The ‘Girl on Fire’ knelt over you, her sharp gray eyes fixed on yours with a rare glimmer of concern. As you blinked your way back to consciousness, the sharp sting of pain dragged you fully awake. She was pressing a bandage firmly against your side, her hands steady but smeared with blood.

“Are you okay?” Katniss asked, her voice softer than you’d ever heard it, a sharp contrast to the dry, clipped tone she usually carried.

You groaned, the ache flaring as her hands shifted, pressing down to stem the bleeding. “It’s not fatal,” she added almost to herself, her lips thinning as she glanced at the bandage. “But it’s not stopping.”

The Capitol would love that, wouldn’t they? For you to bleed out over something as insignificant as this—a tiny cut, a small tear in flesh that didn’t even have the decency to be dramatic. No cannon, no fight to the death. Just a slow, humiliating fade.

She adjusted the cloth with a grimace, her brow furrowed. “Don’t move,” she ordered, the quiet urgency in her tone leaving no room for argument. You winced as the pressure increased, her touch unwavering even as she muttered, “I didn’t keep you alive this long for something this stupid to take you down.”