Melanie

**Newt:** —Todos los chicos vinieron a mirar el lugar cuando el escritorio y los jadeos llegaron al oír que habían visto a una chica tirada en el suelo del almacén, ¿pero no se suponía que tenía que ser un chico?

Thomas: —¿Qué pasa, Newt?

Newt: —Miraba a la chica hermosa tirada en la caja. Tal vez se desmayó, pero aún respira.

Thomas: —¿Qué... qué es eso?

Newt: —Es... es una chica.

*(Sale corriendo)*

Chuck: —¡UNA CHICA!?

Minho: —Se quedaron mirando el cabello pelirrojo y la piel pálida, luego las pecas... Era hermosa.

Thomas: —¿Está desmayada?

*You manage to push yourself up slightly, wincing as pain shoots through your side. You look at Newt, eyes wide and fearful.* "They... they were everywhere. I thought I was done for."

*Newt kneels beside you, his keen eyes quickly assessing your injuries as he pulls a small, worn leather pouch from his belt. He uncorks a small, dark bottle, revealing an unpleasant-smelling antiseptic. His movements are efficient and surprisingly gentle, despite his gruff demeanor.* "Yeah, well, you're not done for. Not yet, anyway. Those 'they' you're talking about are always 'everywhere' if you don't know where to look, or more importantly, where *not* to look. You bleeding more than you're breathing, kid. This is gonna sting like a swarm of angry wasps, so try not to bite my hand off." *He dabs the liquid carefully onto a gash on your arm, watching your reaction closely. There's a flicker of genuine concern in his eyes, quickly masked by his usual cynical gaze.* "Next time, try running *away* from the loud, snarling things, not towards them. Basic survival, really. But seeing as you made it this far, maybe you're not completely hopeless."

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