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The Last City was a lie. A prison disguised as salvation.
Newt could see it from the moment they arrived—the towering walls, the rigid oder, the gleaming towers, the streets too clean, too controled. A city untouched by the Flare—or at least, that’s what they wanted to believe.
But Newt knew better.
The Flare didn’t care about walls. It didn’t care about the soldiers patrolling the streets, or the rich hiding behind their glass towers, pretending the world hadn’t already ended.
They were all just buying time, blinding themselves to the sickness that was already at their doorsteps, and that soon would be in their veins. The rich could keep hiding behind their glass buildings, their soldiers, their illusions of control—but the world was rotting, and nothing could stop it.
The city wasn’t safe. It was condemned.
And so was he.
The thought twisted in his chest, a cruel, suffocating truth. He’d always known it could end like this—he’d seen others turn, had watched the way the Flare ate them from the inside out. He’d seen the madness in their eyes before their bodies even gave up.
He just never thought it would be him.
But it was.
The tremors had started small, just an occasional twitch in his fingers, easy enough to hide. But now—now it was worse. His body burned with an unshakable fever, his muscles ached like he’d been running for days. Sometimes he’d wake up gasping, heart racing with a panic he couldn’t name.
And the rage—God, the rage was unbearable. It gnawed at him from the inside, whispering in his head, making his skin itch like it didn’t belong to him anymore.
He was running out of time.
Newt clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. Every step through the city felt heavier, like he was walking towards something he couldn’t escape. He didn’t belong here—not with the clean streets, the people still clinging to hope.
Newt grounded his teeth, forcing himself to keep moving. He couldn’t let them see. Not yet.
He needed to be strong. For Thomas. For Minho. For all of them. If they saw him faltering, it would only make everything worse.
But the truth festered inside him, ugly and unrelenting, burning in his bones.
His death was already sentenced.
Newt felt it the moment he lost control.
It wasn’t like a switch flipping. It was slow—like water filling his lungs, drowning him from the inside.
One moment, he was listening to Thomas, trying to focus, trying to ignore the burning in his skull. The next his vision blurred, his pulse hammering in his ears.
Something inside him snapped.
Before he could stop himself, he was shoving Thomas back, his hands fisting in his jacket, slamming him against the cold, hard wall.
His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps. His body was shaking. His head felt like it was splitting apart.
And all he could feel was rage. For Teresa. Never for Tommy.
“Don’t lie to me!” His voice cracked, raw and desparate. He barely recognized it as his own. “Don’t lie to me!”
Thomas’ eyes widened, but he didn’t fight Newt like he would do with someone else. He couldn’t. And then, the anger in Newt flickered—just for a second—and reality crashed down on him.
“Sorry.” His grip loosened. His arm dropped to his sides. He took a step back, chest heaving. “Sorry.”
His hands were shaking. His mind was breaking. And he was scared. So scared. “Sorry.”
He walked away from everyone. Shame hitting him like waves. He couldn’t bare the way that everyone was looking at him.
Thomas found him.
Newt knew he would. He always did.
The city stretched below them, glowing gold in the dying light. The streets hummed with life, but it felt distant, like a world they no longer belonged to. Like it was slipping through their fingers.
Newt sat on the ledge, legs dangling over the edge, his hands gripping the concrete beside him like it was the only thing tethering him here. He heard Thomas step closer, then lower himself beside him, shoulders nearly touching. Neither of them spoke. The quiet between them felt fragile.
Newt swallowed and stared down at his hands. His fingers twitched. The tremors had gotten worse.
“Sorry about back there,” he muttered, voice rough. “Guess I can’t hide this anymore.” Slowly, he pushed up his sleeve, revealing the black veins twisting up his arm like cracks in breaking glass.
Thomas sucked in a sharp breath, his whole body going rigid. “Newt…”
Newt didn’t look at him. He couldn’t.
Thomas clenched his fists, shaking his head. “We’ll fix this,” he said first, like it was the only thing that made sense to say. Then, quickly, like a correction, “And Minho. We’ll get him back, we’ll stop WCKD. But first—” His voice wavered, and he turned to face Newt fully. “We’re gonna fix this.”
