Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

District 13 was made of concrete, silence, and schedules. The air there didn’t move — it pressed. The lights always buzzed faintly overhead, like the hum of insects in a summer field long gone. But there were no fields here. No wind. No sun.

Katniss Everdeen slipped out of the medical bay like a shadow too dim to be noticed. No one stopped her. No one had to. Everyone had seen it. The way her spine curled in on itself during Command’s morning broadcast. How her eyes had lost focus when the Capitol aired Peeta again, this time with a fresh split lip, red blooming from his mouth like a rosebud. Her face didn’t move, not in front of them. But afterward — it always ended the same.

She found herself again in the corridor two levels below Command. It was narrow, gray, barely lit by strips of emergency light along the floor. Utility pipes lined the ceiling like veins, some of them dripping. There were no cameras here. No eyes. Just walls, cold and unyielding.

She crouched against the wall, pulling her knees to her chest, nails digging into the thin fabric of her pants. Her breath came in ragged gasps, like she’d been running, but she hadn’t moved in minutes. Or maybe she had. Time was wrong here.

The panic didn’t come in a wave — it was a flood. It poured in without warning and dragged her under, a hundred sharp thoughts pressing against her lungs, squeezing her chest tight.

Peeta.

His name alone splintered her.

He was supposed to be safe. He always was safe — that was his job, wasn’t it? To protect her. Even in the arena, even when she didn’t want it. He held her like she mattered. Like she was someone worth choosing, even when she wasn’t.

And now?

Now he was back in the Capitol. Likely in some steel room, chained and beaten. Shocked. Waterboarded. Deprived of food. Forced to smile for the cameras while they tortured him just out of frame. Every time she appeared in a propos, every time they celebrated another rebel victory, it meant more pain for him.

Katniss pressed her forehead against the wall. The concrete was cool. Not enough.

She had agreed to be the Mockingjay. To be the face of this revolution. She had stood tall and let Cressida film her in the field, fire behind her, voice full of wrath. And each time the rebellion cheered, another bruise bloomed on Peeta’s body.

And still, she let them film her.

Snow knew. He had always known.

The rose had appeared that morning, stark white and soft against the steel table in the Command center. Fresh. Impossible. A message. A threat. She could still smell it — that sickeningly sweet perfume that didn’t belong in the underground.

He knew Peeta mattered to her. And he was daring her to say it.

But she couldn’t even think it. Couldn’t bear to. The word would split her open.

She hoped — not prayed, because she no longer believed in mercy — but hoped, with something shriveled and bitter inside her, that Peeta was dead.

Because better dead than whatever this was. Than being used as Snow’s puppet. Than having his kindness turned into a weapon.

And his family… his mother, his brothers… District 12 was ash now. Burned from the inside out. She had stepped through their remains. Peeta didn’t even have them anymore.

A sob broke from her lips, sharp and fast. She covered her mouth with her hand.

The panic didn’t recede. It stayed. Heavy.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. A nurse came once, called her name softly. Katniss didn’t answer. She barely heard it.

Then footsteps. Hesitant. Too steady to be Coin. Too quiet to be Effie.

Haymitch.

He crouched next to her. Smelled not likr alcohol, but sweat, and something newly bitter — fear.

“You done yet?” he asked quietly. No bite in it. Just tired sadness.

She looked up. Her face was wet. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying.

Haymitch stared down the corridor like he hated it. Like he hated being the one to say anything. Then he sighed.

“We’re getting him.”

The words hit her like a blow.

She shook her head, her voice raw. “You said—”

“I know what I said. But Beetee hacked into their grid. He’s got a path. We’re sending a team. Gale’s going.”

Katniss sucked in air. Her chest heaved. Not relief — not yet. Something like it, maybe. The corridor swam before her eyes.

“They’re alive?” she whispered. “Peeta—?”

Haymitch didn’t lie to her. Not about this. He never had.

“I don’t know what kind of shape he’s in,” he said. “But he’s alive. For now.”

She closed her eyes. Her fingers dug into her sleeves.

It wasn’t hope, not really. It was something grimmer. Like the twitch of muscle before the pain sets in. But it was more than she’d had an hour ago.

A chance.

She stood, swaying. Haymitch caught her elbow, surprisingly gentle.

“We’re not leaving him behind again,” he said quietly.

She didn’t speak. Just nodded, sharp and shaking.

Because she couldn’t survive another corridor. Not if they failed. Because she could lose them both. Gale and Peeta.

Katniss walked beside Haymitch, her steps unsteady but determined, the corridors of District 13 blurring past. The sterile lights above flickered faintly. Her eyes burned from crying, her muscles ached with exhaustion, but her mind clung to that one word:

Rescue.

Peeta.

She kept saying his name in her head like a prayer, like if she let it stop, she’d unravel again.

The Command room loomed ahead, its heavy door already open. Inside, the space buzzed with quiet urgency. Screens flickered with Capitol surveillance footage. A digital map of Panem glowed against one wall. The room was lined with consoles and whispering technicians in gray uniforms. The air smelled of metal and recycled oxygen.

Coin wasn’t there yet, but Beetee sat in his chair, wires twisting from his chair into the wall like he was part machine himself. He looked thin, paler than usual, but his eyes were alert — always too alert, too full of sleepless calculation.

Cressida was there too, in her green jacket, leaning against a wall, arms crossed. She watched Katniss, but said nothing. She knew better than to press.

“Beetee?” Haymitch asked, and his voice was the one he used when it mattered — sober, hard-edged.

Beetee turned his chair toward them. His voice was soft, but his words cracked the air. “We’ve found a break. There’s a moment in the Capitol’s defense net — a blind spot in their surveillance — only a few minutes long, but we can slip in. We think it’s deliberate, maybe even a design flaw. Or arrogance.”

Katniss moved closer. “And Peeta?”

Beetee hesitated. “We have heat signatures from the Tribute Tower. We think he’s there. Him, Johanna, and Annie.”

That name cut through the hum like a wire snapping.

Annie.

Katniss turned as Finnick stepped forward from the back corner of the room. He looked worn, gaunt beneath his flawless skin, his usually sharp green eyes dulled with something far older than exhaustion. He was dressed in District 13 gray, but even the uniform couldn’t strip him of his Capitol beauty. They’d made sure of that.

“They’re keeping the ones we love,” Finnick said quietly. “The ones who mean something to us. They know that’s the quickest way to break us.”

His voice was calm, but there was an earthquake beneath it.

Katniss looked at him fully now. Really looked. The glint in his eyes. The strain at the edges of his mouth. Finnick wasn’t just broken by Annie’s capture. He was carrying something else — something heavier.

He stepped forward. “When they took Annie, I stopped playing the game. But before that… you know what they did to me, Katniss?”

She shook her head, her mouth dry.

“They sold me,” he said. “To the highest bidders in the Capitol. Over and over again. From the moment I won my Games at fourteen.” He smiled bitterly. “The secrets I know? I learned them in beds.”

No one moved. The silence pressed inward.

Katniss felt a coldness creep into her fingers. Finnick — beautiful, flirtatious, beloved by the Capitol — had been nothing more than a commodity. A body to be used. A weapon dressed in charm.

And she thought, What if I’d played it differently?

What if she hadn’t rebelled? What if she’d given Snow everything he wanted? Let herself be molded into the Capitol’s darling Victor? Would she have been paraded like that? Sold, like Finnick? Dressed up in silk and gold and given to men and women with cold hands and expensive perfume?

Would they have done it to her too, once she stopped being interesting?

Would Peeta have watched that from his cell?

Would Gale?

The thought made her stomach turn.

She looked back to Finnick, who was watching her now, not with pity, but recognition. The quiet, unspoken knowledge of what could have been — what almost was.

“They took everything from us,” he said softly. “But not forever.”

Katniss swallowed, steadying herself.

She turned back to Beetee. “When do they leave?”

“Tonight,” he answered. “If the window opens as predicted.”

Haymitch put a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t shake it off this time.

Outside, District 13 carried on. Inside the room, they prepared for war. But Katniss — she burned quietly, a flame banked low and dangerous.

Peeta. Annie. Johanna.

They were coming for them.

And Snow?

He’d learn what it meant to provoke fire.

The hours stretched thin like fraying thread. Katniss waited in the Command room, eyes glued to the screen displaying the rescue team’s vitals — pulsing dots labeled GALE, BOGGS, MESA, and a few others she hadn’t memorized. They were inside. Inside the Capitol.

Beetee murmured instructions into a headset. His fingers danced across his console like he was playing a high-stakes symphony. Maps flickered. Surveillance feeds stuttered. Air circulation in the room barely stirred — it was too still. Everyone breathed as if afraid the air itself would betray them.

Katniss stood frozen at the edge of the room, staring at the flickering feed. Each second lasted an eternity.

Then, without warning, everything stopped.

The screens glitched once — just a flicker — and then the pulses disappeared.

No vitals. No location. No voices over the comm.

Silence.

“Beetee?” Haymitch said, voice tight, a thread of fear coiling behind it.

Beetee didn’t answer right away. His fingers flew, reconnecting wires, muttering to himself, recalibrating. But nothing came back.

“We’ve lost them,” he said finally. “The Capitol must’ve cut the channel. Or jammed it. We’re blind.”

Katniss stopped breathing.

The air left her lungs like a gut punch. Her vision tunneled. She reached for the console, gripping the edge to steady herself.

“They’re gone?” she rasped. “They’re just—?”

“No,” Beetee said, too quickly. “We don’t know that. It’s a blackout, not confirmation of failure. They might still be inside. It could just be interference. This was always a risk.”

But she was already backing away, her chest collapsing in on itself.

What if Peeta was just a hallway away? What if he was running? Bleeding? Calling her name while she sat here, useless?

Across the room, Finnick had slumped into a chair, head in his hands. His breath came fast, ragged. “Not Annie,” he whispered. “Not now. Not again.”

Katniss met his eyes — wide, glassy, drowning. It mirrored the same scream inside her. The same helplessness. They were victors, yes — but that just meant they’d lived through hell once already. Neither of them could do it again.

She bolted.

Down the corridor. Past the gray uniforms. Past people calling her name. She didn’t hear them.

She ran until the walls closed in, and she was back in that same cold corner two levels down, where the lights flickered dimly and the ceiling dripped.

She slid to the floor, chest heaving, cold sweat pouring down her neck and back. She tried to breathe — air in, air out — but there wasn’t enough. Her fingers clawed at her own skin, as if peeling it away might let her breathe deeper.

Peeta could be dying. Peeta could already be dead. And Gale, too. Boggs. All of them. All because of her.

The nausea came hard and fast. She doubled over, retching into the corner, nothing but bile and panic. Her whole body trembled. Her skin was cold and clammy, and the corridor pressed in like a coffin.

She couldn’t do this again. Couldn’t watch more people she loved be eaten by the Capitol. Couldn’t carry the weight of more ghosts.

Footsteps approached. Not running — steady. Familiar.

Haymitch.

He didn’t speak right away. Just sat down slowly beside her, close but not touching.

“You think you’re gonna die every time someone else goes out there, don’t you?” he said quietly. “Like if they die, it means you go with them. Or maybe you wish you could.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Haymitch sighed, long and low. “You’re not weak, Katniss. You’re hurt. And it’s not your fault he’s in there.”

Her voice cracked like dry wood. “I left him behind.”

“We all did.”

“That’s not enough.”

“No,” Haymitch said, voice heavy. “It’s not.”

Silence hung between them. She trembled beside him, forehead pressed to her knees, the corridor swallowing her whole.

She wished she could crawl out of her own skin. Shed it like ash. Be reborn somewhere without war, or roses, or boys with bread and kindness in their eyes.

Instead, she just sat there, breathing shallow, waiting for a sound — any sound — from the Command room above.

A signal. A heartbeat. A voice.
Something to bring her back from the dark.

The corridor hadn’t changed.

It was still too narrow. Too quiet. The lights still flickered above Katniss like dying stars. She sat with her back to the wall, her arms wrapped tight around her knees, forehead pressed against denim. Her breaths were shallow, quiet, afraid of taking up space. Afraid of what came next.

Haymitch had left hours ago.

She hadn’t moved since.

Her mind had begun to numb itself. To drift. Maybe she had fallen asleep for minutes, maybe she was just suspended in that strange fog where grief waits, holding its breath. It was only when she heard footsteps—his boots on the cement floor—that she stirred.

Haymitch came into view and stopped dead when he saw her. He didn’t speak at first. His face was pale. And still.

Not still like peace.
Still like something broken.

Her heart stopped.

Peeta’s dead.

It was the first thought. Immediate. Ice in her bloodstream. Her whole body went rigid, her breath locked tight in her chest like a scream caught behind her ribs.

Haymitch knelt slowly. “We found him,” he said. Quiet, like every word had to be weighed before it left him. “In the Training Center.”

Katniss didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“He was unconscious. Hurt bad. Head wound, bleeding. Skin cold—blue.” Haymitch’s eyes were red-rimmed. “We nearly lost him. Twice. They had to reanimate him on the hovercraft.”

Her fingers twitched. Her nails dug into her legs. Still no breath.

“He’s not stable.”

That was all she needed to hear.

Katniss’s boots hit the floor of the medical unit at a full sprint. The sterile light of District 13’s hospital wing nearly blinded her, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Her pulse thundered in her ears louder than the alarms.

She barely registered Finnick and Annie in the hallway—wrapped around each other in a tight, tearful knot—or Johanna, spitting curses at nurses like venom while medics tried to clean her up. She ran past them all, breath ragged, heart racing, until—

The blood stopped her.

It trailed down the hallway in dark, wet streaks, smeared by hurried shoes. It soaked into the white tile. Fresh. And not just a few drops—a path.

