TMR - Thomas x X-reader fanfiction

Chapter Twenty-Five

3. person POV

The chill of the Maze seemed deeper that night, the air heavy with an unspoken tension. The group had retreated to their temporary haven, a crumbling alcove they'd stumbled upon after the griever encounter. Even with walls surrounding them, the silence outside was loud, like the Maze itself was holding its breath.

Thomas sat cross-legged by the dim light of their makeshift lamp, his thoughts circling like vultures over a carcass. Y/N's exhaustion was evident, though she'd insisted she was fine. Her laughter from earlier still echoed faintly in his mind—forced, thin, unlike the Y/N he knew. He glanced her way, catching her staring at the vein-like lines on her arms that had faded to a dull gray but refused to disappear entirely.

"You should rest," Thomas murmured, his voice soft but firm.

Y/N looked up, startled, as if she'd forgotten he was there. "I'm fine," she replied, the words automatic.

"Y/N." His tone was sharper now, cutting through her protest. "Please."

She sighed, her shoulders dropping, and leaned back against the cool stone wall. "I can't stop thinking about it," she admitted after a long pause. "That griever—it didn't just look at me. It... recognized me. Like it knew me." Her voice wavered, betraying a fear she rarely let show.

Thomas frowned, the image of the griever's retreat etched in his mind. "We've seen strange things here, but that..." He shook his head. "That was different."

Minho, who had been pacing nearby, finally broke his silence. "We've been running this Maze for what feels like forever, and now you're telling me these things might actually know us?" His voice dripped with frustration, though his eyes betrayed unease. "Great. Just bloody great."

Newt, seated beside Y/N, rested a hand on her shoulder. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out," he said, his voice steady, grounding. "We always do."

The words hung in the air, a fragile promise.

Y/N's mind drifted, unbidden, back to the cave—her secret refuge before everything spiraled. The maps she'd drawn, the symbols she couldn't decipher, the whispers of visions she hadn't dared to share with anyone but Thomas. Those moments felt distant now, yet the weight of them pressed heavily on her chest.

And then there was Randall—the man in her vision, or was it more than that? His voice was like an itch she couldn't scratch, a thread connecting her to a past she didn't remember but couldn't ignore.

"You don't belong here," he had said.

What did he mean? And why did it feel like her presence in the Maze was more than a cruel experiment?

"Y/N?" Newt's voice pulled her back.

"Hm?" She blinked, trying to mask the turmoil behind her eyes.

"You drifted off again," he said gently.

Before she could respond, a faint clicking sound echoed through the corridor. It was distant but unmistakable. Everyone froze, their breath caught in their throats.

"Grievers?" Chuck whispered, clutching a pipe too big for his small hands.

Minho shook his head, his jaw tightening. "Too light. Grievers are heavier than that."

Thomas rose to his feet, signaling for silence. They waited, the seconds stretching into an eternity. Then, the clicking stopped.

"Could be WICKED," Winston muttered, earning a sharp look from Minho.

"Whatever it is, we need to move," Thomas said, his voice low. "Staying here isn't safe anymore."

Y/N nodded, though her mind was elsewhere, replaying the faint sound. It wasn't just a noise—it was a pattern, like Morse code. She glanced at Thomas, hesitating before speaking.