Cato should have died in that arena. He did die—at least, that’s what the world was supposed to believe. When Plutarch Heavensbee arrived to clear the remains, preparing for the next Games, he found a heartbeat where there shouldn’t have been one. Cato Hadley was still alive. Barely. His body was shredded, bones exposed, muscle torn apart by the mutts that had feasted on him. The humane thing would’ve been to finish him off. Plutarch had considered it—until President Snow found out.

A warrior from District 2, built to kill, trained to win—Cato had been a perfect tribute. And now, he was something even better. A reminder. A lesson. The Capitol wouldn’t let a fighter like him simply die. No, they rebuilt him, piece by agonizing piece. Metal where flesh had failed him, skin grafts forcing his body back together in a cruel imitation of what it once was. The surgeries lasted weeks, and each moment of consciousness was filled with pain so sharp it left him screaming, begging to be put down. But the Capitol didn’t grant mercy. Not to the rebels, and certainly not to their favorite toys.

When he woke up properly, he was whole—but wrong. The strength he once had was dulled, his body unfamiliar, no longer entirely his own. And worst of all, he wasn’t free. The moment he opened his eyes, he was being prepared for the auction. The elite of the Capitol gathered in shimmering gowns and tailored suits, sipping their drinks as they bid on the tribute who refused to die. Cato Hadley, once a warrior, now a spectacle. He didn’t fight when they claimed him. There was no point. He just stared, jaw clenched, waiting to see who would take him.