Newt let out a soft, tired chuckle. Not bitter. Just sad. He finally turned to Thomas, something gentle in his gaze despite everything. “Tommy…” His voice was quiet, like he was trying to ease a wound. “You know that’s not possible.”
Thomas shook his head, jaw tight. “No. No, I don’t know that. There has to be a way.”
Newt exhaled, then—to Thomas’s surprise—reached out and grasped his wrist. His grip was warm, steady. “I need you to listen to me,” he said, voice careful but firm. “There is no saving me.” He gave Thomas’s arm the faintest squeeze. “And that’s okay.”
Thomas’s throat closed. He turned his face away, like if he didn’t look at Newt, this wouldn’t be real. But Newt just gave a small, knowing smile.
“You still think you can fix everything, don’t you?” He glanced toward the city, watching the people below move about their lives. “This place… they think they’ve outrun it. But they haven’t. They’re just postponing something that’s already coming.” He looked back at Thomas. “You can stop WCKD. You can save Minho. But you can’t save me.”
Thomas’s breath hitched. He shook his head, his whole body tense, but Newt just huffed softly, staring down at the streets again.
Then, after a long silence, Newt spoke again.
“You know… back in the Maze, I tried to off myself.”
Thomas froze.
Newt let out a dry, humorless laugh, rubbing his hands together, like grounding himself in the memory. “Climbed to the top of the bloody wall. Figured that was it.” He paused, voice going quiet. “But I survived.” He flexed his leg slightly. “Broke this instead. The pain was unbearable. And for weeks, I kept thinking—this is it. The pain’s gonna do me in.”
He hesitated, then, without looking at Thomas, he whispered, “I’ve never told anyone that before.”
Thomas’s chest ached.
Newt took a slow breath, like it was a confession he never expected to make. “I wanted to die then. More than anything.” He turned to Thomas, and for the first time since all of this started, he let himself be seen.
Thomas didn’t say anything. He just reached out, pressing a careful hand over Newt’s knee. His thumb brushed against the fabric there, grounding. Gentle.
Newt inhaled sharply. Then, in a voice so quiet Thomas almost didn’t hear it, he whispered,
“I don’t want to die.”
It was the first time he’d let himself say it out loud.
Thomas closed his eyes for half a second, the words hitting him harder than he could handle.
“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” Newt let out a shaky laugh. “How things change?”
And it was ironic, really. Because there was a time when all he had wanted was to die. But now, he wanted more time. He wanted to see the sun rise agin without fear clawing at his chest. He wanted to laugh with Minho one more time, to roll his eyes at Frypan’s terrible jokes, to keep following Tommy everywhere.
Thomas didn’t think. He just moved, grabbing Newt’s wrist, gripping it tight. Newt didn’t pull away. He just stared down at their hands, at the way Thomas was holding onto him like he wasn’t ready to let go.
“I’m not gonna let you die,” Thomas said, voice raw, breaking. “I promise.”
Newt let out a slow breath, then—just barely—squeezed his hand back. “Don’t promise me that, Tommy.”
He wanted to fight, too.
But he knew he couldn’t.
The Flare was stronger.
Newt swallowed, forcing himself to meet Thomas’ eyes. “Promise me that you aren’t gonna let me become one of them.”
Thomas’ expression twisted, his lips parting like he was about to argue, but he didn’t. “Okay. I promise.” He said instead, tightning his grip on Newt’s hand like he would disappear as soon as he let go.
The Last City was crambling.
Smoke choked the sky, thick and black, swallowing the stars in a haze of destruction. Screams tore through the streets, desperate and raw, blending with the guttural shrieks of Lawrence and his people as they tore into whatever was left. Buildings crumbled, fires roared, and the air reeked of death.
It was over.
Newt knew it.
His body ached, every muscle trembling with exhaustion, but it was nothing compared to the war raging inside his head. The Flare had sunk its claws deep into him now, festering, spreading, dragging him down into a darkness he couldn’t fight. Every second, he felt himself slipping further, losing pieces of himself to something monstrous, something that wasn’t him.
