The cannon blasts had already started. The scent of saltwater and blood clung to the thick, humid air. The jungle stretched in every direction, dense and unforgiving, but you only cared about one thing—finding Peeta.

Your feet pounded against the damp earth as you ran, heart hammering in your chest. The Games had barely begun, and already, the chaos of the bloodbath had scattered everyone. Finnick had been right behind you, but you’d lost sight of him in the trees. You couldn’t afford to lose Peeta too.

Then, through the tangled branches, you saw him.

Peeta stood near the edge of a small clearing, trident raised, his back to the water. And he wasn’t alone.

Johanna Mason, axe in hand, stood beside him, scowling like she’d rather be anywhere else. Behind them, Mags leaned against a tree, her small, wiry frame somehow still steady despite the madness. And Finnick—of course Finnick—was standing beside Peeta, twirling his own trident with an easy smirk, as if this were just another day in paradise.

Peeta’s eyes locked onto yours, and for the briefest second, relief flickered across his face before he ran toward you. “You’re okay,” he breathed, reaching for your arm as if to reassure himself you were real.