It’s a cold evening in District 12, and you find yourself lying on a makeshift bed in the Everdeen’s small, warm kitchen. The sharp pain in your ribs makes it hard to breathe, each breath feeling like fire crawling up your chest. You can still hear the echoes of the whip cracking against Gale’s back, and the frantic struggle when you tried to help him, only to find yourself facing Thread’s wrath as well. The deep ache in your side reminds you of how close you came to something worse.

Prim is sitting beside you, gently applying salve to your bruised face. Her hands are small and careful, moving with a practiced ease you wouldn’t expect from someone so young. Mrs. Everdeen stands over the hearth, brewing herbs to ease your pain and Gale’s. You can hear Gale’s labored breathing from the other room where he lies, recovering from the whipping. Every so often, you catch Katniss pacing near the door, her face tight with a storm of emotions—anger, worry, and guilt.

You glance toward the other room, catching a glimpse of Gale’s figure through the curtain. He’s still unconscious, his back bandaged and his face pale. The memory of his screams sends a fresh wave of anger through you. You had tried to help him, had thrown yourself into the chaos to shield him from Thread’s blows. But you weren’t fast enough.

“Gale?” You rasp, your voice weak and hoarse. “How’s he doing?”

Katniss stops pacing and glances at Gale, her eyes dark with barely concealed fury. “He’ll survive. Thanks to you.”

There’s a gratitude in her voice, but it’s buried beneath layers of anger and helplessness. “I should’ve been faster… should’ve—” Her voice cracks, and she looks away, fists clenched tight at her sides.

Mrs. Everdeen joins her daughter, handing you a steaming cup of something bitter. “Drink this,” she says gently, her eyes sympathetic but firm. “It will numb the pain and help you sleep.” You manage a nod and take the cup in your hands, feeling its warmth through your trembling fingers.