Minho stood at the entrance of the Maze, frustrated. Surely Newt should have joined him by now. He let out an impatient rush of air, pacing the ground slowly, checking his watch. It wasn't like Newt to be late.

"Hey Minho, you'd better get going, huh? Maze isn't going to map itself," Alby commented as he strode past.

"I'm waiting for Newt," Minho replied.

Alby's expression darkened slightly. "That slinthead. Just because he's pissed off doesn't mean he gets to slack off. I'm going to have a word with him."

"I'll help." Minho volunteered, and the two stalked back to the Homestead.

"Hey Newt?" Alby yelled, as they weaved between the hammocks and other bunks.

"Put a lid on it Alby," Gally muttered as he passed, shooting them a glare, which caused Alby to raise his hands in surrender.

"You seen Newt?"

"I thought he was with you." Gally looked confused. "Isn't he supposed to be running the Maze?"

"He isn't in his bunk?"

"No."

"Does that mean he's running by himself?" Minho asked, his voice growing concerned.

"That's against our rules!" Gally exclaimed, his eyebrows drawing together even more.

"Yeah, we know. Minho, you'd better go find him." Alby's expression had turned from anger to worry, and Minho nodded in response, taking off in the direction of the Maze.

"Dumb shank," Minho muttered bitterly to himself. He had been running for 4 hours, and there was no sign of the blonde. He cast a look at his watch, swearing under his breath. The sun would go down shortly. He'd have to find the Keeper soon.

But God knows that if Newt didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be.

That's when he heard the scream.

"Grievers," Minho immediately thought, and took off running towards the direction of the sound, anguished crying echoing around the labyrinth.

"Newt! Newt!" Minho kept yelling as he sprinted through the corridors, panic fueling his energy to ten times the amount he usually had. He followed the screaming around corners and straightaways, not really conceiving where he was. Finally, he raced around a corner, and drew in a sharp intake of breath at the sight ahead of him.

Newt lay unconscious at the foot of a huge wall, a pool of blood spilled around him.

Minho skidded to a stop beside his friend, quickly assessing his injuries. He was covered in cuts and scratches, some of them an angry red against his pale skin. A small puddle of blood had pooled around his head, and his leg…

"Oh God," Minho scrambled partly away, feeling his breakfast come up in his throat at the sight of Newt's leg. His ankle was twisted completely around, and was bent in the middle of his shin and calf.

"What happened?" Minho muttered helplessly, looking for signs of a Griever struggle, but finding none, aside for Newt, of course. But what else could have happened?

Suddenly, the alarm on Minho's wristwatch beeped. 15 minutes till closing time.

"Shit," Minho let the word out in a long, slow exhale, then glanced back down at Newt. The British boy moaned something incomprehensible, and Minho sighed at what he had to do.

"C'mon Newt. Let's get you back to the Glade."

Minho picked Newt up in a fireman's carry, careful not to jostle his leg, but the movement caused the blonde's eyes to flicker open.

"M'noh?" he mumbled, wincing at the rush of pain that flashed through him.

"Shhh. It's okay. You're gonna be safe, alright?"

"Jus' leave me…" Newt moaned, and Minho tightened his grip on his friend. He couldn't have just said that.

Could he?

"Please...go."

He heard that.

But he pretended he didn't.

Minho started running.

He could hear Newt wailing from behind him, muttering incomprehensible pleads as he moaned in pain. The slurring of his words worried Minho, but not as much as being stuck out here for the night.

And so Minho ran.

Around corners, through straightaways, putting one foot in front of the other, his mind beating out a rhythm, run, run, run, run with every step. Suddenly, a deep rumbling sound echoed from around the concrete walls.

No.

Minho let out an exerted roar, and turned the last corner, rounding onto the final stretch.

"C'mon Minho!"

"You can do it!"

"Holy shuck, is that Newt?"

The cries of the Gladers beyond the rapidly closing doors didn't help the burning in Minho's legs as he stumbled down the corridor, pushing himself harder with every step.

15 feet away.

The doors were closing faster.

Minho pumped his legs harder.

10 feet away.

The crack was diminishing.

His lungs were burning, from running and screaming.

5 feet away.

3.

More.

Steps.

With a final roar, Minho dove through the miniscule crack between the doors, throwing Newt forward as he lunged onto the grass, choking and gasping on the ground.

"What happened?"

"Is Newt okay?"

"Were there Grieves?"

Minho ignored the rapid fire questions being thrown towards him, raising his head slightly to focus on Alby, who was standing a few metres back, a horror stricken expression on his face.

"Move!" he bellowed, and the surrounding Gladers scrambled away from the circle they formed around Newt. Alby crossed to Newt's side in 2 quick strides, before kneeling down beside the Keeper of the Runners. "Holy shit…" he muttered, his eyes widening at the sight of the horribly mangled leg, covered in congealed blood. "MEDJACKS!"

"Let's get a stretcher over here." Minho gestured to a couple Builders gawking at the scene, and they hurried away frightfully towards the supply tent, where they returned a few minutes later with a large board. .

"Alright, let's get 'im up," Alby pushed himself to a standing position, waving Gally and a couple others over to help him.

Newt muttered something incomprehensible, moaning, until Gally accidently knocked his leg, and he let out a scream so terrible it echoed around the whole Glade. Clint and Jeff followed the stretcher-bearers nervously towards the Medical tent, and the rest of the Gladers disbanded in disbelief, not really knowing what to do with themselves now.

"Minho."

Alby's firm voice cut into Minho's stupor.

"Yeah?" Minho's own voice sounded thick and faraway to his foggy mind.

"What happened?" Alby was curious, but asked cautiously, not wanting to remind his friend of what he witnessed.

"Grievers, I think. When I found him, he was...bleeding...his leg, all shucked up...looked dead."

"Why didn't the Grievers kill 'im?"

"Dunno." Minho shook his head. "Should we go see him?"

Alby glanced in the direction of the Medical hut. "Yeah. You okay?"

No. You didn't see him, Alby. I thought he was dead. But I think something's wrong, Alby. I just don't really think it was Grievers. But what else could it be? What else could have happened?

"Yeah." Minho said. He breathed in deeply, not speaking for a moment or two. "I'm fine."