Her eyes followed it, her legs shaking beneath her.

And then the trauma doors opened, and chaos swallowed her.

The room was full of motion and sound. Metal trays clattered. Monitors screamed. Voices overlapped.

And in the center of it all—Peeta.

He was laid out on a gurney, limbs twitching beneath a thin blanket, pale as death. His mouth was stretched open around a breathing tube, his lips blue, skin mottled with cold. One leg—his left—was twisted unnaturally, the thigh bloated and misshapen. The bone was broken, maybe shattered, and already swelling to twice its size. His chest was rising unevenly, each breath a shallow gasp against bruised ribs.

His stomach was wrapped in blood-soaked gauze, but Katniss could still see the wound beneath. Torn open. Deep. So deep it looked like they’d tried to cut him out of himself.

His face was soaked in sweat and tears.

And he was moaning.

Not words. Just sound. Raw, low, guttural. The kind of noise no one makes unless something inside them is screaming.

“He’s crashing again—pressure’s dropping!”
“BP 70 over 40!”
“We need to re-secure the line—he’s going into shock!”

The staff worked in a flurry, calling out meds, pushing fluids, checking the machines. A nurse tried to stitch the abdominal tear, and Peeta jerked violently, crying out around the tube. He turned his head blindly, disoriented, body writhing weakly as they held him still.

And then his eyes opened.

Dull blue, glazed with fever and panic—but open.

“Peeta,” Katniss whispered, stumbling forward, her hands outstretched.

His gaze flitted around the room in confusion—darting from ceiling lights to faces, unable to focus.

Then it landed on her.

Something flickered.

Recognition. Maybe. Maybe not.

“Peeta,” she repeated, louder this time. “It’s me. It’s Katniss. You’re safe now. I’m here.”

His face contorted.

Tears welled again in his eyes, falling freely down his cheeks. He moaned louder, his body twitching under the restraints. His right hand lifted, trembling, fingers brushing the side of his face—reaching.

He grabbed at the breathing tube.

“No—!” Katniss lunged forward, catching his wrist. “Peeta, don’t—don’t pull it out!”

But he was panicking. Confused. Hurt. His body thrashed weakly against the hands holding him down. He sobbed—wet and raw—and tried to yank the tube out of his throat.

His eyes were full of fear.

“Let me talk to him!” Katniss shouted over the din. A nurse stepped back. She dropped to his side, one hand cradling his cheek, the other on his chest.

“Peeta, stop. Look at me. Just look at me.”

He did.

And for one broken second, his eyes locked with hers.

“Hey,” she whispered. “It’s okay. You’re safe. It’s me, Peeta. I’m right here. I won’t leave. You’re not in the Capitol. You’re home.”

His breath hitched around the tube. More tears fell. His hand clenched around her sleeve like a lifeline, and she grabbed it, pressing it to her chest, her heart pounding beneath his fingers.

“You’re okay,” she whispered, brushing the soaked hair from his face. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

He sobbed again, a sound that broke something open inside her. She bent forward, their foreheads nearly touching.

She wiped his tears with the edge of her sleeve, kissing his temple, whispering to him like a lullaby, over and over.

But then the nurse behind her spoke.

“He’s spiking a fever. 104. His breathing’s failing again. We need to intubate and prep him for surgery now.”

Katniss looked down at him, saw the blood pooling again beneath his bandages. His abdomen was rising too slow. His face was gray.

“Peeta,” she whispered, clutching his hand tighter. “Stay awake. Please. Just hold on a little longer.”

His lips moved.

He was trying to speak—trying to form her name—but the tube blocked everything. A gurgled, pained cry escaped, and then—

He vomited.

Blood.

Dark, thick, pouring from his mouth, down his chin, staining the bed red.

“Code red! Airway compromised!”

“Get her out of here!”

“No!” Katniss screamed, holding on tighter. “He needs me! Don’t—don’t take me away!”

Arms wrapped around her from behind. Haymitch. Again.

“He’s going to die if they don’t operate,” he said roughly, his own voice strained. “You have to let go. Katniss.”

“No—he’s scared—he’s confused!”

“They know what they’re doing.”

He pulled her back, slowly, carefully, as the medical team descended on Peeta again, lifting him, rolling him, replacing the tube with practiced speed. Blood ran off the sides of the gurney. His body spasmed once. Twice. Then stilled.

The last thing she saw as the doors slammed shut was his hand, slipping out of reach.

Covered in blood.

Cold.

Limp.

She pressed her palms to the glass, her forehead following, tears rolling silently down her face.

Chapter Text

Outside the operating room, time had stopped. The hallway was too quiet now, too sterile, too still. The doors were sealed shut, and behind them, Peeta’s life hung on a thread of machines, gloved hands, and the exhausted mercy of medics who’d already restarted his heart twice.

Katniss sat slumped against the cold concrete wall, knees drawn up, arms limp at her sides. Blood smeared her sleeves, her palms, her collar. Her head leaned heavily to the side, cheek resting on the wall, as if her bones were hollow. Tears slid silently down her face. Not sobs. Just… leaking. As if her body didn’t know what else to do.

Haymitch paced up and down the hall like a ghost. His fists were clenched. He looked older than he ever had — circles under his eyes, shoulders hunched, muttering quietly to himself. He stopped now and then to glance at Katniss, but he didn’t speak.

The silence between them was too heavy.

Then footsteps. A shape approached. Slow. Tense.

Gale.

He didn’t say anything at first — just eased down beside her, knees brushing hers. He looked straight ahead, not at her, his hands hanging between his knees.

Katniss didn’t move for a long time. Then:

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice rasping, dry. “For going in. For saving him.”

Gale swallowed. Nodded once. But he didn’t answer.

When she turned her head to look at him, she paused. His face — it wasn’t just tired. It was haunted. His skin was pale, lips colorless. His eyes looked glassy, like they’d seen something he couldn’t unsee.

“Gale,” she asked gently. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head once. Just once. Jaw clenched.

“Don’t,” he muttered. “Not here.”

Before she could press, the doors at the end of the hallway opened.

Boggs stood there.

“Katniss,” he said quietly. “You need to come with me. Gale too.”

Haymitch stopped pacing. His expression changed — not relief, not grief — something grimmer.

Something final.

Katniss stood slowly. Her legs barely held her up. Gale rose beside her.

They followed Boggs through the concrete maze to a private meeting room — small, sealed, quiet. Inside, a half circle of people had already gathered.

Plutarch. Haymitch. Beetee. Annie and Finnick. Prim. Her mother. All of them were seated. All of them knew.

The air was different here — stiller than grief, heavier than fear. It was the air before a confession. The kind of quiet you get right before the world cracks.

Katniss sat.

Gale remained standing, hands behind his back, posture rigid.

Boggs didn’t sit either. He looked at her. Kind eyes, firm voice.

“There’s something you need to know,” he began. “Something we saw… in the Capitol. In the cell.”

Katniss didn’t blink. Her stomach twisted.

“We breached the Tribute Tower,” Boggs continued. “Found the cells. The one they kept Peeta in was… sealed tighter than the others.”

He paused. Looked to Gale.

Gale’s lips parted. He didn’t want to speak. But he did.

“There were… four other bodies,” he said, voice low and tight. “In the cell. With him.”

The air left Katniss’s lungs.

“They were decomposed,” Gale said. “Kept there for… weeks, maybe. Lined up along the back wall. Hands tied.”

He swallowed. Looked away. “His family.”

No one breathed.

Katniss didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. She simply stared ahead — straight ahead — as if the wall in front of her had become more real than the people in the room.

“They kept them there,” Boggs said softly. “In the same space. While he was tortured. Starved. Electrocuted. Isolated.”

“Why?” Prim whispered. Her voice cracked. “Why would they do that?”

Beetee’s voice was clinical, thin. “To destabilize him. It’s psychological warfare. They knew Peeta’s moral compass. They used guilt. Trauma. Sensory deprivation. Hallucination. Isolation.”

Annie began to shake. Her fingers twisted in her lap. “I heard screaming,” she whispered. “When they took us to different cells, I heard someone screaming. Every day. I think—” Her voice broke. “I think it was him.”

Finnick’s arm went around her instantly, holding her tightly to his side, his mouth near her ear, whispering things no one else could hear.

Katniss’s vision blurred.

Peeta.
Alone.
Locked in a room with the rotting bodies of his mother. His brothers. Forced to live in the dark. With that smell. That silence. That absence. Forced to look at them every day while Snow whispered that Katniss had left him.

Her arms wrapped around her chest, squeezing hard. She couldn’t cry. Couldn’t move.

She remembered Peeta sobbing. Trying to pull out the tube. The terror in his eyes. His confusion.

He hadn’t been reaching for her in the trauma bay.
He’d been reaching for someone who wasn’t dead.
Reaching for his family.

And they were already gone.

No one said anything for a long time.

Then finally, Prim reached for Katniss’s hand — small and warm and trembling.

“We’ll help him,” she whispered. “You’ll help him. Like he always helped you.”

Katniss didn’t answer.

Because deep down, a part of her knew…
This wasn’t something anyone could come back from whole.
Not this. Not Peeta. Not really.

But she wouldn’t let him face it alone.

The lights in the medical corridor had been dimmed. The alarm sirens were gone now. The machines were quieter, rhythmic. Steady.

It was late. Or early. It didn’t matter.

They all moved in silence, as if their footsteps could somehow break him again.

The meeting room had emptied wordlessly. Finnick held Annie’s hand; she clung to him with a white-knuckled grip. Beetee rolled slowly behind them. Prim walked close beside her mother, who carried herself stiffly — the kind of stillness only doctors wore when they were bracing for the worst. Haymitch followed last, his face gray, his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets.

And Katniss?

Katniss walked ahead of them all. One step at a time, drawn forward by something invisible but unbreakable. Not duty. Not fear.

Love.

They turned the final corner. Intensive Care, Room 2.

Peeta.

He lay motionless in a narrow bed, connected to more machines than Katniss could count. Tubes snaked from his arms, chest, side. Wires led to beeping monitors. A breathing tube was still taped over his mouth, feeding air into his lungs in slow, mechanical hisses. His chest rose and fell in a pattern that wasn’t his own.

The light above his bed was soft, golden, casting a thin glow over his skin — pale, bruised, fragile.

His face was thinner. His cheeks sunken. His brow furrowed even in unconsciousness, like his body was still afraid even in sleep. His hair was damp and pushed away from his face. A nurse was gently adjusting the IV line in his neck.

Katniss approached slowly. Everyone else stayed near the door.

She sank into the chair beside his bed, her fingers reaching for him before she even realized she was moving. She touched his hair first, lightly brushing it back. It was soft. Too soft, almost, like the weight of a single breath could disturb it.

Then his hand.

She slid her fingers into his — gently, so gently — and kissed the back of it. It was still too cold.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “You’re not alone.”

The room fell completely silent as the last nurse stepped back. The soft hum of the ventilator filled the space. Everyone watched him. Everyone waited.

Then the doctor entered. A tall, middle-aged woman with weary eyes and blood still on the hem of her coat. She looked at Peeta for a long moment, then turned to face them all.

“He’s stable,” she began. “But only just.”

Katniss’s hand tightened around his.

“The abdominal wound was deep and already infected,” the doctor continued. “We had to remove necrotic tissue and irrigate the cavity. He’s on antibiotics and will need another surgery in a few days if inflammation doesn’t reduce. The lung was punctured by a fractured rib, and there were signs of previous scarring — likely from repeated trauma. We placed a chest tube to drain fluid and stabilize oxygen levels.”

Prim stepped forward, eyes sharp. “Is the infection spreading?”

“Too soon to say,” the doctor admitted. “But we’re watching it closely. His white cell count is elevated. The shoulder is fractured. The femur was broken in multiple places and repaired with internal pins. And…” She hesitated, glancing at Katniss.

“There’s clear evidence of physical abuse. Wrist abrasions — from shackles, likely. Electrical burns. Bruising on his back and thighs. And…”

“Head trauma?” Katniss’s mother asked quietly.

The doctor nodded. “Severe. Blunt force. There was a small brain hemorrhage. We believe it caused temporary cognitive impairment — confusion, memory disruption, panic responses. We relieved the pressure. Now we wait.”

Gale, standing at the far end of the room, looked like he wanted to say something. His mouth opened, then shut again. He rubbed a hand over his face. His eyes hadn’t left Peeta since they’d walked in.

Haymitch sat on a bench near the door, his shoulders hunched, head bowed. He didn’t speak. Just stared at the floor.

Then, finally—

“Well,” Plutarch said, arms folded, voice falsely bright, “he’s alive. That’s what matters. We got him back. It’s a victory for the rebellion.”

The air turned cold.

Everyone stared.

Katniss didn’t move. Her eyes stayed locked on Peeta’s face. But her jaw clenched. Prim’s lips parted in disbelief. Finnick’s hand tightened around Annie’s. Gale flinched.

Boggs cleared his throat.

“A victory?” he said flatly. “You mean dragging a half-dead boy from a prison cell soaked in his family’s blood so you can put him on a poster again? Yeah, great win, Heavensbee.”

Plutarch shifted, looking suddenly much smaller.

Boggs turned back to the group. “Give her space,” he said quietly. “She needs to be here. Alone. With him.”

One by one, they filed out. Finnick guided Annie gently. Beetee wheeled past. Prim gave Katniss’s shoulder a soft squeeze. Her mother followed, face drawn but understanding.

Haymitch lingered a moment longer in the doorway. He looked at Peeta. Then at Katniss. Then left without a word.

And finally — they were alone.

Katniss leaned closer, resting her forehead lightly against Peeta’s hand. The pulse was faint but steady.

