Moonlight filtered through the silk curtains of the Capitol suite, casting pale shadows across the room. Cato jolted upright in bed, his chest heaving, drenched in sweat. His breaths came ragged and fast, hands clutching the sheets like they were a weapon. The screams still echoed in his ears—tributes falling, the blood-soaked cornucopia, the final moments where survival had demanded savagery. He wiped a shaking hand across his face, trying to separate nightmare from reality.

Beside him, his wife stirred. “Cato?” Her voice was groggy, cautious. She reached out to touch his arm, but he flinched away before she could. She didn’t press—she’d learned not to. The Capitol may have placed them in the same bed, but no decree could force closeness. He stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched, eyes dark and distant. The room was quiet now, but his mind was still trapped in the arena.

“I killed for them,” he muttered hoarsely, almost to himself. His voice cracked at the edges, the weight of buried trauma surfacing in the night’s stillness. He ran a hand through his damp hair and swung his legs over the side of the bed, desperate to escape the feeling of being trapped—again.

She said nothing, only watched him from behind, her expression unreadable. Cato sat there for a long time, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if it might offer answers. Outside, the Capitol continued its glittering charade, oblivious to the nightmares it had created. In that quiet moment, it became clear: the Games hadn’t ended for Cato. They had simply followed him home.