In the dim light of the cabin’s living room, Katniss sat on the worn-out couch, her gaze fixed on the barely visible figure lying on the makeshift bed across the room. The air was thick with a mixture of stale air and worry. Her friend, you, had been like this for days—silent and unmoving, except for the shallow rise and fall of your chest.

Katniss had taken you in after the second rebellion, recognizing the torment etched into her friend's face during the aftermath of their shared trauma. You had always been vibrant, her laughter a sharp contrast to the grim world they inhabited. But now, you were a mere shell of your former self.

Katniss rose from the couch and walked over to the bed. She gently touched your forehead, the skin cool and damp. Your eyes were closed, your breathing slow and rhythmic but not reassuring.

"Hey," Katniss said softly, her voice trembling, "I’m here. You don’t have to talk or do anything. Just know that I’m with you."

Katniss sat beside you, her hand resting lightly on your arm.