Newt x Reader || A13

I punch the wall.

Hard.

No dent. Not even a sound but for my gasp of pain.

I shriek.

Another punch. Harder this time.

And another. For each miserable, failed attempt.

For each time I got caught.

For each time the door I broke down wasn't his. For each time his name left my lips, a scream of longing for my brother, lost in this damned compound. Taken from me.

My knuckle cracks, skin tearing against the abrasive surface, but I barely hear it. I barely feel it.

A streak of blood appears on the striking white.

Good. They'll know I was here and not in that dreadful lab.

I raise my hand again, tears blurring my sight.

I barely hear the footsteps approaching me through the threshold of the broken door as I bring my fist down again with all my might.

A howl of pain escapes my lips as I watch a deeper crimson stain the wall.

A virginal white, smeared with imperfection.

The footsteps halt behind me. I stop, not bothering to turn around as I wipe my knuckles on my shirt.

"Tell her I'll show myself back." I hiss, almost spitting as I brace myself for their arms on my body as they drag me back.

I count four breaths. Five, before turning around.

To my surprise, it's not the men. Not her cronies.

A boy stands before me.

He wears a loose white shirt and brown slacks. Standard clothing: he's one of the subjects.

His dirt blonde hair is unkept, hanging over his forehead and sticking up in some places.

I turn away, curling my raw fingers as I again brace myself, but this time, for an onslaught of questions, or worse: a persistent reassurance from no more than a stranger.

It never comes. I stare at my hand, two drops of crimson blood falling to the white floor. A minute passes, maybe two.

Exhaling, I turn back towards the door to find the boy in the same position, head tilted as he stares at me. His eyes are are pools of liquid brown, a mix of pity and confusion swimming below the surface.

But he doesn't ask. He doesn't ask what it is I'm doing in the middle of the night punching a wall as the rest of WCKD sleeps. And I don't question him, either.

I watch, ready on the balls of my feet , as his hand moves to his pants. I'm ready to bolt if need be, but from his pocket, he procures a simple handkerchief, offering it to me without a word.