“I don’t care what they call it,” she whispered. “Win. Loss. Strategy. None of that matters.”

She kissed his hand again, soft as a breath.

“You’re alive. That’s enough.”

The ventilator hissed. The monitor beeped.

And Katniss stayed.

Anchored to what was left of him.

Hoping. Waiting.

Loving him back to the surface.

The room dimmed as the last figure stepped out—Boggs—pulling the door closed behind him with a soft, final click. Only the low hum of machinery and the shallow, mechanical rhythm of the ventilator filled the silence now.

Katniss sat beside Peeta, her hand curled tightly around his, her forehead resting against his knuckles. The blood had long dried on her sleeves. Her legs ached from hours without movement. Her chest felt carved open.

He lay there—still, intubated, bandaged, broken.

But alive.

And in this moment, that was the only thing anchoring her to the floor.

The doctor stood quietly at the foot of the bed, arms folded, coat still streaked with surgical stains. She glanced once at the door, ensuring it was shut, then looked to Haymitch, who stood at the far end of the room, half in shadow.

She cleared her throat softly.

“I waited until the others were gone. This is for you two to hear first.”

Katniss lifted her head slowly, her face pale, her eyes hollow.

The doctor stepped closer, her voice gentle, but grave. “We’re not including it in the official report. For now.”

Haymitch finally looked up. “What?”

The doctor met his gaze. “The extent of the sexual assault.”

Haymitch didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch. But Katniss saw it—the way his mouth tightened, the way his shoulders tensed under the weight of it.

“We documented wounds,” the doctor continued softly, “multiple stages of bruising and evidence of prolonged physical invasion. From what we’ve gathered, it was repeated. Controlled. Coordinated. Possibly filmed. There are signs of restraint marks consistent with long-term confinement. It was systematic.”

Katniss’s jaw clenched. She reached for Peeta’s hair and stroked it gently, as if touch could push the horror away.

The doctor’s eyes softened as she looked at Katniss. “I’m telling you this now because when he wakes up—when the sedation wears off—he may remember. In pieces. Or not at all. But when he does, he’ll need someone who knows.”

Katniss swallowed hard. “What do I say?”

“You don’t need to say anything,” the doctor said quietly. “You just need to stay. Let him set the pace. Don’t ask. Don’t guess. Let him tell you in his own time. Or not at all.”

Haymitch rubbed his face, as if trying to press the memory out of his skin. He looked at Peeta with something close to reverence—and deep, strangling guilt.

“I should’ve gone,” he muttered.

“No,” Katniss said, without looking up. Her voice cracked like splintered wood. “We all should’ve gone. But they wouldn’t have let us. We were never supposed to see him like this.”

The doctor gave a faint nod. “We’ll keep the sedation low. Monitor brain activity. If he wakes, we’ll call you immediately.”

Then she turned, her footsteps retreating across the sterile floor, and the door eased shut behind her.

Silence.

Katniss sat still for a long time, one hand brushing the soft hair from Peeta’s forehead, the other gripping his hand so tightly it hurt.

Haymitch stayed in the corner. He didn’t speak. He didn’t leave. He just watched.

Eventually, Katniss broke the silence.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” she whispered.

Haymitch exhaled. “Maybe we don’t fix it.”

He walked forward finally, stood on the other side of the bed. Looked down at Peeta’s face with something almost like tenderness.

“Maybe we just don’t leave him again.”

Katniss nodded, her throat thick.

And together, they kept vigil.

As the machines breathed for him.
As the slow, painful healing began.
As the boy who had always saved her… now needed them to stay.

It took Katniss a long time to speak.

But then her voice came, low and rough and quiet.

“I should’ve told him.”

Haymitch didn’t look up right away. “Told him what?”

She swallowed, her thumb still brushing against the back of Peeta’s hand.

“That I loved him.”

Chapter Text

The soft mechanical rhythm of the ventilator filled the room like ocean waves—gentle, repetitive, almost soothing if not for what it meant. It had been one full day since the surgery. Since they pulled Peeta back from the edge.

Twenty-four hours of silence.

Twenty-four hours of waiting.

Katniss hadn’t slept. Not for a minute. She hadn’t even left the room. Her back ached from the hospital chair, her eyes were swollen and raw, and her hands hadn’t left Peeta’s once. Even in his unconsciousness, even with all the tubes and wires, she’d stayed curled at his side, whispering to him when the machines beeped too loudly, stroking his hair when his breathing hitched, kissing his hand whenever the fear rose too close to the surface.

Prim had come in hours ago with their mother, soft-voiced and practiced. They had begun to clean his wounds again — replacing dressings, checking lines, adjusting IVs. The antiseptic stung the air, and a low fever still kept his cheeks flushed with a too-pink heat.

“He’s stabilizing,” Prim had whispered, tucking his arm gently into place. “But it’s slow. His body’s fighting so much.”

Katniss nodded, hollow, barely hearing.

Then the change came—quietly, subtly.

Peeta’s brow furrowed.

At first, Katniss thought it was a flicker of pain, another reflexive twitch. But then his eyes moved beneath their lids. Slowly. Unevenly. Then—

They opened.

Slightly. Just a slit of blue, dry and glassy.

“Prim,” Katniss breathed, her voice breaking. “He’s awake.”

Prim leaned in instantly, gentle fingers on his pulse.

“Peeta? Can you hear me?” she said softly, her tone light, steady.

His eyes fluttered, squinting. The lights above were too harsh, his pupils too slow to adjust. He tried to move his head and winced sharply, a shallow, pained moan vibrating in his throat around the breathing tube.

“Shhh,” their mother soothed, placing a cool cloth against his forehead. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Peeta blinked again, eyes flicking around with slow, jerky confusion. Panic began to rise in them—confusion blending with pain, disorientation, fear.

He reached clumsily for the tube in his mouth, fingers lifting with agonizing effort.

“Don’t,” Prim said gently, intercepting his hand and cradling it. “Leave it in for now. You’re breathing better, but not enough yet.”

Katniss hovered on the other side of the bed, breath caught in her throat. She wanted to call his name, to say something, anything, but the sight of him like this—awake but scared, lost, hurting—stole the words from her mouth.

His eyes finally found hers.

A flicker of something—recognition, relief, or just the comfort of familiarity—passed across his expression. His body relaxed just slightly, and though he couldn’t speak, a soft, aching sound escaped him.

Katniss stepped closer and caught his hand in both of hers.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

His eyes welled with moisture. A single tear slid down his temple.

Katniss brushed it away with trembling fingers.

“You’re not alone.”

There was a knock—soft, tentative. Gale stepped inside, a small tray in his hands. His eyes immediately darted to the bed, his face a mix of tension and—something deeper. Something sadder.

“He’s awake?” Gale asked softly.

Katniss nodded, not looking away from Peeta. “Just now.”

Gale walked quietly to her side, lowering the tray to the small table nearby. Bread. Soup. Water. Nothing extravagant, but warm, and meant for her.

“You need to eat,” he said gently. “You haven’t.”

Katniss didn’t respond at first. She only stared at Peeta, who blinked again, eyes growing heavier, lids fluttering with the effort of staying conscious.

Gale hesitated, then placed a hand lightly on her shoulder.

“I’ll stay,” he offered. “You eat.”

She didn’t move. Her fingers tightened around Peeta’s.

“I can’t leave him.”

“You don’t have to,” Prim said from the other side. “But he’d want you strong. You need food, Katniss. You need sleep.”

Katniss looked down at Peeta’s face—fever-flushed, brow damp, eyelids heavy. His eyes were trying to stay open, but exhaustion was already pulling him under again.

“I’ll be right here,” she whispered to him, leaning close, brushing her lips against his hair. “Just sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

And when he finally drifted off again, when the machines returned to their steady rhythm, Katniss sat back, her hand still wrapped in his.

She picked up a piece of bread. Chewed slowly.

Her eyes never left him.

And for the first time in days, she let herself breathe.

The second time Peeta woke, the room was dim and quiet — just after one of the artificial “night” cycles of District 13 had begun. The only light came from the soft blue glow of monitors and the bedside lamp Katniss had refused to turn off.

She was there, of course.

Sitting beside his bed, legs curled under her, arms folded tightly across her chest like they were the only thing holding her together. She hadn’t slept much. An hour here, maybe thirty minutes there, when Prim or her mother or Gale forced her to eat or rest. But every time she closed her eyes, she thought she’d miss it.

Miss him.

But this time, when he stirred, she felt it.

A soft, slow tightening of his fingers. A low hum from his throat. His body shifting under the weight of the blankets.

She sat up instantly, breath catching.

His eyes opened. Slower this time, less confused. Still glassy. Still fevered. But there.

“Peeta,” she whispered, leaning in, voice trembling with fragile hope.

He blinked. His gaze drifted—ceiling, shadows, window—then found her.

He stared.

And this time, he saw her.

His eyes widened. His hand twitched in hers, weak but deliberate. She moved closer, her heart thudding.

“It’s me,” she said gently, her fingers curling around his. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

A moan bubbled in his throat, frustration curling in his brow. He shifted, instinctively reaching again for the breathing tube in his mouth, but stopped at the pain.

The movement triggered the monitor. Beep—beep—beep.

Moments later, the nurses entered—calm, brisk, practiced. One of them, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a warm voice, smiled as she approached.

“He’s more responsive,” she noted, checking the IV line. “That’s good.”

“We need to assess his cognitive function,” said the younger one, already retrieving a small penlight. “Miss Everdeen, would you mind stepping back?”

Katniss didn’t let go of his hand. She just moved to the side. “I’ll stay.”

They didn’t argue.

Peeta followed the light slowly when they shined it into his eyes, though his reaction was delayed. His fevered skin shone under the lamplight, sweat collecting at his hairline.

“Peeta,” the older nurse said, standing on the opposite side of the bed. “Can you squeeze my hand?”

His brows drew together. His eyes flicked between the nurses and Katniss. Then slowly, with visible effort, he curled his fingers weakly around the nurse’s.

“Good,” she said. “Can you blink twice for yes?”

He blinked—slow, deliberate.

“And once for no?”

Another blink.

“Do you know your name?”

He stared. Tried. His lips moved around the breathing tube, but no sound came. Only pain.

“Can you think it?” she asked gently. “You don’t need to say it. Just think it.”

He blinked twice.

The nurses exchanged a glance.

“Do you know where you are?”

He blinked once.

Katniss’s throat tightened. He didn’t know.

“Do you remember her?” the older nurse asked, nodding toward Katniss.

His eyes locked onto hers again. There was something behind them—confusion, yes, but also something softer. Something heavier.

His hand tightened in hers.

Then—two blinks.

Katniss’s breath hitched.

The younger nurse nodded, scribbled something on a tablet. “We’ll continue monitoring. His responses are delayed, but they’re appropriate. Brain function seems intact, though we’ll watch closely for signs of memory fragmentation or trauma responses.”

She glanced at Katniss. “We’ll give you some time.”

They left quietly, pulling the door almost shut behind them.

And once again, they were alone.

Katniss sank back into the chair beside him, their hands still clasped. She leaned in, brushing her fingers through his hair, sweeping the damp strands from his forehead.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

His eyes filled. Not tears, not yet — just wetness. Like the thought of crying had returned to him, even if the tears themselves hadn’t come.

His eyes moved across her face, reading every line, every exhaustion-born shadow, every strand of tangled hair.

Then his fingers lifted, barely.

Katniss leaned in and let him touch her cheek.

She closed her eyes, let his trembling hand rest there.

“I’m here,” she whispered again. “You’re not alone.”

Peeta blinked twice.

A slow, tired, yes.

Katniss didn’t move for a long time after the nurses left. She just sat at the edge of Peeta’s bed, still holding his hand, brushing her fingers across the damp hair stuck to his forehead. His skin was too warm, feverish, but it was real beneath her touch.

And his eyes were open.

Watching her.

Still clouded with pain, still searching. But focused.
Present.

That alone was enough to make her chest crack with emotion.

Peeta’s mouth moved around the breathing tube, slow and strained. His brow furrowed in frustration—he wanted to speak, to ask, and couldn’t.

Katniss leaned in closer, her voice soft. “Don’t try to talk. Not yet. You’re still intubated. Just listen, okay?”

His eyes locked on hers. He blinked twice.

She swallowed. “You’re in District 13. You’re safe now.”

His eyes shifted, uncertain. One blink. Then two. Slow confusion, like his brain was turning the words over and not quite landing.

“You were in the Capitol,” she continued carefully. “But we got you out. Gale and Boggs and a team. Beetee found a way in. You were in the Training Center. You’ve been here for two days. In surgery. You were—” She paused. Her voice caught. “You were in bad shape, Peeta. But you’re here now. You made it.”

He blinked again. His hand flexed slightly in hers, like he was trying to process too much at once. The flicker of pain returned to his eyes—not just physical pain, but memory.

She saw it—the shadow that passed through him. He remembered something. Maybe the cell. Maybe worse.

Katniss brought his hand to her lips and kissed it gently, her fingers trembling.

“You’re not in that room anymore,” she whispered. “No one can hurt you here.”

Tears gathered in his eyes, and this time they fell—silently, like hers had, one by one. He blinked hard, as if trying to drive them away, but they came anyway.

“It’s okay,” Katniss murmured, brushing them away with her fingertips. “You don’t have to be strong right now. You don’t have to be anything.”

She leaned closer, so close their foreheads almost touched. Her voice was barely breath.

“I’ve got you, Peeta. You’re home.”

He closed his eyes. And for a moment, he let himself believe it.

The light in Peeta’s ICU room had softened to a low glow. The fever still clung to him, but his breathing was steadier now, quieter. The ventilator remained, but less dominant—his chest rising more naturally. The tremors had faded. The panic had ebbed.

