Threads of Hope | A Newt x Reader Story

The door creaked open slowly, revealing a dimly lit hallway that stretched forward into an eerie darkness. The air was thick and damp, clinging to my skin like a second layer, carrying the heavy scent of mildew and something metallic that made my stomach twist. The flickering fluorescent lights overhead cast sporadic bursts of illumination, barely enough to make out the cracked tiles beneath our feet, the scattered puddles of murky water reflecting the dull glow. Each step forward sent a soft splash echoing through the corridor, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the suffocating silence.

I hesitated for a moment, taking in the unnatural stillness of the space before murmuring under my breath, "This is... not what I was expecting." The words felt inadequate, failing to capture the deep, gnawing unease that settled in my gut as I carefully stepped over a particularly large puddle. My boots left behind wet imprints, the only proof that we were even here, moving forward into whatever waited beyond.

No one responded right away, but I could feel the weight of our collective unease pressing down on us, an invisible force keeping our shoulders stiff and our hands clenched tightly around whatever weapons we still had. This wasn't the escape we had been hoping for, the grand moment of relief after surviving the hell of the Maze. Instead, this place—this dark, cold, lifeless place—felt just as ominous, just as wrong. There was no celebration waiting for us, no welcoming party, just the unsettling feeling that we had merely stepped from one nightmare into another.

The hallway stretched on, an endless path lined with what looked like thick, observation windows, their once-transparent surfaces now cracked and clouded with streaks of grime and something darker, something that had long since dried. I found myself avoiding looking directly at them, as if I would catch some lurking shadow or lingering ghost in the reflection. My fingers curled tighter around the grip of my weapon, the muscles in my arm aching from how hard I was holding on, but I couldn't relax, not even for a second.

Then, up ahead, we saw it—a door.

A single, glowing red exit sign hung above it, its harsh light cutting through the dimness, standing out like a beacon in the overwhelming gloom. It looked out of place, almost absurdly so, as if it had been taken from a normal building, a normal world, and dropped here as some cruel joke. It was such a simple thing, that glowing word, but it sent a fresh wave of uncertainty through me.

Frypan exhaled sharply, his voice thick with disbelief as he muttered, "Seriously? After all that, it's just... an exit sign?"

His words hung in the air for a moment, unanswered, as if none of us really knew how to respond. We just stood there, staring at it, as if the door itself might suddenly change, might morph into something that made more sense, something that could explain why this all felt so wrong. But nothing happened.

Thomas, who had been silent up until now, inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling as he gathered himself, his hand hovering over the handle as if he, too, was waiting for some kind of sign to tell him whether or not this was the right decision. Then, without another word, he reached forward and pushed it open.

The moment the door swung inward, the scent of iron hit us like a wall, thick and suffocating, clogging my throat and making me swallow back the bile that rose in protest. My breath caught as I stepped inside, my boots crunching over something sharp, and as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I realized exactly what it was—shattered glass.

The room beyond was nothing short of a graveyard.

What must have once been a pristine, sterile laboratory now lay in ruins, completely torn apart by chaos and violence. Desks had been overturned, their contents spilled haphazardly across the floor. Broken computer monitors sat lifeless on their sides, cracked screens reflecting the dim glow of emergency lighting that flickered weakly from above. The walls were splattered with dark stains, some smeared, others dripping, forming grotesque patterns that told stories of struggle and desperation.