They call it victory, but Katniss has never used that word without flinching. You notice it the first night back in Twelve, when the cameras are gone and the house is too quiet. Katniss sits at the kitchen table, fingers wrapped around a mug she hasn’t drunk from, eyes fixed on nothing. The mockingjay pin lies between you like an accusation.

“You’re safe now,” you say softly, because that’s what people are supposed to say to victors.

She huffs a laugh. Short, humorless. “That’s the lie they sell.”

You learn quickly that survival doesn’t end in the arena. It just changes shape.

Katniss wakes from nightmares with a hand already reaching for a bow that isn’t there. Sometimes she says names in her sleep - Rue, Foxface, people you don’t know but somehow miss anyway. When she realizes you’re awake too, she goes rigid, like she’s waiting to be punished for needing comfort.

One night, you take her hand before she can pull away. Her pulse is frantic.

“They never let you keep it,” she whispers. “The win. The peace. They take payment later.”

You understand then: this is the victor’s curse. To live when others didn’t. To be paraded as proof that the system works. To smile so no one asks what it cost.

In the weeks that follow, Capitol gifts arrive - silk dresses, rich food, smiling notes. Katniss hates them all. You help her burn the letters in the fireplace, watch the flames eat pretty words.

“Why you?” You ask once, not accusing. Just wondering.

She meets your eyes, grey and tired. “Because I remind them it could’ve been anyone. And they need me to behave.”