And Peeta, despite everything, was awake.

Katniss could see how tired he was, how heavy his eyelids were with pain and exhaustion, but he kept his eyes on her. Every now and then, he blinked slowly, and she knew he was still there, still trying. Still holding on.

She hadn’t left his side in hours. Not since he’d first opened his eyes. She barely even looked away from him now. One hand rested in his, and the other hovered near his face, brushing the hair from his forehead, smoothing a line across his cheekbone. Gentle, constant contact—because she needed it.
And she thought maybe he needed it, too.

Peeta tried to move his lips again. Tried to speak around the tube. Another wave of frustration crossed his face.

“Don’t,” Katniss said softly. “You don’t have to say anything.”

He stared at her, eyes searching—questioning.

“I know what you want to ask,” she said. “And I’ll tell you.”

She hesitated, swallowing the weight that had lived in her chest for far too long. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“I should have told you so much sooner.”

Peeta blinked. His brow furrowed slightly.

“I love you,” she said. “I should’ve said it during the Victory Tour. Or in the cave. Or even back in District 12, when you handed me that stupid piece of bread and changed everything.”

A faint tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t bother wiping it away.

“I think I started falling for you in the first arena. I just didn’t… I didn’t know what it was. I was too scared. Too angry. Too… broken.” Her voice shook. “You made me feel things I didn’t think I was allowed to feel. Not in the Games. Not after. Not when everything around me kept dying.”

Peeta’s hand twitched in hers—slow, weak, but deliberate.

“I kept pushing it down,” she whispered. “Because if I loved you, and they took you, it would be too much. And then they did take you, and I—” Her voice broke. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought I’d die from it.”

She bent closer, pressing his hand to her lips. Her voice was barely breath now.

“I love you. Not for the cameras. Not for the rebellion. I love you because you’re good. And kind. And steady. And you never gave up on me, even when I didn’t know who I was.”

Peeta’s eyes glistened. He blinked slowly, twice—yes.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t say it sooner,” she said. “But I’m here now. And I’m not leaving you.”

A sound escaped his throat—low, choked, muffled by the tube—but it wasn’t pain. It was relief.

His hand curled a little tighter around hers, his eyes locked on her like they were the only real thing in the world.

Katniss leaned in, kissed his forehead, and whispered against his skin:

“You don’t have to remember everything right now. Just remember this—I love you. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time since the Games had ever begun, she felt like the words weren’t a lie.

Chapter Text

The ICU room had gone quiet, save for the low hum of machinery and the rhythmic hissing of the ventilator. Outside, District 13 slept in its underground stillness, unaware that one heartbeat in this sterile room was the only thing holding Katniss Everdeen together.

She sat slouched in the chair at Peeta’s bedside, her head resting on the mattress near his arm, one hand still clutching his. Her other arm was draped over his abdomen, just lightly, careful not to press against the wound site. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

But her body had reached its limit.

After two days of no sleep, too little food, and too much fear, her eyes had fluttered closed mid-whisper, her breath catching on a half-formed promise to stay awake, always.

The room had seemed calm.

Peeta’s fever had lessened. His color had started to return. The steady beeping of the monitor had lulled her into believing—for just one fragile moment—that he was truly healing.

And then the machines changed.

A sharp beep-beep-beep broke through the silence. Louder. Faster.

The ventilator began to hiss unevenly.

Katniss stirred faintly, eyebrows twitching, her face still pressed to the blanket near Peeta’s ribs.

Then the alarms sounded.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Warning: O₂ levels dropping. Tachycardia. Fluid detection in lungs.

Katniss jolted upright.

“Peeta?” Her voice was hoarse, panicked, but he didn’t respond.

His body began to seize—small, frantic spasms. His chest lifted, then stalled. His mouth opened beneath the tube, but no air was going in.

“Peeta—!”

She pressed the emergency call button.

Red lights flashed above the door.

Then chaos.

The door burst open, two nurses and a doctor rushing in.

“Pulmonary edema!” one barked. “Get suction—now!”

“His lungs are flooding—get her out!”

“No!” Katniss clutched his hand tighter. “Don’t—don’t take me away!”

Another doctor forced past her. “He’s drowning in his own lungs—move!”

Peeta’s chest was heaving, rising too fast, then too shallow. The monitor screamed. His face twisted in panic—eyes wide, wild, begging. His skin had gone pale again, lips blue.

Tears spilled from his eyes, and he arched under the pain.

“I’m here!” Katniss cried, sobbing now, not knowing if he could hear her, or if he knew anything anymore. “Peeta, hold on—please hold on—”

Two nurses restrained his arms as his body jerked. His breathing stopped for a full second—then another.

“CODE BLUE!” shouted someone at the door.

A crash cart rolled in.

“Katniss—” a voice said—Haymitch, she realized—suddenly at her side, pulling her back, his grip firm.

“No—he’s dying—I can’t leave him again!”

“They need to save him, sweetheart.”

And even as she fought, even as she screamed his name, she was dragged from the room as the machines screamed louder.

Through the narrow window, she saw them—doctors working furiously, a nurse inserting a large suction tube, others pressing down on his chest, the ventilator disconnected, fluid draining, Peeta’s body limp.

Drowning.

Again.
Again.

Katniss collapsed against the wall outside the room, hands over her mouth, shaking violently.

Haymitch crouched beside her, one hand gripping her shoulder like he could hold her upright.

No one spoke.

Because they all knew.

When someone came back from death once, it was a miracle.
But coming back again—from this—

That was something only Peeta Mellark could do.

If there was anything of him left to return.

This is it, she thought.
This is the time I lose him. For real.

Her breath caught. And then stopped.

She didn’t even feel it at first, but her body locked up. Her chest collapsed in on itself. Her vision narrowed. She couldn’t breathe—not even a little. The hallway swam and narrowed and expanded all at once. Her heart thudded in her ears, too fast, too hard, a savage drumbeat of terror that didn’t match the rest of her body, which had already gone numb.

Haymitch tried to speak—maybe he did—but the words were swallowed by the storm building inside her.

A scream clawed at her throat, but it wouldn’t come out.

Her hands were shaking violently, curled into fists against her chest. She was rocking without knowing it, gasping like someone drowning in air.

“Katniss—” Prim’s voice, far off, coming fast.

Katniss didn’t register her sister until Prim’s hands were on her face.

“You’re having a panic attack,” Prim said firmly. “It’s okay. You’re safe. He’s okay—they got him back. Do you hear me? Peeta’s alive.”

Katniss heard the words, but they were meaningless against the hurricane inside her.

Prim turned quickly. “Get me Lorazepam. Now. 0.5 IV.”

Their mother was already moving, a nurse right behind her. Haymitch stood off to the side, helpless and pale, hands half-raised like he might reach for Katniss but didn’t know how.

Prim held Katniss’s face between her palms, steady and warm. “Look at me. Focus on my eyes.”

Katniss tried, but her vision was full of white light and static. Peeta’s face—gasping, drowning, blue-lipped—again.

“They pulled him back,” Prim said, voice firmer now. “He’s okay. You’re okay. But I need you to breathe with me. Can you do that?”

Katniss couldn’t answer.

The nurse returned. Prim took the syringe and administered it into a line already in Katniss’s arm—one the medics had placed days ago, anticipating something like this.

“Okay. Just wait. Just wait, it’s going to get better,” Prim whispered.

Katniss was still shaking, her body drenched in cold sweat. The room tilted. The white noise started to pull back slowly, like a wave retreating from the shore.

Her breath hitched, then came again. Shallow. Trembling. But real.

She collapsed into Prim’s arms, sobbing now. Harsh, silent, primal sobs that cracked her open and poured out everything she’d held back since the Capitol. Since she saw him in chains. Since he begged her to stay. Since she kissed his bloody forehead and whispered she loved him and still almost lost him again.

Prim held her tightly, whispering soft things, rocking her gently like she had when they were children hiding from thunder.

And then the door to the ICU opened.

A nurse stepped out, looking drained but smiling faintly.

“He’s breathing on his own again,” she said gently. “We got him back.”

Katniss didn’t move. Her fingers clenched tighter in Prim’s sleeve, and she sobbed harder—not in grief this time, but in the kind of fragile, desperate relief that shatters you just as deeply.

They had saved him.

But she was broken now.

And only his hands could piece her back together.

The days passed like slow-moving clouds — shifting, weightless, but always present. Each one edged a little further away from death.

Peeta was still intubated, still pale, still terrifyingly thin. His skin was paper-pale and stretched across sharp cheekbones, and the bruises around his ribs bloomed like old shadows. But his eyes opened more often now. He tracked movement. He responded to Katniss’s voice. The machines no longer screamed in panic — they hummed, clicked, beeped, steadily.

He was healing.

Not quickly.
Not completely.
But undeniably.

Katniss never left. They brought her food. Sometimes Gale, sometimes Prim. She slept in the chair, curled up awkwardly, her hand always tangled in his. She wore the same shirt three days in a row. No one said a word. She spoke softly to him, updated him on things he probably wouldn’t remember, little things like how Annie finally stopped shaking when Finnick kissed her hand, or how Prim was getting good at suturing under supervision.

Sometimes, when the sedation wore off just enough, Peeta would look at her with those fever-glazed blue eyes, and for a heartbeat — a single beautiful heartbeat — there was peace.

Until the nightmares began.

They came at night, usually after he slipped into a deeper sleep. They started with a twitch. A furrow of his brow. Then the machines would pick it up — heart rate rising, oxygen levels dipping, shallow, panicked breathing.

Katniss woke instantly every time.

The first night it happened, she thought he was seizing. The second, she was sure he was dying again.

It was the third night when she realized what it truly was — terror. The kind that stayed locked behind his eyelids, chasing him down through memories he couldn’t speak of yet.

He moaned around the tube, legs twitching beneath the blankets. His whole body tensed. The monitor spiked. Beep. Beep. Beep.

She sat up quickly, pressing a hand to his chest. “Peeta, it’s okay. You’re dreaming. You’re safe.”

He couldn’t wake. His face was scrunched in pain, a low whimper caught behind the oxygen tube. His fingers curled tight around hers, white-knuckled, trembling.

And Katniss—without thinking—started to sing.

It wasn’t planned. It just came, quiet and cracked from disuse.

“Deep in the meadow, under the willow…”

Peeta stilled slightly.

“A bed of grass, a soft green pillow…”

His heart rate slowed, just a little.

“Lay down your head and close your eyes…”

His breathing began to even out. The whimpers faded.

“And when again they open wide, the sun will rise…”

By the time she reached the end, the machines had calmed. He was still now. Still, but not locked in fear. His hand relaxed in hers, and his face softened.

She leaned close, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead, and kissed the spot gently.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “You’re safe.”

This became their ritual.

Every time the nightmares came, and they always came, Katniss woke with them. And she sang. Quietly, shakily, but with all the love and steadiness she didn’t know she was capable of until now.

She didn’t know if he understood the words.

But he always settled. Always calmed.

And each morning, when his eyes fluttered open and found her still there — disheveled, sleepless, hoarse from lullabies — he’d blink once.

Yes.
He remembered.

She stayed.
He wasn’t alone.

And day by day, he got better.

The day the tube came out was the first time in weeks Katniss allowed herself to hope that Peeta Mellark might one day come back to her completely.

It started simply—no alarms, no drama. Just a quiet discussion between Prim and the ICU doctor while Katniss stood beside the bed, her hand resting on Peeta’s wrist. He was more alert now, his eyes clearer, though still exhausted, and his fingers twitched at the mention of his own name.

“He’s breathing almost entirely on his own,” Prim explained softly. “We think it’s time to try.”

Katniss nodded silently. Her throat was dry. She hadn’t eaten that morning, or slept the night before. She didn’t need to.

She only needed this.

The nurses moved efficiently. They dimmed the lights slightly, checked the monitors, loosened the tape that had held the endotracheal tube in place for far too long. Peeta’s eyes widened as they touched the tube itself, fear flashing across his features.

“It’ll be uncomfortable,” Prim said gently, stepping into his line of sight. “But it will only last a few seconds. You’ll be able to speak after, but your throat will feel raw.”

He blinked once. He understood.

The removal was swift and careful, but even then, it made Peeta cough—a wet, painful sound, raw and rasping. His chest hitched with the effort, and his eyes squeezed shut as tears welled from the strain. Katniss instinctively leaned in, brushing her hand down his arm, whispering: “You’re okay. You did it. It’s out.”

He breathed through his mouth now, shallow and uncertain, but on his own.

His fingers moved slowly—reaching, grasping. She laced her hand in his again and felt the faint pressure return.

The doctor nodded to the nurse. “Let’s try. Something simple.”

Peeta’s mouth moved slightly. He blinked, unsure. The nurse leaned close.

“Just say your name,” she said gently. “Take your time.”

Peeta opened his mouth, coughed again, then paused. When the words came, they were hoarse, whisper-thin, like wind through broken glass.

“…My name… is Peeta Mellark…”

The room went still.

Katniss felt her heart slam against her ribs. Her eyes filled instantly. Not from the words—but from the sound of them. The sound of his voice—back from silence.

But Peeta flinched.

His brow furrowed, and he turned his head slightly, confused. He licked his lips, opened his mouth again.

“I… am from… District Twelve.”

He stopped, coughing again, and shook his head slightly.

His hand tugged at Katniss’s. His face twisted in something between confusion and grief.

“That’s my voice?” he rasped. His voice cracked. “That doesn’t… sound like me.”

Katniss leaned in, her thumb brushing across his knuckles.

“It is you,” she whispered. “Just tired. You’ve been through… so much. But it’s still you, Peeta.”

