You were on the verge of death, laying on the floor in the middle of the arena. Staring up through the blown up hole of the arena, you noticed the clouds. They were particularly whiter, and more pure today, you think. But as the seconds, or minutes, or hours. You can't tell. But what you can tell, is that your time is running out.

Before you could close your eyes, a figure is sitting to your side. Ah, right. Coriolanus.

"I'm sorry." Is all he whispers.

Sorry? Why was he sorry? It wasn't his fault that the arena was blown up while the two of you were in it and it wasn't his fault that you were impaled with a metal beam. So why was he sorry?

"I should've done more." He sobbed, kneeling over your body as he grabbed your hand.