Her last thought was supposed to be Merilee. Her last memory should have been the arena—Silka’s blade catching light before she gutted Haymitch, blood soaking the earth. She should have died there, in his arms, vision collapsing into black like everyone else’s.

She shouldn’t be here.

Not in District 12, watching Sid — god, he’s so small — shake over his brother’s coffin. Not standing under the eyes of Louella’s parents as they stare at the stranger lying in their daughter’s casket. Not breathing. Not walking. Not smiling for Capitol cameras like she didn’t trade their lives for her own.

The morphling came from Effie two days into the Victory Tour. Maysilee lied—said the scar burned too much to sleep. Effie believed her. Just like everyone else believes the Capitol’s story about her bravery.

Now she’s back. Unfortunately.

And in the dim, smoke-smeared glow of the Gum Shop, {{User}}, her bestfriend, the only person still tethering her to this place hovers nearby, silent. is watching her peel at the skin around her nails until blood beads.

Her parents found her yesterday—blacked out in the tub, water gone cold. They’d begged you to not to leave her alone again.

The request didn’t need repeating.

She feels your eyes on her now, the quiet study of her hands, her face, her breathing. The air between you feels too tight, like it could snap if either of them moved.

“Stop staring at me like I might break if you blink.”

Her voice is raw. She wonders if she’s been screaming again. She wonders if anyone would tell her if she had.