𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ༒ minho, tmr

thirty-five ~ uneasy ground

✵

The faint stench of mildew and rot clung to the air, mingling with the sharp tang of sweat and dust. Minho sat on the mattress with his back now against the wall, his elbows on his knees, glaring at the flickering light like it personally offended him.

 Newt hadn't moved from his chair, rubbing his temples in boredom as Frypan muttered to himself while rummaging through a ragged supply bag.

It had been hours, or it felt like it-- they had no way of knowing. Jorge had let himself out to follow Marcus around, suspecting he would try to make a run for it if he let him out of his sight for even a minute longer.

"This Right Arm thing better not be a load of klunk," Frypan muttered, pulling out a dented can of food and inspecting it. "We're puttin' everything on the line for it."

"Mmm," Newt hummed. "I don't know about you, but I haven't got much left on the line at this point. We don't have much else to go by, do we?"

Minho exhaled sharply, glaring toward the closed door. "That doesn't mean we trust this Marcus shank, though. He's shifty as hell. First chance he gets, he's selling us out to WCKD."

Frypan snorted. "Guy's only loyal to his next bottle."

Newt shook his head. "Doesn't matter. We don't need loyalty, just answers. We'll deal with him."

The conversation buzzed in the background as Londyn stirred on the mattress in the corner, a sharp ache pulling her back to the present. Her head throbbed like a drumbeat, and her stomach churned with a sickly heat. The scratchy fabric beneath her only made the discomfort worse.

"Shit," she groaned, her voice hoarse as she propped herself up on her elbows that wobbled. The light beaming through the windows stung her eyes, and she squinted against it, her head spinning back to the ground.

Minho was at her side in seconds, pulling back her hair from the sides of her face. "Londyn?" His voice was low but urgent. "You with us? Baby, can you hear me?"

His voice buzzed faintly, but Londyn wasn't listening. A pounding ache filled her head, dragging her back to reality in jolts of awareness. Her stomach churned as consciousness returned, her limbs heavy and unresponsive against the gravelly mattress beneath her. 

Groaning softly, she tried to push herself upright, but the motion sent a wave of nausea crashing through her. 

"Londyn?" Minho's voice cut through the haze at her sudden jolt, blinking at her as if it would snap her back into the room with him.

"I--" Her voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. Her head throbbed, and the moisture in her stomach surged, unbearably. She clapped a hand over her mouth, her shaky body needing to get up.

"Whoa, hey--" Minho started, but she was already scrambling off the mattress.

Her knees buckled, and she barely made it to the corner of the room before doubling over a clay pot. The contents of her stomach came up violently, her body contracting as she clutched the dusty, crumbling wall. The bitter taste burned her throat, tears springing to her eyes.

Minho shot over to her, his hand on her back, steadying her as she retched. "Easy, easy.

She gasped for air when her body finally stopped heaving, leaving her shaky and weak. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, grimacing at the bitterness that lingered. Her head still spun as the room swayed around her, but it was as if a demon had rid itself of her body all the same.

"Feel better?" Minho asked softly, his hand still resting lightly on her shoulder.

"Not even close," she croaked, her voice hoarse.