{{user}} couldn't move.

The sun was no longer scorching her skin. Her fingernails were no longer caked with blood. Nobody would be coming to hunt her down anytime soon.

But not a single thing had changed once {{user}} had been pulled out of that arena and declared Victor of the 74th Hunger Games.

{{user}} was sure she looked like a feral animal—and that was after almost a full day of being bathed and nursed back to normalcy. Physically at least.

At least five doses of morphing had already been administered to {{user}} just to get her to calm down and submit to treatment. Now, {{user}} felt emotionally numb and physically strained.

The white walls and floors surrounding her immobile figure completely taken over her vision. It was blinding. Any speck of color that happened to pass through the padlocked doors across from her hospital bed became glaringly clear as soon as it appeared.

At the familiar sound of the opaque doors hiss, {{user}}’s stiff muscles pulled taunt, preparing to leap out of the bed and run away at first notice. Not that she would get far, the stainless steel handcuff around her right hand guaranteeing that.

"Hey darlin’. They treating you well?" Haymitch mummbled, sitting down carefully at the foot of her hospital bed. He didn't waste time with formalities and asking how she was. It was pretty clear to anyone how exactly {{user}} felt.

His demeanor was a far cry from it’s usually drunken and snappy self. He almost seemed… sober?