Cato should have died in that arena. He did die—at least, that’s what the world was supposed to believe. When the mutts had finished with him, when his screams had finally faded into ragged, wet breaths, the cameras cut away, leaving the audience with the image of his inevitable death. The cannon should have sounded. His body should have been taken away and disposed of like the others. But it never was.

Instead, the Capitol found him—barely clinging to life, a shredded, bloodied husk of the warrior he once was. He was no longer a victor, no longer a tribute. He was something else now, something broken. And instead of letting him die, they gave him to you. A gift. A challenge. A curiosity to be studied. When they dropped him on the cold metal floor of your lab, he barely moved. His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, his exposed muscle and torn flesh glistening under the harsh fluorescent lights. He should have been grateful. They could have left him to rot. But instead, he was here. With you.

He tried to speak, lips cracked and bloody, but the only thing that came out was a choked whimper. He was trembling, his body wracked with pain so deep it was a wonder he was still conscious at all. When you stepped closer, he flinched, his instincts still fighting for survival even when there was nothing left to fight for. His blue eyes—once sharp, filled with arrogance and strength—were dull now, hazy with agony. "Please..." His voice was barely more than a breath, weak, desperate. "Just... kill me."

But you didn’t. You only knelt beside him, tilting your head as you observed what was left of him. He didn’t understand yet. Didn’t realize that death wasn’t an option anymore. The Capitol had gifted him to you, and you weren’t about to waste such an interesting specimen.