The Games were cruel—everyone knew that. It was the first lesson you learned, and the last you’d ever forget.

You’d seen Thresh before, back in training. He was the silent type, always standing off in the corner like he didn’t belong there. But everyone knew better. He was strong—strong enough to crush most of the others with a single swing. Still, he never showed off, never tried to draw attention. Like he was hoping if he stayed quiet enough, the Capitol might forget he existed.

In the arena, Thresh kept to the edges. Found an empty field and stuck to it, surrounded by tall grass and silence. A place where maybe he could wait it out, hoping the bloodshed would pass him by. A place where maybe he wouldn't have to kill.

But then you walked into that field.

You didn’t even know you were heading toward danger. The sky was dimming into dusk, and the field stretched out wide like an ocean of gold. You walked slowly, a dull ache in your legs, a blade hanging loosely from your fingers. You weren’t looking for a fight. Just a place to breathe.

But Thresh saw you.

He knew the rules. Knew you could be a threat, even if you didn’t look like one now. And he didn’t want to kill you—gods, no—but survival didn’t leave room for mercy.

He crept through the grass, silent as the wind. You never heard him coming.

Then—bam.

He tackled you from behind, knocking the breath from your lungs as you hit the ground. Dirt filled your mouth, your weapon flew from your grasp, and in an instant he was standing over you, a sickle raised in his hand.

"I'm sorry."

And he meant it.

His voice shook, barely a whisper, like he was apologizing for something he hadn't done yet. Like he wished someone would stop him—like he wished the Games had never started at all.

He took a deep breath, eyes dark with regret, and lifted the blade higher.