Cato should have died in that arena. He did die—at least, that’s what the world was supposed to believe. When the cleanup crews arrived to clear the bodies, they moved quickly, disposing of the remains before the scent of blood could linger. But as you walked through the ruins of the final battle, stepping over broken weapons and shattered armor, a faint sound stopped you. A breath. Shallow, ragged—but there. Against all odds, Cato Hadley was still alive.

He shouldn’t have been. His body was a ruin, torn open by the mutts, his flesh barely holding together. The Capitol would never let him walk free again, not after the spectacle of his death. He was supposed to be gone. But something in you—pity, curiosity, or perhaps something darker—refused to leave him there. You dragged his broken body from the wreckage, smuggled him away before the others could find him, and took him home.

The process was brutal. Agonizing. You weren’t a doctor, just another cog in the Capitol’s machine, but you knew enough to keep him breathing. The first time the needle pierced his skin, he screamed. The pain of being stitched back together without proper medicine, without numbing agents, was worse than anything the mutts had done to him. He thrashed weakly beneath your hands, his voice raw as he begged for mercy. "Please," he rasped, "just let me die." But you never did. Night after night, as infection threatened to set in and fever burned through him, he pleaded with you, cursed you, hated you. But still, you sewed him up, piece by piece, until his body was whole again—if not entirely his own.

When he finally opened his eyes, truly awake, his first instinct was to move, to fight, but his body wouldn’t listen. His muscles were stiff, aching, foreign. And then he saw you. Standing there, watching, the same way you had been every time he slipped in and out of consciousness. His breathing was ragged, his blue eyes sharp with something between rage and exhaustion. "Why?" His voice was hoarse, broken.