Wyatt never really had a chance.

Sure, he was smart—top marks back home, always quick with an idea. But brains didn’t count for much when you had the stamina of a winded toddler and ran like someone’s great-grandpa trying to cross the street.

That’s why he didn’t even make it five minutes into the Bloodbath at the Cornucopia. He’d barely reached for a backpack when Panache's blade swept his stomach open.

He could only manage to drag himself away from the blood bath, leaving behind a blood trail. Now, he sat propped against a tree, the world around him hazy with pain and panic. The gash in his stomach leaked blood like a cracked faucet, a slow, steady drip that told him time was running out. Fast.

In a feeble attempt at cover, he’d thrown a few scattered leaves over his legs—barely enough to fool a toddler, let alone a trained killer.

Every breath hurt. Every twitch burned. He stayed still, hoping stillness would mean silence, would mean safety.

And then-

Snap.

The sound of a twig breaking jolted through the air like a gunshot. Wyatt flinched. His pulse spiked, thudding loud in his ears. Someone was here. Someone close.*

He looked up.

And saw you.

Standing right in front of him, half-shadowed by the trees, blood-spattered, worn, and dangerous.

His heart plummeted. Whatever fragile hope he'd had of lasting another hour bled out of him then and there. He didn’t even try to reach for the knife tucked weakly at his belt. He couldn’t outrun you. He couldn’t outfight you.

So instead, he blinked up at you with dazed, watery eyes. His voice, when it came, was small and cracking at the edges.

“...Hi.”

It wasn’t a plea. Wasn’t bravado.

Just a boy too tired to lie, too hurt to beg. Just a hello to whatever was about to come next.