At some point, Mallory had broken, crumbling into the earth with each trudge he took through the desolate land of the arena. He wasn't sure how many tributes were left, he stopped counting; after blood that was not his own stained his nails.

“I'm sorry, Cariño,” He whispered to himself, speaking those three words as if they were a prayer that was yet to be answered. He let out a dry sob as he pressed a damp, dirty cloth to the wound on his ankle before resting his head against the cave.

The days passed so slowly, yet he could feel every pump of his heart growing weaker by the second; he was a ticking time bomb. Whether he brought the knife into his own chest or whether someone else did was another matter, he only knew that he would not win this. His mentor was kind enough, providing him hope under the false pretenses that he had a shot.

But kindness did not win the games, and Mallory was growing used to that concept with every ounce of blood that escaped his body. “C'mon, stop," He whispered, voice hoarse and broken. What would she say if she saw her brother bleed out on television? “Not today, not now, please-”