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Today, Newt is going to die.
The thought had been milling in his mind for so long it felt like a weight he carried with every step. It had grown quietly, relentlessly, until it could no longer be ignored. There was no hope. No plan, no miracle, no escape. The Maze had taken everything from him—the past, the memories, the illusions of control. He could no longer go on.
He said goodbye to Minho and the Runners, forcing a smile, speaking lightly, even laughing softly. For the final time. They didn’t know it, and that made it easier to pretend, easier to hide the truth. But every strong face, every laugh, every confident step from them made his chest ache. So much stronger than me. So much more worthy. They don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve to live while they do.
He made his rounds, moving from one section of the Glade to another. At Winston’s station in the Blood House, he checked that everything was orderly. Winston waved, a question in his eyes, and Newt nodded, forcing the same casual nod he had given countless times before. Over at the small cornfield, he saw Zart tending the plants. “Hey, Zart,” he said lightly.
They chatted for a while, Zart telling a joke he had thought of, related to the shape of the corn and Gally’s ears. Newt laughed a little at that and patted him on the back. It felt hollow though. He couldn’t remember the last time anything had truly amused him. This is it. This is my farewell. Nothing else matters.
Eventually, he wandered to the Deadheads, the skeletal trees in the southwest corner of the Glade. He sank onto the bench, letting the cold air sink into him, letting the dark thoughts gather. I’ve been here since the beginning. I’ve watched them die. I’ve watched myself fail. I’ve watched every day drag me closer to this, and now I can’t go on. The hours on that bench passed like minutes, each second tightening the cage around his chest.
When he rose, his legs felt leaden but purposeful. He walked toward the cemetery, the graves pressing down on him like judgment. Wooden posts, each a story, each a life he could not save.
The thoughts spun, faster, more hopeless, dragging him deeper. He kneeled at the graves.
Too many graves. Too many I should’ve saved. I’ve failed every one of them. Why am I still breathing when they’re not? I’m nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
The weight of despair pressed on him, sinking him further, dragging him into a void where the Maze, the Glade, the very air felt meaningless. Each breath was heavy with grief, each heartbeat an echo of futility. He sank into it fully, letting it consume him, letting every last shred of hope fall away.
Then, he stood. The decision was firm. The time had come. He would join them.
He walked swiftly through the Glade, ignoring greetings and calls from the other Gladers. Their voices were distant, irrelevant. He kept his eyes forward, grim, unwavering. Every step carried him closer to the place he had chosen.
On the way back from running yesterday, he had spotted it—a patch of ivy climbing up a wall. Easy enough to grasp, to pull himself along. It had lodged in his mind then, but now, it was more than a passing thought. It was the means, the method, the escape.
He left the Glade proper and entered the corridors of the Maze. His gait was hurried but steady, precise. Left, right, left again. Several more turns, every one deliberate. Finally, he came to a long stretch where thick ivy covered the walls on both sides. He stopped at the wall on the left and leaned forward, pressing his hands into the greenery. His head hung low, and for a moment he just breathed, gathering himself.
Newt scaled to the point of no return in a matter of minutes. It looked like the sky had stopped and something in his mind was telling him to stop. He climbed a couple metres higher anyway, every pull fuelled by hopelessness. Each movement was a countdown, each hold a promise that this would end. I’ve failed. I’ve failed them all. I can’t do it anymore. It’s not just my mind—I need my body to stop, too.
He paused near the top, beaten, trembling, looking at the false sky, and the weight of the world settled fully on his shoulders. A beetle blade crawled close, inches from his face, but he looked straight into it, speaking the truth.
I don’t know who you people are, but I hope you’re happy. I hope you get a real buggin’ kick out of watching us suffer. And then you can die and go to hell. This is on you.”
And then he let go. He kicked away from the wall, letting gravity claim him, letting the despair, the guilt, the hopelessness, finally end.