He closed his eyes. One tear slipped down.

Katniss reached up, caught it with her thumb, and rested her forehead against his temple.

“You’re back,” she whispered. “And I don’t care what your voice sounds like. You’re back. That’s all I ever wanted.”

He turned his head slowly toward her, their faces close now. His breath was shallow, raspy, but steady. His hand lifted with effort—touched her wrist, then slid weakly into her hair.

And for the first time, his lips formed her name.

Not loud. Not strong.

But hers.

“…Katniss…”

She closed her eyes and let herself cry. Not in panic. Not in pain. But in something that almost, almost felt like joy.

Peeta stayed quiet, even after the tube came out.

Not in pain—though there was plenty of that—but in the quiet way someone is when they’re learning how to exist again. He spoke only when asked, short, whispered replies that rasped from his throat like wind across cinders.

The voice didn’t feel like his. The words didn’t either.

So he chose silence most of the time. And Katniss didn’t push.

She stayed at his side, always. Sleeping curled in the chair, eating only what Prim brought her, rarely leaving even to shower. The nurses began whispering about bringing a cot into the ICU room, but Katniss refused. She wouldn’t miss a second. She couldn’t. Not after almost losing him again. Not after hearing the machines scream and seeing his eyes roll back while his lungs filled with water.

He was stable now. Healing, slowly. But she still flinched every time the monitors spiked.

Some nights, when the fever returned in waves, he would grip her hand until the shaking stopped. Some nights, he wept without noise, and she would stroke his hair and sing until he drifted again. But other times, they sat in silence. Just breathing. Just being.

It was enough.

Until one afternoon, when the light outside the underground corridor had dimmed to its evening shift, and she felt his fingers tug gently on hers.

Katniss looked up from where she’d dozed lightly, her body curled awkwardly in the chair, legs aching. “Peeta?” she whispered.

His voice was hoarse, barely a murmur.

“You’re… going to break your back in that chair.”

She blinked, surprised.

“I’m fine.”

He gave her a look—not sharp, not annoyed. Just real. Something familiar. Something that felt like him again.

“You’ve been in that chair for days.”

She didn’t respond, just lifted his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles.

“You need a bed,” he rasped, more firmly this time.

Her throat tightened.

“I’m not leaving you.”

“I’m not asking you to,” he whispered. “But I’m not dying anymore. And you are. One hour at a time.”

His eyes were sunken, rimmed with shadows. His cheekbones jutted like carved lines. He was still weak, and pale, and scarred. But there was a flicker of steel in his voice. Peeta Mellark, the boy who gave his bread to a starving girl in the rain, the boy who carried her through fire, was looking at her now like he wanted to carry her back.

“Please,” he added softly. “Let me take care of you. Just for one night.”

Her eyes burned. Her body hurt in every way possible. And the thought of stepping more than five feet away from him sent fear clawing up her spine.

But so did the look in his eyes.
Gentle. Loving. Worried for her.

She nodded, slowly.

“Only if Prim sits with you.”

He blinked once. Agreed.

She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. He closed his eyes and exhaled shakily.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

She stood, slowly, her body aching from the unnatural posture of days curled beside him.

“Wake me if you need anything,” she said. “I mean it. Anything.”

He gave her the barest hint of a smile.

“I always do.”

And as she turned to go, her heart breaking with each step, Katniss realized something new had returned to his voice—something fragile, but alive.

Care.

Not just from her to him.

But from him, back to her.

He was still Peeta.

And he was coming home.

Katniss returned to the ICU late in the morning, after her first full night of sleep in what felt like an eternity. The cot they’d brought in was warm, still rumpled. The blanket Gale had left folded at the end of the bed still smelled faintly of gunpowder and earth.

Her body felt… functional again. Her mind clearer, if still weighed down by exhaustion that no amount of sleep could erase. But there was color in her cheeks, and the ache between her shoulders had dulled. She walked faster through the medical corridor, barely greeting the nurse who passed her, her heart pounding just a little harder with every step.

When she opened the door to Peeta’s room, she froze.

He was sitting up. Not propped by machines or held by a nurse—sitting up, back weakly against the raised bed, head tilted slightly to one side.

Prim sat at his side, gently pressing a glass of water to his lips with quiet encouragement. Katniss watched as Peeta brought his hands up, trying to hold the cup himself. His hands were trembling, wrists still thin and bruised, but they moved.

He sipped.

And immediately winced.

His throat clenched as the water slid down, his face twisting in discomfort as he forced himself to swallow. A rough cough escaped him, and he turned slightly away, his breath shallow.

Katniss stepped forward. “Peeta—?”

Prim turned, smiled faintly. “He’s okay. We’re just trying water for the first time.”

Peeta glanced at Katniss. His lips were damp, his eyes brighter than the day before, though ringed with dark circles. A small, raspy smile twitched at the edge of his mouth.

“I missed you,” he said hoarsely. His voice still sounded rough, like gravel dragged through silk, but it was stronger now. His voice.

Katniss moved to his side, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. “I wasn’t gone long.”

Peeta looked at the glass of water like it was some kind of mythical trial. “It feels like I’ve never done this before.”

Prim gave him a sympathetic smile and reached for a napkin to dab the water from his chin. “Your throat’s still healing from the tube. And your stomach needs time too.”

“I don’t want to throw up again,” Peeta admitted, leaning back. His hand tightened on the blanket.

“You might,” Prim said honestly. “That’s normal. You’ve been on artificial nutrition for weeks. Your digestive system’s barely functioning. We’re going to reintroduce things slowly. Clear liquids. Then broth. Then real food, one bite at a time.”

Katniss reached for his hand, brushing her thumb across the back of it.

“Try again later?” she asked.

Peeta nodded. “Maybe in an hour or two.”

Prim looked up at Katniss. “Every other hour. Just sips. His body’s different now. He didn’t just get thinner—he grew. He’s taller than before.”

Katniss blinked. Looked at him.

And she saw it now.

Even hunched and pale, he was taller. His arms were longer, shoulders broader—though they’d lost mass, the shape of his bones had changed. He grew, while starving.

“It’s… too fast,” Katniss whispered. “His body’s catching up all at once.”

Prim nodded. “That’s why even drinking water makes him sick. But we’ll train his system like we’d train a wounded leg. A little more each time.”

Peeta gave her a faint smile. “You talk like I’m a baby bird.”

“You are,” Prim said gently. “But you’re also one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”

He looked at Katniss then, and something passed between them. Quiet understanding. Shared pain. Shared hope.

“I’ll try again,” he murmured. “For you.”

Katniss leaned in, pressed a kiss to his temple, and whispered, “Then I’ll stay right here. For you.”

And for the first time in weeks, they both allowed themselves to imagine a future—one tiny sip of water at a time.

The truth came in pieces.

Peeta had been awake for days now—eating spoonfuls of broth, trying water again, keeping it down more often than not. His strength was returning inch by inch, but his voice remained low, his movements careful. The hospital room still smelled of antiseptic and damp linen, but Peeta didn’t seem to notice anymore.

He was somewhere else most of the time.

In his mind.
In the cell.
With them.

Katniss knew it was coming before he said anything. She could feel it in the stillness between them. A tension that had nothing to do with physical pain and everything to do with memory.

He was lying back in bed, eyes open, fixed on the ceiling. Katniss sat in the chair, peeling the edge of a paper cup, waiting, giving him time.

Then finally, with a quiet rasp:

“I signed their death sentence.”

Katniss stilled. “Your family?”

Peeta nodded once. His jaw was tight.

He looked over at her now, and the weight in his eyes was unbearable. “Snow didn’t kill them out of strategy. He didn’t kill them to send a message to Panem. He killed them because I disobeyed.”

Katniss’s mouth went dry. “The warning. To District 13.”

Peeta nodded again. “When I told Flickerman, on live TV, that an attack was coming. When I tried to stop it. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was helping.”

“You were,” Katniss whispered. “You did help. You saved all of us.”

“I killed them,” he said flatly.

Katniss’s stomach twisted violently.

Peeta’s voice cracked at the end, and he looked away. He stared down at his thin, shaking hands like they didn’t belong to him. “They died because I opened my mouth.”

Katniss moved to his bedside and gently sat on the edge. She reached for his hand, and though he hesitated, he let her take it.

“You did what was right,” she said quietly. “You warned us. You saved District 13. You saved me.”

“I was supposed to protect them.”

“No,” Katniss said, firmer now. “Snow was the one who killed them. Snow made the choice. He was always going to hurt you, Peeta. Whether you stayed silent or not. This wasn’t punishment. This was cruelty.”

Peeta’s lips trembled, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“I can still hear my mother screaming.”

Katniss felt her heart tear open.

“I was chained to the wall,” he went on. “He lined them up. In the cell. Rye first. Right through the head. Then Cal. My mother—she screamed. She screamed at me. Said I’d killed them. That I should have stayed quiet.”

"My dad tried to speak,” Peeta whispered. “He tried to say something to me. But they didn’t wait. Just—shot him. Like he was nothing.”

He broke off, a dry sob catching in his throat.

Katniss leaned in and held him, pulling him into her arms, even as his body trembled beneath hers. He clung to her, his fingers digging into her back like he was afraid she’d vanish too.

“You’re here,” she whispered over and over, rocking him gently. “You’re here. And I’m here. We’re still here.”

Peeta didn’t answer, but the shaking slowly lessened.

Later, when he fell asleep against her, tears still damp on his cheeks, Katniss stayed there beside him.

And she didn’t promise him that it would stop hurting.
She didn’t pretend he would ever forget.

But she held him through it.

Because Snow had taken everything from him—
But not her.

Not anymore.

Chapter Text

The medical wing had finally fallen into a rare, fragile quiet. The kind of silence that came only after hours of pain, after vomiting, after tears that left the skin raw and eyes heavy. Peeta was asleep again—his fever finally dipped low enough for rest, his body curled slightly beneath thin sheets. Katniss lay beside him in the narrow bed, still dressed, one hand draped over his chest.

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. She never meant to. But her body had taken what it needed.

She didn’t hear the door open.

Didn’t hear the familiar drag-step of Johanna’s limp as she slipped into the room like a shadow. She looked worse than usual—gaunt, hair clumped into a messy braid, a bandage still wrapped tightly around her temple.

Her eyes flicked to Peeta. He didn’t stir. Her gaze shifted to the IV bags. She didn’t hesitate.

Johanna reached for the morphling.

There was already a thin vial in her hand—a used one, half-drained. She yanked the fresh one from Peeta’s IV pump and replaced it with hers in a practiced, fidgety motion. Her fingers trembled. Her jaw clenched.

Then she sank into the chair beside the bed, head lolling back, eyes fluttering closed as the warmth spread through her system.

She didn’t hear Katniss stir.

But Katniss woke.

A slow, instinctual rise from shallow sleep, as if something had gone wrong in the room’s air.

Then she heard it—Peeta. A faint groan from his side, barely a breath.

“…hurts…”

She sat up instantly.

Peeta’s brow was furrowed. His hand clutched the blanket near his ribs. His body trembled slightly.

The monitor showed a sharp rise in his vitals.

“Peeta?” she whispered, leaning over him. “Hey—hey, what’s wrong?”

He winced. “Burns… ribs. Feels like they’re tearing again…”

She glanced at the IV.

Then froze.

The morphling vial was half-empty.
Not from usage—just replaced. The seal was cracked. The line clumsily reattached. The wrong one.

Her eyes shot to the chair—

Johanna.

Asleep.
Slack-jawed.
The morphling’s real vial still clutched in her hand.

Katniss’s blood turned cold.

“Johanna!” she hissed, lunging from the bed.

Johanna didn’t stir.

“Johanna, what the hell did you do?!”

Peeta groaned again, twisting weakly in the bed. “Katniss…?”

Johanna blinked awake slowly, disoriented, eyes glazed. “Wha…?”

Katniss was already at the IV, ripping the stolen vial from her hand and replacing Peeta’s medication.

“You took his morphling,” she said, voice low and furious. “He’s barely surviving, and you—you stole it.”

“I just needed a little,” Johanna mumbled, eyes fluttering closed again. “Haven’t slept in days… headaches… noise—”

“You could’ve killed him!”

The force of her voice snapped Johanna’s head upright.

Peeta coughed from the bed, his hand reaching for Katniss. “It’s okay—Katniss—stop…”

Katniss turned on Johanna. “You think because you’ve suffered, because we’ve all suffered, that you get to take someone else’s pain meds while he’s lying there with cracked ribs and infections and nightmares he can’t wake up from?!”

“I didn’t mean to—” Johanna’s voice cracked, but Katniss wasn’t done.

“You are not the only one with scars.”

“Neither are you,” Johanna snapped back, staggering to her feet, veins full of morphling. “But at least you get to cry over yours in someone else’s bed.”

“Get out,” Katniss seethed.

“Enough!” Peeta’s voice cut through them—raspy, weak, but sharp.

Both women froze.

He was upright now, just barely, his face pale and damp with sweat, but his eyes were clear—and tired.

“Please,” he rasped. “No more fighting. Not over me.”

Katniss stared at him, breath shaking, heart pounding.

Johanna rubbed her face and looked away, suddenly ashamed.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered. “Wasn’t thinking.”

Peeta nodded faintly. “I know. But he’s not here anymore, Jo. Snow’s not here. We are. And we don’t get to hurt each other just because he did.”

Johanna nodded, swallowing hard.

Then she limped out, silent.

Katniss sank back beside Peeta, her hands shaking.

He took one of them, laced their fingers together, even as his own trembled.

“I’m okay,” he whispered. “I just… need you calm.”

Katniss let her forehead rest gently against his.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I can’t lose you. Not again. Not for her.”

