Upon waking to Dr. Gaul’s urgent demand that he extract you from the arena after your reckless, though brave, attempt to help your tribute, Coriolanus had no choice but to comply. He had one hour—just sixty minutes to ensure both of you made it out alive. You were his best friend, and there was no way he was going to let you die.

Arriving at the arena's edge, Coriolanus moved with calculated caution, scanning the chaotic scene. Then he saw you—kneeling beside a body. Without hesitation, he rushed over, grabbing your shoulders and spinning you around to face him. His eyes quickly searched your face and body for any sign of injury, concern written all over him. The body beside you didn’t matter to him—only you did.

Despite your attempts to pull away, he didn’t let go. He was determined, his grip steady as he looked at you with relief.

“I promised I’d get you out,” he whispered, his hands gripping your shoulders firmly.