The First Runner

I'll Always Come Back

Newt POV

The morning had barely started when Chuck's panicked shout echoed through the Glade, "Guys, get up!" His voice jolted me out of what little sleep I'd managed to scrape together. I bolted upright, heart pounding as the Maze doors creaked open.

I stood frozen, staring at the yawning entrance, waiting for them to appear. But nothing. Just an empty, ominous void. My stomach dropped like a stone. "They're not coming back," I muttered to Chuck, trying to sound like I wasn't crumbling on the inside. Not today. Not ever.

I turned my back to the Maze, steeling myself when, faint at first, I heard it—the unmistakable shuffle of footsteps. My pulse skyrocketed as cheers erupted around me.

"No way!"

"They're back!"

I whipped around so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. Sure enough, there they were—Jess, Minho, and Thomas, dragging Alby through the doors, looking half-dead but alive enough to make it.

"I got him, I got him," Jeff babbled as he and Clint dashed over, the med-jacks all business as they lifted Alby's limp body and Jess, Minho, and Thomas collapsed into a heap of exhaustion.

"Careful! Easy does it," Jeff muttered as they carted Alby off, and the adrenaline that had been keeping me on my feet rushed out of me all at once.

I exhaled a shaky breath and rushed over to Jess, who all but collapsed into my arms, her body trembling like she'd run ten marathons back-to-back. She was scratched up, filthy, and her left arm hung awkwardly, her shoulder swollen to twice its normal size.

"What the bloody hell happened out there?" someone asked, his voice pitched somewhere between awe and absolute disbelief.

"How did you make it back?"

"You saw a Griever?"

"Oh, I saw one," Thomas said, sounding like he had barely any brain cells left to form words.

Minho, of course, wasn't going to let it rest at that. "Yeah, greenie didn't just see it—he killed it."

I barely registered their words; all that mattered was Jess in my arms, alive. I held her tighter, feeling the tremors of exhaustion still wracking her body.

"I thought I lost you," I whispered, my voice cracking as I buried my face in her tangled hair.

She let out a breathy, exhausted chuckle, her voice barely more than a rasp. "You didn't lose me. Told you I'm too stubborn for that."

Frypan appeared, shoving canteens into our hands, and I took one, uncapping it for Jess. "Here, drink," I said, holding it to her lips. She downed it like it was her lifeline, draining the whole thing in one go.

"She needs more than water," Minho butted in, always the bearer of brutal truths. "Her shoulder's dislocated. Bloody Griever body-slammed her, and I had to pop it back into place in the Maze."

I tensed, glancing at Jess, who gave me a weak, sarcastic smile. "Yeah, loads of fun. Definitely recommend," she muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm despite her obvious pain.

Minho rolled his eyes. "She's tougher than she looks, but Clint needs to check her shoulder before she gets any dumber ideas."

"Oi," Jess grumbled, but it was half-hearted at best.

I nodded, already scooping her up into my arms because there was no way in hell she was walking on her own. "Let's get you to Clint," I murmured, ignoring her weak protests.

"Newt, I can walk—"

"Sure, and pigs fly," I shot back, adjusting her weight. "You can barely stand. Stop being a bloody idiot."