“You won’t.”

And though pain still twisted through his chest, and the ghosts still hadn’t left him, Peeta held her hand just a little tighter.

Because in a world still burning, they were learning—one breath at a time—how to live through the ashes.

Peeta was no longer dying.

That alone still startled Katniss sometimes, especially when she turned into his room and found him upright in bed, wearing real clothes—an off-white shirt too loose across his shoulders and soft gray pants someone had dug up in District 13’s supply closet.

He looked thin, still. Gaunt. He was paler than he’d ever been in the Seam, and his collarbones stood out sharply beneath the fabric. But he was alive. He was out of intensive care. And he was drawing.

The sketchpad rested across his lap, a pencil smudged between his fingers. His right hand trembled slightly, but he worked through it, pausing only when the pain in his shoulder became too much, or when another dry cough overtook him. Katniss sat beside him now on the bed, watching the faint lines come to life beneath his fingers—shapes that looked like District 12 rooftops, silhouettes of trees, a face half-finished. Maybe his mother’s. Maybe his own.

He hadn’t said.

The coughing returned, soft but persistent. He hunched forward slightly, pressing his arm to his side to brace the pain in his ribs.

“You should rest,” Katniss murmured, reaching to take the pencil from his hand.

“I rested for weeks,” Peeta rasped, breath catching. “I need to do something now.”

His tone wasn’t harsh. But there was an edge to it—desperation, maybe. Focus sharpened by loss.

He set the sketchpad aside and leaned back against the wall. The sunlight filtering through the narrow vent panels gave his skin a faint golden glow.

Katniss reached to adjust his pillow, and he let her, tired but thankful.

“Do you ever think…” he began, slowly, “what if this fails?”

She looked at him, startled.

“This,” he repeated. “The rebellion. The bombing raids. The broadcasts. All of it. What if it’s not enough?”

Katniss swallowed. “We’re gaining ground.”

Peeta shook his head faintly. “Snow is always two steps ahead. He knew I loved you. He used my family. He used me. He turned me into a weapon and nearly made me forget your name.”

“You remembered,” she whispered.

“Barely,” he said, then closed his eyes for a moment, letting the silence stretch. “I don’t want to live in a world where he wins. I can’t.”

Katniss moved closer, her arm brushing his. “He won’t.”

Peeta’s jaw tensed. “He might. Unless we stop him. Really stop him. Not just fight him. Not just damage him. We have to end it. End him.”

His voice wasn’t raised. But it had weight.

Katniss looked at him then, really looked—into the face that had once only known how to hope, how to forgive. The boy who painted dandelions and held her hand in fire.

And now, that same boy was saying enough.

“This rebellion has to succeed,” he whispered. “Too much was lost. Too many people died believing it could.”

His voice caught, and he exhaled slowly, blinking away the sting behind his eyes.

“If we stop fighting now, then they didn’t just die. They were killed for nothing.”

It started with something small.

Peeta had been trying to walk more that day, legs unsteady but determined. A short trip down the hallway with Katniss at his side, one hand gripping her arm, the other wrapped tightly around the pole holding his IV fluids. It was the farthest he’d made it. Ten full steps. They’d celebrated with smiles—small but real.

Later, Katniss helped him sit on the edge of the bed, trying to coax him into eating again. A nurse brought in a bowl of clear broth, and a small glass of water. The cup tipped as she handed it off, just slightly, sloshing down the front of Peeta’s shirt and dampening the thin fabric.

That was all it took.

The moment the water touched him—cold, sudden, spreading across his chest—Peeta went rigid. His breath hitched.

Katniss noticed the change instantly.

“Peeta?”

He didn’t answer.

His hands trembled. His eyes unfocused, staring down at the wet spot on his shirt like it was blood. His breathing turned sharp. Jagged.

“Peeta—hey—look at me.”

Still nothing.

Then he gasped.

A broken, panicked sound that made Katniss shoot to her feet.

His back arched slightly. His hand gripped the edge of the bedframe, knuckles white, chest rising and falling too fast. He wasn’t here anymore—his eyes saw something else. The cell. The pain. The flooding of his lungs. The choking, the smell of mold and death and his family’s corpses beside him.

“No—no, it’s not real,” Katniss said, grabbing his shoulders. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

Peeta whimpered and tried to pull away, breath rasping violently in his throat.

She started to sing—desperate, trembling.

“Deep in the meadow, under the willow…”

But he didn’t calm. His body jerked, breath ragged.

She kept going, voice breaking. “Lay down your head and close your eyes…”

He was crying now, silent and terrified.

And Katniss snapped.

“PEETA!” she screamed, her voice cracking in the small room. “Please—come back! You’re not there anymore! It’s not the Capitol! It’s me! I’m here! Look at me!”

She grabbed his face in both hands, her tears now falling freely, splashing against his skin. “You promised me you’d stay. Don’t disappear now. Please. I can’t— I can’t do this without you.”

Her voice broke into sobs.

And then—slowly, painfully—Peeta blinked.

Once. Twice.

His chest still heaved, but the panic dulled just slightly. His eyes found hers. Wet. Lost. Human.

“Katniss…” he rasped.

She let out a sob of relief and pulled him to her, clinging so tightly it hurt. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

He collapsed against her, arms wrapping weakly around her waist. They held each other like drowning survivors on the shore, fingers tangled, shaking with exhaustion and terror and unspeakable grief.

“It was just water,” he whispered. “I know it was, but I couldn’t— I felt it. I was there again.”

“I know,” Katniss choked. “I know.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” she said, kissing his hair. “It’s not your fault. You’re surviving. That’s enough.”

They stayed there like that, rocking gently.

Eventually, the trembling faded.

They lay back on the narrow hospital bed, still wrapped around each other, her arm across his chest, his head tucked against her neck. Both of them drained. Quiet.

Katniss’s fingers stroked the back of his neck in slow, steady circles.

“You’re safe,” she whispered again. “With me. Always.”

Peeta didn’t answer.

He just breathed. Slowly. Deeply.

And for the first time since the war began, they fell asleep together.
In pain. But not alone.
Still shaking. But alive.
Held in the only peace they had left—each other.

When Katniss woke, Peeta was already looking at her.

The hospital room was dim, lit only by the blue glow of the wall panel. They’d fallen asleep wrapped around each other after the panic attack, their bodies twisted together on the narrow bed like it was the only way to stay anchored to the world.

Her hand was still resting on his chest. His heartbeat—steady now, not wild or panicked—thudded softly beneath her palm.

He didn’t say anything. He just looked at her. The way he used to look in the mornings before the Games. Quiet. Sure. Full of something too tender to name.

But there was fear, too.

The same fear she felt.

“What?” she whispered, her voice rough from sleep.

Peeta’s voice was soft, cautious. “Are you okay?”

Katniss nodded slowly. “Are you?”

His lips lifted in the faintest smile. “I’m better when you’re here.”

She swallowed hard. Her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, pulling herself just slightly closer.

“I thought I lost you,” she said, her voice cracking. “So many times.”

“I thought I lost me,” he murmured. “But… I never stopped looking for you.”

Katniss looked into his eyes—tired, bruised, but present. And for the first time, she didn’t hold back.

She leaned in.

No cameras. No Capitol. No arena. No rebellion.

Just them.

Their lips met—gently at first. A breath. A brush. A moment of hesitation.

Then Peeta kissed her back.

Softly. Fully.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t part of a story someone else wrote for them.

It was real.

Katniss cupped his face in her hands, his stubble rough beneath her fingertips, his mouth warm, and trembling against hers. His fingers tangled in her hair. He kissed her like he had nothing left but her—and that was exactly what she needed. What they needed.

It was quiet and slow and aching.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them breathless, Katniss kept her forehead pressed to his.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

Then Peeta whispered, “That’s the first time you’ve kissed me just because you wanted to.”

Katniss closed her eyes, a tear slipping free down her cheek.

“And I’ll do it again,” she said. “Because I want to. Not because anyone’s watching. Not because I’m afraid. Just… because it’s you.”

Peeta exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for years.

She kissed him again—softer this time, lingering.

And when they curled back into each other, their fingers intertwined, the space between them was finally quiet.

Not because the war was over.
Not because they were healed.
But because this, at last, belonged only to them.

Peeta was sketching in the quiet when Haymitch Abernathy finally spoke.

“I was wondering if your hands were still attached,” came the familiar, gruff voice from the doorway. “Or if the Capitol took those too and just replaced them with perfectly polite artist replacements.”

Peeta glanced up, caught off guard—and not by the sarcasm.

By the fact that Haymitch was actually talking to him.

Haymitch stepped inside, coat slung over one shoulder, hair a mess, eyes bloodshot—but clear. Not drunk. Not yet, anyway.

Peeta smirked faintly. “Hello to you, too.”

“You look like crap,” Haymitch said casually as he dragged a chair across the floor. “Good to see some things haven’t changed.”

Peeta huffed a breath, amused despite the ache in his ribs. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Haymitch sat down across from him, elbows on his knees, gaze flicking over Peeta like he was still trying to convince himself the boy was real.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other.

Then Haymitch cleared his throat and spoke—quieter now. Less bite. “I’ve been lurking around like a creepy uncle for days. Figured it was time I actually opened my damn mouth.”

“You’re not that creepy,” Peeta said. “You just have the social skills of a half-trained raccoon.”

Haymitch cracked a lopsided grin. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me this week.”

Silence settled again—gentler this time.

Haymitch rubbed his neck. “You probably think I’m here to apologize.”

Peeta raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

“Depends. If you want the full emotional breakdown version, I’ll have to leave and come back drunk enough to sob into your lap.”

Peeta managed a tired smile, but didn’t say anything.

Haymitch let out a breath. “Look. I messed up. Bad. I told you I’d keep your family safe. I believed I could. And then Coin happened. And Snow did what Snow always does—used good people to make a point.”

Peeta’s face tightened.

Haymitch watched him carefully, then added, more softly, “I didn’t fight hard enough, kid. I tried, but trying doesn’t mean much when you don’t shove hard enough to matter.”

Peeta’s fingers gripped the edge of his sketchpad. “He made me watch. One by one.”

Haymitch nodded. “I know.”

“My mom… she blamed me.”

Haymitch leaned back, sighing. “You ever notice how grief makes people say the cruelest possible thing right before they go?”

Peeta nodded slowly.

“Doesn’t mean it was true,” Haymitch said. “It just means she was scared. Angry. And trying to hurt the only thing left in reach.”

They both fell quiet again. This time, Haymitch didn’t fill the silence with a joke. He just let it settle.

“I still see them,” Peeta said quietly. “When I close my eyes.”

“Yeah,” Haymitch murmured. “That part doesn’t go away.”

“You see yours?”

Haymitch nodded. “My girl. My kid brother. Even my mother.”

Peeta looked up at him. “How do you keep going?”

Haymitch gave him a lopsided smile. “Well, step one is sarcasm. Step two is yelling at people who try to help. Step three—make friends with exactly two people and no more. Preferably ones who are too stubborn to leave.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Peeta said. “I think I’ve got two.”

Then Haymitch stood, brushing off his coat. “All right. That’s enough emotional growth for one day. My reputation’s hanging by a thread.”

“Thanks, Haymitch,” Peeta said.
And then he left, muttering something about emotional teenagers and the downfall of man.

The nightmare came like they always did—fast, violent, and silent.
It was never the gunshot.
Never the fire.
Not even the faces of his dead family.

This time, it was cold hands. Fingers that weren’t his. Voices that lied. And the crushing, sick weight of helplessness. Of shame.

The nightmare ripped Peeta awake with a strangled gasp.
For a heartbeat he didn’t know where he was—only that cold hands were pinning him down, a mouth he didn’t want was on his neck, and every part of him ached with the shame of it.

Then he saw the dim ceiling of the rehab room and Katniss sitting up beside him, eyes wide with worry.

“Peeta?” she whispered, already reaching. “It’s just a dream. You’re here with me.”

He shook his head. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t bear her touch just yet. He swung his legs off the bed, stumbled to the corner, and crouched there, arms locked tight around himself. The thin cotton of the T-shirt clung to sweat-soaked skin. He felt filthy.

Katniss followed but stopped a meter away, giving him space he couldn’t ask for.

“Tell me what you need,” she said softly.

Peeta tried, but the words strangled. He stared at the floor, hands trembling.

A quiet knock broke the silence. Katniss glanced back; Peeta didn’t move.

Finnick slipped in, carrying two mugs of peppermint tea. His brow furrowed the moment he saw Peeta on the floor.

“Couldn’t sleep either,” Finnick murmured. He set one mug on the desk, kept the other. Instead of taking a chair, he lowered himself to the floor beside Peeta—far enough not to crowd him, close enough to share the darkness.

Katniss sank onto the floor on Peeta’s other side, knees drawn up. She kept her hands folded so he wouldn’t feel trapped.

No one spoke for a minute. Just breathing.

Finnick broke the hush first, voice barely above a whisper. “I used to sit exactly like that. Nights after the Capitol parties. Couldn’t touch the bed. Couldn’t stand the sheets—they smelled like perfume I never asked for.”

Peeta’s shoulders hitched—but he listened.

“Sometimes,” Finnick went on, “I’d lie on the tiles in a hotel bathroom with the shower running cold, just to feel clean again. Never really worked.” He sipped his tea. “You’re not alone in this, Peeta.”

Peeta swallowed. His voice rasped out, thin and raw. “It feels… worse than dying.”

Katniss’s breath caught. She reached, slowly, and touched his forearm; this time he didn’t pull away.

“What happened—” he faltered, shame burning his face. “What they did… I can’t even say it out loud.”

