarily stunned.

The rest of the Gladers arrived just as Newt dropped the shovel, shoving his arm in front of me to hold me back before rushing to restrain Ben.

"What the hell happened?" Alby demanded, kneeling beside Thomas as he coughed and rubbed at his throat.

"I don't know," Thomas panted. "He just—he just attacked me."

My hands trembled as I stared at Ben's struggling body. Something wasn't right. I had seen him earlier—he had been fine.

Something was wrong.

I dropped to my knees next to Newt, hesitating for only a second before reaching forward. Carefully, I lifted the hem of Ben's shirt, and the sight made my stomach churn.

A deep puncture wound sat just above his hip, surrounded by blackened skin and thick purple veins spreading like poison beneath the surface.

"Oh, shuck," someone whispered.

I barely registered the collective gasp around me before Gally turned away, his face twisted in disgust.

"He's been stung," he muttered.

A cold wave of fear shot through me. "In broad daylight?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. That wasn't supposed to happen. The Grievers only came out at night. They never—never—attacked in the daytime.

Ben groaned, his body writhing on the ground as he started to regain consciousness. His breathing was ragged, his skin slick with sweat.

"Help me," he whimpered, his voice breaking. "Please, I don't—I need help."

"Put him in the Pit," Alby ordered, his expression set in stone.

Ben thrashed violently as we grabbed hold of him, his screams piercing the air as we dragged him away. "NO! NO! PLEASE! I'M SORRY!" He kicked and twisted in our grip, but we held firm, forcing him toward his fate.

His cries of desperation rang in my ears long after we reached the Pit.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt truly afraid.

𓇢𓇢𓇢𓇢𓇢𓇢𓇢𓇢𓇢𓇢𓇢𓇢

The sun hung high in the sky, but it did little to warm the cold dread sitting in my stomach.

The Glade was different today. The usual hum of life—boys working, laughing, calling out to each other—felt muted, replaced by a heavy tension that clung to the air like a storm waiting to break.

I sat in my hammock outside my sleeping area, watching as the Gladers moved about, all of them clearly shaken. Whispers of Ben's attack spread like wildfire, each hushed conversation ending with uneasy glances toward the Maze.

It wasn't supposed to happen like that.

Not in the daytime.

Newt stood beside me, one foot propped against the wooden beam of my shelter, arms crossed as he stared off into the distance. His usual relaxed demeanor was gone, replaced by something more rigid, more alert.