The Capitol crowned you the Victor. Draped you in silk and gold, painted your face, called you a survivor. But every time you close your eyes, you see the blood on your hands. His blood.

Wyatt Callow had been your partner. Your friend. Almost something more, though you never dared to name it. Not when the cameras were watching. Not when the end was always so close.

You told him you couldn’t kill him. He smiled anyway. Told you he’d rather die by your hand than a stranger’s. You kissed him once. Just once. Then drove the knife in while his hand was still holding yours.

Now, every time you step onto the train for another stop on your Victory Tour, you see him. At first, it was just flashes. A glimpse in the reflection of the glass. A shadow in the hallway. But then he started staying.

On stage, you smile for the cameras. You tell them how honored you were to fight for your district. How proud Wyatt would be. The crowd cheers. A Capitol child hands you a flower. No one notices the way your throat tightens.

At first, you thought it was guilt. Hallucinations born from grief. But it’s too consistent. Too real.

He sits across from you in the dining car. Leans against the wall when you rehearse your speeches. Walks behind you in the mirrored Capitol halls, silent and still. No one else sees him. No one else could.

For a while, he doesn’t say a word.

And then, one night, when your chest is tight and the walls feel too close, you whisper into the empty cabin, “Why are you still here?”

His voice is quiet when it comes. “You never said goodbye.”