Finnick nodded, eyes sad but steady. “They sold me the minute I won my Games. Senators, stylists, presidents’ friends. I learned to smile while they did whatever they wanted.” He tipped his head toward Katniss. “The Capitol uses bodies the way it uses bombs. Anything to keep people afraid.”

Tears slipped down Peeta’s cheek. He wiped them with a shaking hand, furious at himself.

Katniss edged closer until her shoulder touched his. “You don’t have to tell us details,” she said. “But you never have to be ashamed with me. Ever.”

Peeta looked at her—really looked—and saw no judgement, only heartbreak for him. His chest loosened a fraction.

Finnick set his mug down. “Here’s what helped me,” he said. “Name what you still own. Your hands—still yours. Your heart—scarred, but yours. Your voice—shaky, but no one controls it now. Start with one thing.”

Peeta stared at his hands resting on his knees. After a moment: “These sketches. They’re mine.”

“Good,” Finnick said, a soft smile ghosting across his face. “Add one tomorrow. And the day after.”

Peeta’s breathing slowed.

Katniss eased an arm around his waist. He let her. She felt the tremor in his ribs but also the steady push of his lungs.

Finnick rose quietly. “Tea’s there if you want it. I’m across the hall—knock any hour, no questions.” He slipped out, the door clicking softly behind him.

Peeta leaned into Katniss then, forehead touching hers. “I thought you’d hate me if you knew how weak I was.”

“Never,” she whispered. “I hate the people who hurt you. Not you.”

He exhaled a shaky breath; she caught it with her own. They slid back to the bed, curling beneath the blanket—Katniss on her back, Peeta tucked against her side, his ear over her heartbeat like a metronome guiding him out of the dark. She stroked his hair until the tension left his shoulders.

“Your voice,” she murmured, “is still yours. And you can use it whenever you’re ready. Even just to say my name.”

Peeta’s eyes fluttered. He pressed a faint kiss to her collarbone and whispered, “Katniss,” as if proving it to himself.

They drifted to sleep that way—two broken pieces holding each other together.

Peeta sat on the edge of the bed, buttoning the last of the clean shirt they’d given him. It hung a little looser than he would’ve liked—his shoulders still lacked their former weight—but it was real clothes, not a hospital gown. He hadn’t worn real clothes in weeks.

His heart was pounding. Not from fear—at least, not exactly.

The door opened with a soft knock, and the doctor stepped in. Dr. Aureen, her badge read. She was calm, quiet, mid-40s, with a direct way of speaking that Peeta had come to appreciate. She didn’t soften the truth, but she didn’t deliver it like a scalpel, either.

“Morning, Peeta,” she greeted. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” he said, standing slowly. He winced slightly at the pull in his ribs, but didn’t complain.

She smiled. “That’s good enough for me.”

Katniss stood in the corner, arms folded, watching him with something close to pride. Not the loud kind. The quiet, fierce kind that made Peeta feel steadier on his feet.

Dr. Aureen picked up her tablet, scanning his file. “Your lung is clear. Infection’s gone. Sutures have held. Weight’s still low, but climbing. Your shoulder’s healing slower than I’d like, but you can walk without assistance, breathe on your own, and go up stairs.”

“Slowly,” Peeta added.

“Slow is fine,” she replied. Then her voice softened. “No more IVs. No more monitors. You’re cleared for release.”

The words hit harder than he expected.

Cleared.

No more machines.
No more sterile light.
No more being just a patient.

Katniss stepped forward and took his hand. He squeezed back gently.

Dr. Aureen handed him a thin packet of instructions—pain management, nutrition, breathing exercises, how to recognize a panic attack before it took over. There was a small bottle of pills in her other hand.

“Mild sedatives,” she explained. “Only if needed. And sleeping aids, but I’m told someone already has a better method.” She gave Katniss a brief, knowing glance.

Peeta chuckled softly. “She sings.”

“Then you may not need these at all.”

He took them anyway. Some nights, singing wasn’t enough.

Katniss helped him gather his things—his sketchbook, the clothes Gale had brought, the necklace Prim gave him with a carved piece of wood that reminded him of the bakery. He turned back one last time, eyes sweeping the small room.

“I almost died here,” he said softly.

“But you didn’t,” Katniss answered. “You came back.”

Peeta looked at her. “Only because you were waiting.”

She stepped closer and touched his cheek. “And I always will.”

When they stepped into the corridor, nurses looked up—some smiled, some nodded quietly. Not as a celebration. But as a witnessing.

They all had seen how close he’d come.

And now, he walked out on his own two feet, slow but upright, his hand in hers.

Peeta Mellark was no longer a patient.
No longer a hostage.
No longer lost.

He was coming back. Day by day.

And from now on, he would walk forward—through pain, through memory, through the ash of everything taken—with Katniss beside him.

Chapter Text

The first steps into District 13 were harder than Peeta expected—not physically, though his legs still ached with every stride—but emotionally. The quiet, calculated hum of the underground world was unlike anything he had known. No wind, no sky, no scent of pine trees or rain or coal dust—just stone and steel and the low murmur of discipline.

But it was alive.

The corridors were lit with soft white panels. The walls were smooth and reinforced. People in gray uniforms moved with purpose, but when they saw him—they paused. Some stopped walking altogether. Some simply turned their heads.

Peeta noticed first the children. A little girl with thick braids and wide brown eyes. A boy clinging to his mother’s sleeve, staring with unblinking curiosity. Then the adults—soldiers, medics, engineers—all of them looking. At him.

He shifted uncomfortably, shoulders stiff.

“Why are they staring?” he whispered to Katniss, who walked close beside him, hand lightly on his arm.

“They know,” she said softly. “About the warning. The bombing. You saved all of them, Peeta.”

His brow furrowed. “I don’t even remember saying the words.”

“You didn’t have to,” Katniss said. “You did it. That’s what they remember.”

As they walked deeper into the district—past the communal kitchen, the scheduling office, the classroom pods—heads turned. One older woman pressed a hand to her chest and whispered something to her partner, who nodded solemnly.

Peeta looked down, overwhelmed.

Katniss stopped them for a moment, stepping in front of him. “You’re allowed to be seen,” she said. “They’re not judging you. They’re grateful. You saved their children.”

Peeta exhaled slowly. He nodded. “It’s just… a lot.”

They resumed walking. The hall opened up to a residential level—Module B. The walls here were curved, doors lining either side like little portals. Katniss led him to one near the corner: B-313.

“This is yours,” she said. “They assigned it while you were still recovering.”

Peeta stepped inside and froze.

It wasn’t large, but it was his. Clean bedding, a shelf for belongings, a chair, a small desk, and a narrow but functioning bathroom. Everything was plain, but after the Capitol cell—after chains and cold and rot—it felt like a palace.

He turned slowly, taking in the room with reverence.

“This is mine?” he whispered.

Katniss nodded.

He reached out and touched the desk, then the blanket. “It’s real,” he murmured. “I forgot what real felt like.”

Katniss didn’t respond at first. She just moved past him, sat her duffel bag on the floor near the wall, then turned to unzip her own. She didn’t ask. She didn’t announce it.

She just started unpacking.

Peeta stared.

“You’re moving in?”

Katniss turned to him, expression firm but soft. “Of course I am. You really thought I was going to let you sleep here alone?”

“I—no. I just…”

She stepped forward and took his hands. “I want to be where you are. Wherever you are.”

And then she kissed him.

Not rushed. Not to calm a storm. But because she wanted to. Because the world had tried to tear them apart, and somehow, against all odds, they had found a room with four walls and a door that shut and a future that felt like it might just belong to them.

Peeta kissed her back, arms pulling her closer.

And when they broke apart, breathless and quiet, she smiled.

Peeta tried not to flinch with every step down the corridor toward the District 13 mess hall, but his ribs still hadn’t quite forgiven him for standing upright like a functional human being. Every breath came with a small reminder that healing took its time. Still, he walked, one hand casually brushing against Katniss’s just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

The whispers started before the doors even opened.

“Is that him?”
“He’s the one who warned us.”
“He looks so thin.”
“He’s walking.”

Peeta kept his head down, but Katniss didn’t let go of his hand. She squeezed once. He breathed a little easier.

The mess hall was filled with the low hum of trays sliding and conversations dying mid-sentence when they stepped inside. Heads turned.

Katniss straightened. If anyone had something to say, they’d have to say it to both of them.

But before anyone else could speak, a familiar voice—tight with emotion and high with fuss—rang out across the room.

“Peeta Mellark!”

Effie Trinket.

Peeta blinked as she stormed across the room in an outfit made entirely of gray-issue District 13 clothing, accessorized with sheer force of will. Her hair was up, her lashes still faintly dusted with something sparkly. And she was crying.

“Look at you,” she whispered, then pulled him into a hug that made him stifle a sharp grunt.

“Effie—ribs,” he managed.

“Oh! Oh, my darling, I’m sorry!” she pulled back at once, fluttering her hands. “But look at you! You’re standing! You’re alive!”

“I am,” Peeta smiled faintly, wincing as he adjusted. “Barely, thanks to Snow.”

Effie dabbed her eyes. “I told Haymitch he owed you everything. I’ve been supervising your meals, by the way. Those powdered nutrition bricks are a crime against civilization.”

Katniss coughed to cover a laugh.

Peeta touched her arm. “It’s good to see you.”

Effie took a breath, straightened her jacket, and patted his cheek. “You, too. Now, sit. Eat. Don’t you dare stand for the anthem if someone starts humming it.”

He let her shepherd him to the long cafeteria table where the rest of their group had gathered.

Finnick stood, helped pull out the bench for Peeta like an old friend. Annie smiled warmly beside him, her hand wrapped tightly in his.

Delly Cartwright beamed the moment she saw him. “Peeta!” She practically tackled him in a hug, managing not to hurt him—but just barely.

He laughed, surprised and touched. “Delly—hey.”

“I thought we lost you,” she said, voice wobbling, eyes glistening.

“I thought I was lost, too,” he admitted. “But I’m here.”

Gale offered a small nod from across the table. “Good to see you out of the med ward.”

“Good to be out.”

Madge, seated beside Gale, gave a quiet wave and a small smile. “There’s bread today. Not as good as yours.”

Peeta smirked. “Nothing ever is.”

Then Johanna threw a spoon across the table at him.

“Nice of you to join the land of the breathing,” she muttered. “Now maybe Katniss’ll stop looking like someone kicked her in the face every five minutes.”

“Thanks, Jo,” Katniss said dryly, taking her seat beside Peeta.

They all settled. Conversation returned in pieces. People stared less. The food was bland, but Peeta ate it. Slowly. Carefully. Every bite a small win.

And though the pain in his ribs hadn’t gone, and the weight of memory never quite lifted, there was something warm in his chest now.

A table.

A place.

People.

And Katniss beside him, her thigh pressed against his, her hand brushing his beneath the table, steady and present.

He was alive.
And for the first time in a long time—he felt like he belonged.

Peeta’s body was getting stronger.

He could run laps now without wheezing. Hold a training blade without his hands shaking. He could spar with Gale or Finnick, take a hit and come back with one of his own. He could lift, punch, draw, eat. His shoulders were broadening again. His stomach didn’t turn at food anymore. His ribs still ached, and his shoulder remained stiff in the cold, but he was healing.

His body, at least.

But the rest of him lagged behind.

The dreams were the worst.

He didn’t remember them all—only that when they came, they came hard. Three, sometimes four times a night. He’d wake in a cold sweat, panting, heart racing, fingers clenched in the sheets or clutching Katniss’s arm without even knowing it.

Sometimes he cried without sound.
Other times he didn’t move at all, locked in the grip of old terror.
Katniss would find him sitting upright in bed, staring at the wall.
Not seeing her. Not seeing anything.

His parents always returned in those dreams. Always.

His father’s voice whispering in the dark.
His mother’s final scream.
His brothers—cold and silent beside him.
And Snow. Always Snow.

The cold tile of the Capitol cell.
The feeling of being watched.
The humiliating hands. The scent of antiseptic and blood.
The shame he couldn’t speak of.

He’d often slip out of bed before Katniss woke and disappear into the shower, standing under the water until it ran lukewarm, then cold. Some days she’d find him sitting on the tile, his head in his hands, steam rising around him like smoke.

She didn’t always say anything. She’d just sit outside the curtain and wait.

He fell asleep at the mess hall table sometimes. Mid-meal, mid-conversation. His forehead resting on folded arms, breath slow and ragged. Once, Delly had gently brushed the hair from his face and whispered, “He’s just tired.”

But it wasn’t just tired. Everyone knew.

He trained hard, harder than most. It gave him a sense of purpose. Something to do. Something to control. But the strength in his arms couldn’t chase away the grey behind his eyes.

His smiles were few and fleeting. A half-smile for Annie when she brought him dried fruit. A tired one when Johanna elbowed him and muttered, “Try not to mope so loudly—some of us are trying to be emotionally repressed in peace.” That earned a quiet laugh. But it faded fast.

Depression clung to him like mist in the early mornings.

Sometimes he stared into his tea and said nothing for half an hour.

Other times he talked. Mostly about Snow.

“He didn’t just want to kill me,” Peeta muttered one day during lunch, his fork unmoving in his hand. “He wanted to unmake me.”

Finnick, seated across from him, nodded solemnly. “He did the same to all of us. That’s how he stays in power. You don’t fight a rebellion with just bombs—you use shame.”

Peeta shook his head slowly. “He knew my father loved to sing. He used to hum when he worked. Snow made sure I never heard music again without remembering…”

He trailed off. Everyone at the table let the silence stand. Katniss reached under the table, found his hand, and held it tightly.

One morning, after a brutal training session, Katniss found him curled on their bed, fully clothed, still in his boots, staring at the ceiling.