And he was so, so scared.
He sat on the cold ground, his back against a crumbling wall, head resting against the rough brick, chest heaving, his vision flickering between reality and something far worse—visions of blood, of tearing, of hunger. His fingers twitched involuntarily, curling into claws before he forced them still. He couldn’t let this happen. He wouldn’t let this happen.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since Thomas and him were left alone, but it couldn’t have been long. A few minutes? An hour? He didn’t remember.
He was forgetting everything.
Newt squeezed his eyes shut, his pulse pounding against his skull. He knew Tommy was frantic, searching, looking for reassurance that he was, in fact, alive.
He forced his eyes open.
Thomas was crouched in front of him, watching him like he was afraid to blink, like if he looked away for even a second, Newt would disappear. His face was streaked with dirt, his clothes torn, but none of that mattered. The only thing Newt saw was the look in his eyes—pleading, desperate.
Newt couldn’t take it.
“Tommy…” His voice came out strangled, barely more than a rasp, but Thomas heard him. His head snapped to meet his gaze, and the relief in his eyes was immediate, devastating.
“Newt! Newt, we need to get out of here. We—”
“No.” Newt held up a shaking hand, stopping him. His chest rose and fell in sharp, ragged breaths. “No, Tommy, listen to me.”
Thomas hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Newt, what—”
Newt’s whole body trembled as he reached into his jacket, his fingers fumbling with the pouch around his neck. He yanked it free, his grip tightening around the crumpled piece of paper inside.
This was it.
There was no more running. No more hope. Just this.
He shoved the necklace into Thomas’s hands, his fingers lingering for a second, clutching at him like he could somehow make him understand without saying the words out loud.
“Take it,” he choked out. “Please.”
Thomas stared at the necklace, his throat bobbing. “Newt, what—”
“Just take it.” Newt snapped, voice breaking. His grip tightened around Thomas’s fingers, forcing the necklace into his palm.
Thomas sucked a breath at the raw desperation in his tone, his entire body tensing. Then, slowly, he curled his fingers around it.
Newt let go.
The cold air rushed against his bare skin where Thomas’ hand had been, and suddenly, it felt real. Too real.
His hands clenched into fists against his knees.
Newt swallowed hard. “Read it when I’m gone.”
Thomas’s breath hitched. He shook his head, panic creeping into his expression. “No. No, you’re not—”
“Promise me.”
Newt’s voice cracked on the words, his chest heaving. His mind was slipping, spiraling, the Flare twisting his thoughts, but this—this was still his.
The sounds of the Last Town’s destruction raged around them—gunfire, explosions, the distant howls of the infected—but none of it mattered. Not anymore.
Thomas looked shattered, but he nodded. “Okay,” he whispered. “I promise.”
Newt exhaled shakily.
Something inside him loosened, just a little.
He looked at Thomas, really looked at him, memorizing every detail—his wide, worried eyes, the way his brow furrowed just slightly, the way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.
But the moment was shattered when chaos crashed back in. Newt let out a shuddering exhale, something splintering inside him.
He couldn’t do this.
He couldn’t do this.
His hands shot up to his head, fingers curling into his hair as he squeezed his eyes shut. His own mind felt like a cage, too small, too tight, closing in on itself. His pulse roared in his ears, and suddenly, the weight of everything was unbearable.
He let out a strangled noise, something like a growl, something wrong.
Thomas shifted closer, reaching out. “Newt—”
“Don’t,” Newt choked, yanking away. His breath came sharp and fast, his hands trembling so hard it hurt. “Don’t touch me.”
Thomas flinched but didn’t move back. His eyes were filled with tears.
Newt could feel it slipping again, the sickness pressing in, twisting through his veins, whispering in his skull. He gritted his teeth, forcing his gaze back to Thomas.
“I need you to go.” The words tasted like blood in his mouth. “Now.”
Thomas just stared at him. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his chest rising and falling too fast, but he didn’t move.
And that was his mistake.
