The healer [Maze runner Newt x OC]

Epilogue

"Stay close, and please be careful." Newt cupped Grace's face in his hands, his eyes searching hers with a mixture of fear and concern. Grace nodded, her heart hammering in her chest. She leaned up, pressing a brief kiss to his lips, a silent promise to fight and survive. She pulled her machete from its holster, steeling herself as the Grievers drew closer.

The Gladers charged into the fray, weapons raised, fighting for their lives. Thomas yelled something to Minho, but Grace could barely hear him over the screeching of Grievers and the chaos of battle.

"Make a path for Tommy and the girl!" Newt shouted, rallying the others. Grace fought alongside him, hacking at the Grievers that came too close. Her ponytail came loose, strands of hair falling across her face as she swung her machete, every movement a blur of desperation. The battle raged around them—screams, the sounds of impact, the sickening thuds of bodies hitting the ground. Grace's stomach twisted as she saw some Gladers thrown off the edges of the long corridor, their screams fading into nothing as they likely plummeted to their deaths.

Her mind raced, but she couldn't afford to think too much. Focus. Survive.

She jumped out of the way of a Griever's stinger as it came at her with deadly precision. Rolling to the side, Grace was pulled back onto her feet by Frypan. He barely spared her a glance before running back into the fray. Chuck and Teresa pushed forward with the key, desperation in their eyes.

"Thomas! There's a code! Eight numbers!" Chuck's voice was barely audible above the chaos, but his words cut through the madness like a beacon of hope.

Grace pushed herself through the fight, but a Griever's massive claw shot out and grabbed her waist, yanking her off balance. A sharp gasp escaped her as the creature's grip tightened, and she was dragged toward it. Her vision swam with panic, but before the Griever could take her, Newt sliced its arm clean off with his machete. Grace hit the ground harshly, but Newt was there, pulling her up. His face was set in grim determination as he scanned the surroundings.

"Minho! What's the sequence?" Newt called out, but the moment he spoke, a Griever leaped at Minho, knocking him down. The creature's sharp spikes scraped along his body.

"Seven, one, five, two, six, four—" Minho shouted, but he was cut off by the Griever pinning him to the ground.

Grace's chest tightened as she saw the chaos unfolding, but it was a new scream that caught her attention. She turned just in time to see Jeff rush toward her, trying to fight his way through the Grievers. Then, from behind, another Griever lunged at him, its claws sinking into his back. Grace's heart dropped as she saw him thrown off the edge, his scream echoing in the air before silence followed.

"Jeff!" she shouted, the sound of his name lost to the noise of battle. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she couldn't afford to mourn. Not now.

Newt was at her side in an instant, pulling her away from the cliff's edge as another Griever bore down on them. She fought back, but the creature's sharp claws scraped dangerously close. With a roar, Newt swung his machete and slashed at the Griever's arm. It screeched in pain, staggering back. But as it lunged again, it suddenly collapsed to the ground, unmoving. All around them, the Grievers fell, as if someone had pulled the plug on a machine.

Silence descended over the battlefield, and Grace stood there, panting, her heart still racing. She felt disoriented, like the world around her had just shifted into a new, terrifying reality. Her eyes scanned the long tunnel ahead, and she saw the final, gruesome confirmation. "They did it," she whispered under her breath, almost in disbelief.

Newt caught Grace as she slid down into the griever hold, landing in his arms as she looked around. Newt caught her in his arms, cradling her against his chest. She looked around, her mind still reeling from the carnage. Frypan, Winston, and the other Gladers followed closely behind. Minho quickly counted the remaining Gladers. Twenty-one. That meant twenty of them had died.