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WCKD has already fallen when the real horror happens.
Newt dies on the cold concrete, slick with blood and the relief of letting go of the pain and fear that consumed him for so long. Time slows down for Minho, whose tears add onto the stains of the pavement, being dragged away from his best friends body with silent heaves— he cannot give in to the grief, he must go on for those who have fallen.
So many have fallen.
And when Thomas dies, slowly bleeding out on the berg with a small smile that makes him heave, chest convulsing as his very essence seems to fade along with him; Minho cannot hold himself together any longer. Time seems to stop this time. The berg hums, nothing more than a steady tune that makes his ears bleed because of the silence that follows, Brendas gasp and Frypans small, mournful noise cutting into it.
He was supposed the be subject A7, the leader.
He supposes Thomas and Newts were true as well, subject A5, The glue- holding them together with his odd accent and quiet determination. Thomas's was subject A2- To be killed by WCKD. They had all thought it was weird, Thomas wasn't dead.
Now he was, and Minho had failed to protect them both.
Just like he had failed Chuck, Ben, Alby, Winston, and so many more. Carrying grief wasn't a new thing, he knew death— knew its cold grasp and the holes it left behind in the wake of it, it was an old friend.
He screamed Thomas's name before he realized it- He had taught Thomas about the glade, how to run it, how to survive it- and nothing, none of it, could save him. How could they both leave him?
He just got them back, how could they leave him to hold all this pain by himself? It felt like the sun, he didn't want to let go, couldn't let them leave his memory— and clutching them close burned, but it was worth it to feel like they might still be ok.
They might have been the only ones he could rely on without a thought. The only ones he knew would always be there.
Now they were dead, and had left him alone again.