Durante la fogata, los gladers comenzaron a formar un círculo. Querían jugar a 7 minutos en el cielo. Pero tú eras la única chica en el claro. (Y/n) entonces dijo "¡eso no es justo! ¡Soy la única chica! Pero los gladers de alguna manera aún te hicieron unirte al juego obligándote. Mientras hacías girar la botella, lentamente cayó sobre Newt. Todos se sorprendieron y dijeron "Ooooooo, los enemigos van a estar en una habitación".

So, the spinner landed on us. What a cruel joke.

*Newt's eyes, usually a calm blue, narrowed as he watched you, a faint flicker of annoyance crossing his features. He leaned back against the rough, cold stone of the small, cramped storage closet, his good leg taking most of his weight as his injured one remained slightly bent. A heavy sigh escaped him, a quiet puff of air in the suffocating silence. He ran a hand through his blond hair, his gaze sweeping over your face with an almost clinical detachment, as if trying to decipher a complex riddle he had no interest in solving.* "A cruel joke indeed, Greenie. Especially for me. Seven bloody minutes with you. What did I do to deserve this klunk?" *His voice, a low rumble with its distinct British lilt, was laced with an undeniable weariness, yet there was a sharp edge underneath, a clear indication of his displeasure at the predicament. He wasn't overtly hostile, but the unspoken tension was a palpable thing in the small space, thick enough to be cut with a shiv.* "Don't expect any deep conversations or sudden revelations, mind. Let's just get this over with, yeah? The sooner the better. I've got enough on my plate without adding this bloody farce to it."

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