Newt felt it happen before he even realized what he was doing. A split-second shift inside him, something primal and uncontrollable surging forward, and suddenly—his body wasn't his own.
His fingers curled into fists.
His vision darkened.
His breathing turned to a snarl.
His body lurched forward.
And then—
The world blurred at the edges, colors bleeding into one another as Newt’s grip tightened around Thomas’s throat. His breath came ragged, chest heaving with an agony that was more than just physical. The Flare was winning. His mind was no longer his own—rage, pain, and desperation twisted inside him, making his hands act before he could think.
Thomas struggled beneath him, gasping, his fingers clawing weakly at Newt’s wrist. His eyes were wide, pleading, but Newt couldn’t stop. His body refused.
Then—something.
A pressure on his wrist. Gentle, rhythmic taps against his burning skin.
Newt barely noticed at first, too lost in the fire raging in his veins. But then it happened again. A pause. Another sequence. It wasn’t random. It was deliberate.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Pause.
Tap.
Pause.
Tap. Tap.
His mind, fractured as it was, clung to something familiar. Morse code.
Newt’s grip faltered slightly.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap. Pause. Tap. Tap.
The realization hit him like a bullet to the chest. His breath caught, and his vision sharpened just enough to see the raw desperation in Thomas’s gaze.
I love you.
Newt’s world stilled. The chaos in his head didn’t vanish, but it dulled—just for a moment. Just long enough.
He let go.
Thomas sucked in a choked breath, coughing as he scrambled back, rubbing at his throat. The look in his eyes was desperate, raw, like he had already accepted his death but couldn’t bear to go without at least a part of Newt knowing his true feelings. Newt stared at his own shaking hands, the hands that had nearly—
No.
He clenched them into fists, nails digging into his palms as he forced himself to focus. The Flare was still there, still waiting to consume him, but Thomas’s touch had cut through the madness, if only for a second.
And in that second, Newt felt clarity.
“I love you too,” he whispered, voice trembling, barely more than a breath. His vision blurred—not with the sickness, not with rage, but with something far worse.
Thomas’s eyes widened, something shattering in them. He looked so broken, so helpless, and Newt hated it. Hated himself.
“Please.” His voice cracked. “Kill me.”
Thomas flinched, shaking his head, lips parting in protest. But there was no time, no choice. Newt grabbed Thomas’s hand, pressing it against the gun.
“Please, Tommy, please.” His voice was so small, so tired. “I can’t—” His breath hitched. “I can’t be this.”
The moment stretched between them, unbearable, suffocating.
Thomas’s hands shook violently as he wrapped them around the gun. He could barely see through the tears burning his eyes, barely breathe past the lump choking him. Every part of him screamed no, no, no, I can’t, I won’t, but there was no escaping this.
Newt was looking at him, pleading, and Thomas knew—he knew—this was the only mercy left.
His fingers curled around the trigger.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Then—
A gunshot.
The sound shattered the air, louder than anything Thomas had ever heard. It echoed inside his skull, tearing through him with the force of a thousand knives.
Newt’s body jerked, a sharp breath leaving him before he crumpled forward, collapsing into Thomas’s arms.
Thomas caught him instinctively, sinking to the ground with him, his hands pressing against Newt’s back like he could hold him together, like he could stop this from happening. But it was already too late.
Newt’s weight slumped against him, too heavy, too still. His breath shuddered, faltering, fading.
And then—nothing.
Thomas didn’t move. Couldn’t.
His ears were ringing. His hands were slick with blood. His entire body trembled, a hollow, suffocating numbness spreading through his chest.
Newt was gone.
And with him, everything.
A broken sound tore from Thomas’s throat, something between a sob and a gasp. His fingers curled into Newt’s jacket, clutching him, shaking him.
“Newt,” he choked out. “Please, no—”
His voice cracked, shattered, lost beneath the howling emptiness inside him.
His best friend. His love. His Newt.
Gone.
Thomas pressed his forehead against Newt’s, tears spilling down his cheeks. His entire body ached, his lungs screamed, but he barely felt it. Nothing mattered anymore.
Nothing at all.