“Why are you awake?” she asked.

“I never fell asleep,” he said flatly. “I don’t want to see them tonight.”

She didn’t ask who. She already knew.

So she climbed into the bed beside him, boots and all, and laid her head on his chest.

“I’ll stay awake with you,” she whispered.

Peeta wrapped an arm around her. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

And they stayed that way, awake in the dark, heartbeat to heartbeat.

Because trauma doesn’t disappear.
Not even when the body gets stronger.
But sometimes, surviving looks like two people breathing in the dark.

It started slow. Soft. Careful.

The lights in their small apartment had been dimmed, the artificial hum of District 13’s main grid reduced to a hush behind their bedroom walls. The day had been long—training, meetings, another thin briefing on Capitol troop movement—but here, in this quiet corner of the underground world, it was just the two of them.

Katniss lay curled beside Peeta on their narrow bed, her fingers gently trailing up his arm. He was warm. Steady. Breathing calmly. It was one of the better nights—he hadn’t flinched at dinner, hadn’t slipped into silence during training. He’d even smiled, just a little, when Johanna had insulted his “baker arms.”

Katniss leaned in, pressed her lips to his neck—light as a whisper.

Peeta didn’t move at first.

So she kissed his jaw next. Then his mouth.

He kissed her back. Gently. Longingly.

She shifted closer, hand slipping beneath his shirt, resting over his chest. He tensed beneath her touch, but didn’t pull away. Not yet.

“Peeta,” she whispered against his skin. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, breath catching. “I think so.”

She kissed him again, a little deeper this time. Her hand moved slowly—testing, comforting, seeking closeness. Her fingers slid down the line of his ribs, and that’s when everything changed.

He went rigid.

Not the way someone does when startled. But the way someone remembers.

His breath hitched.

“Peeta?”

He pulled back sharply, his hand gripping her wrist—not to hurt, but to stop. His chest rose too fast. His pupils were blown wide. His body started to shake.

“No—no, I can’t—I can’t—” His voice cracked, thin and strangled.

Katniss froze, heart hammering. “Okay. It’s okay.”

He was breathing too fast now. Sitting upright, gripping the edge of the bed, hunched like the air had been knocked out of him.

“Peeta—breathe with me. Look at me.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—I thought I could—I wanted to—” His hands trembled violently. “I don’t want to feel that way again—I don’t want—don’t want to be touched like that. Not now. Not now—”

“Shh, Peeta.” Katniss was beside him in a second, not touching, just near. “You’re safe. I swear to you. You’re safe. It was me. It was just me.”

“I know,” he gasped. “I know it’s you and I trust you, but my body doesn’t—it doesn’t know the difference yet.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks—hot, silent, furious tears.

Katniss knelt in front of him and cupped his face carefully, so slowly he had time to pull away if he needed to.

He didn’t.

“I’m not angry,” she said softly. “Not disappointed. Not even surprised. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. Ever.”

He sobbed once, then leaned into her touch, his forehead pressing against hers.

“I hate that it still owns me,” he whispered. “I hate that he still has a piece of this part of me.”

“He doesn’t,” she said, voice fierce through her tears. “Not anymore. You still have yourself, Peeta. And you get to decide when and how to give that to someone again. Not him. You.”

They sat like that for a long time—forehead to forehead, knees pressed together, hearts pounding out the pain.

Eventually, Peeta laid back down, and Katniss curled in beside him. This time, she just held his hand. No expectation. No pressure.

Just presence.

Just love.

And when his breathing slowed, and the shaking stopped, he whispered:
“Thank you for not letting me break.”

“You’re not broken,” she said.

The room had gone quiet again.

Peeta had fallen asleep hours after the panic, worn out by emotion and memory, curled on his side with his back to Katniss, one arm tucked under his head. She watched him for a long time—his face soft now, peaceful in a way he rarely was while awake.

But her chest ached.

It was a cold, gnawing feeling she hadn’t expected. One she didn’t want to feel.

She knew it wasn’t his fault. She knew that.

And still—it hurt.

She’d only wanted to be close. To give comfort, not take something. To remind him of love, of safety. Of touch that was real and warm and his to choose.

But he’d recoiled. Not from her, but from something inside him—and that truth didn’t make the sting any duller.

She lay on her back staring at the ceiling, her hand resting between them on the mattress, inches from his.

It wasn’t fair to feel rejected. It wasn’t even logical. But it was real.

And when the guilt finally cracked her open, the tears came.

Silently at first.

Then a small, shaky breath. Then another.

She rolled onto her side, facing the wall, shoulders tight. She didn’t want to wake him. Didn’t want him to see her cry. Not after everything.

But the tears kept coming.

Because it wasn’t just tonight.
It was everything.
The war.
The trauma.
The constant walking on glass around pain no one could explain.
Loving someone who hurt and couldn’t always let her in.

Loving Peeta—and sometimes feeling like she wasn’t enough to chase the darkness back.

And still, she wanted him. Not just physically—but emotionally. She wanted to be the one he turned to, not turned away from. And when he pulled back—when his panic exploded and hers had no place to go—it left her aching in the spaces he didn’t know he’d created.

She bit her lip, pressing her face to the pillow, trying not to make a sound.

Then a voice—soft, broken—whispered behind her:

“Katniss?”

She froze.

Peeta had turned. His hand reached out, fingers brushing her back gently. She hadn’t heard him stir.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said. “I could feel you crying.”

She didn’t answer.

“Please look at me.”

She turned slowly, tears streaking her cheeks, her lip trembling.

Peeta’s eyes filled instantly. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t rejecting you. I was just… scared. It had nothing to do with you.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I know, Peeta. But it still hurt.”

He moved closer, wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight against his chest. His own breath hitched.

“You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t,” he said. “You’re allowed to hurt too.”

She buried her face in his shoulder, and they cried together this time.

Not because they blamed each other.

But because love in a wounded world meant wanting, and waiting, and hurting—and choosing each other anyway.

Peeta kissed her temple, over and over, like an apology he couldn’t voice.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when I freeze. Even when I fail. I love you.”

Katniss clutched him tighter.

And in the stillness that followed, wrapped in grief and grace, they held each other through the ache.
Two survivors, trying to love without breaking.
And learning that sometimes love meant breaking together.

The summons came early—too early for the headaches that lingered behind Peeta’s eyes or the heaviness in Katniss’s limbs from another night of fractured sleep. A quiet knock on the door. Then another. Followed by a clipped voice from the hallway:

“President Coin requests your presence. Briefing room 7. Now.”

Katniss sat up instantly, already on edge. Peeta groaned softly beside her, running a hand down his face. He hadn’t slept much. Again.

They dressed in silence. District 13 grey. Boots. Plain jackets. Hair tied back, expressions neutral. Soldiers’ clothes. Soldiers’ faces. But when Katniss reached for Peeta’s hand before they left, he took it, gave it a light squeeze. It meant something, even now.

The briefing room was cold and dim, like most of 13. Coin was already there, flanked by Plutarch and a tight-jawed Boggs. She didn’t stand when they entered.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, as if they’d had a choice. Her voice was calm, crisp, the sound of someone who had been up for hours already.

Katniss sat. Peeta followed slowly.

“We’re pushing into District 2,” Coin began. “The rebels there are gaining ground, but morale remains unstable. We need the right message. A reminder of what we’re fighting for. Something powerful.”

Her eyes flicked between them.

“We want you to go. You and Peeta.”

Katniss stiffened. “To fight?”

“To film,” Plutarch said quickly, hands raised. “A Propo. In the mountains, just outside the old quarry base. We’re not asking you to storm a bunker. Just stand where the last bombing happened. Speak to the camera. Speak to Panem.”

Katniss’s eyes narrowed. “And risk another ambush?”

“We’ll have a full security detail,” Boggs said. “I’ll lead it myself.”

Silence fell.

Katniss hated how reasonable she sounded.

Peeta’s jaw clenched, eyes dark.

“I’ll do it,” he said finally.

Katniss turned to him, startled.

He didn’t look at her. He was staring at Coin. “But only if I speak my own words. No script. No spin.”

Plutarch blinked. Coin hesitated. Then gave a small nod.

“Fine. But it better be convincing.”

Peeta rose. “It will be. Because it’s real.”

Katniss stood beside him. “We leave tomorrow?”

“Transport leaves at 0700,” Boggs confirmed. “You’ll have a full guard and med team. Three cameras. Nothing more.”

As they turned to leave, Katniss glanced back at Coin.

The woman was already looking at her.

Unblinking.
Calculating.

And as Peeta’s hand found hers again, Katniss knew this wasn’t just another Propo.

This was a test.

And not everyone watching wanted them to pass.

It was late, and District 13’s underground corridors hummed with muted energy—soldiers rotating shifts, medics packing kits, camera crews reviewing scripts under flickering light. The air was thick with a tension that never seemed to settle anymore.

Their departure for District 2 was just hours away. Final equipment checks. A quiet dinner neither of them really ate. Katniss found Peeta alone in their quarters, sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head lowered.

She stepped inside, saying nothing at first. There was something distant in his posture—calm, but heavy.

“I keep thinking,” Peeta said without looking at her, “about how much of my life has been spent being someone else’s symbol.”

Katniss walked closer, slow. “Peeta…”

He glanced up at her, and there was no heat in his voice—just tired honesty. “I used to think it was just the Capitol. The prep team. Caesar Flickerman. The interviews. The romance.”

She felt her stomach turn.

“And now here we are,” he continued, bitter but quiet, “suiting up again. Not for them. But for Coin. For a new version of the same war.”

Katniss lowered herself beside him. “You think we’re puppets again.”

He nodded slowly. “Different hands. Same strings.”

She didn’t argue. She couldn’t.

He turned to her then, eyes dark and hollow but steady. “The rebellion needs our faces. Our pain. Our story. But I can’t help feeling like… they don’t care if we break in the process. As long as it sells hope.”

Chapter Text

The war council was held in a former Capitol transport hub deep in the mountains of District 2, now reclaimed and repurposed by the rebellion. Cold air seeped through the cracks in the old concrete, and the flickering lights overhead cast long shadows on the maps spread out across a steel table.

Katniss sat between Peeta and Boggs, their shoulders just brushing. Across from her, Paylor leaned forward, hands planted firmly on the table. She was tall, sharp-eyed, and unmistakably focused—her presence commanding even without the sharp bark of orders. A rising leader from District 8, Paylor had earned respect through grit and clarity.

To her left stood Lyme—District 2’s highest-ranking rebel, a former victor herself, her muscular arms folded over her chest and her expression unreadable. The mountain was hers, and she knew it.

Coin hovered over a screen at the end of the table, pale and precise. Beetee was beside her, his fingers darting quickly across the tablet, blue lines and schematics illuminating his glasses.

Haymitch, in a rare state of full alertness, sat behind Katniss and Peeta, arms crossed, eyes sharp, saying nothing—for now.

Beetee zoomed in on a schematic of the Nut: the Capitol’s fortified mountain bunker and District 2’s last stronghold.

“Access points destroyed,” Beetee said. “Escape tunnels mostly collapsed. Their air system is still operational, but only just. They’ve got rations. Weapons. People.”

Lyme cut in, voice firm. “They’re well armed, but cornered. If we don’t act soon, they’ll either dig out or strike from inside.”

Coin’s voice was calm. Too calm. “The cleanest solution is to seal it. Collapse the remaining shafts. No way in. No way out.”

Peeta shifted beside Katniss. “That’s a mass grave.”

Coin raised a brow. “It’s a strategic target.”

“They’re not all soldiers,” Katniss said. “There are medics, engineers, conscripts. Not everyone inside that mountain chose the Capitol.”

“They made their choice when they stayed,” Lyme said flatly.

“No,” Peeta said, his voice quiet but firm, “maybe they stayed because they were afraid. Maybe because they had no choice at all.”

Boggs looked between them. “There’s merit in offering them a chance to surrender. Even if it’s just one message. If they refuse, then we escalate.”

Paylor nodded. “If they come out willingly, we gain prisoners, information… and maybe even allies.”

Coin’s gaze moved to Katniss. “Would you deliver the message?”

Katniss’s fingers curled around the edge of the table. “We both will.”

Peeta turned to her, eyes searching. She didn’t need to ask if he was ready. He already was.

“Let them see us,” he said. “Not as rebels. As people.”

“And if they ignore it?” Lyme asked. “If they hole up and wait for us to come down that mountain?”

Coin didn’t hesitate. “Then we drop it on them.”

The room fell silent.

Katniss felt Peeta’s hand slide into hers beneath the table, a quiet gesture, a steadying one.

They would record the message tomorrow. Beetee would rig the signal to broadcast into the Nut.

Katniss didn’t know if it would work. If mercy would reach those buried under fear.
But she knew what war without mercy looked like.
And she wouldn’t be its mouthpiece again unless she’d at least tried to offer another way.

“Let them choose,” Peeta whispered.

And this time, she agreed.

Because war had taken too much.
And offering mercy, even once, might be the only thing that could keep it from taking everything.

The ridge overlooking the Nut was cold, the wind sharp as knives and stinging against Katniss’s cheeks. She stood with her arms wrapped tightly across her chest, her fingers digging into her jacket sleeves, not because of the cold—but because of what she was watching.

Below them, the mountain roared.

The bombing had begun an hour ago.

It was methodical. Precise. Beetee’s charges, dropped with military efficiency by hovercrafts circling above the stone maw of the Capitol’s last stronghold. The air vents collapsed first. Then the emergency access points. The last known exit had crumbled minutes before. Now, smoke was leaking from the cracks like breath from the throat of a dying giant.

Katniss’s stomach turned with every muffled rumble that echoed from inside the Nut.

She could feel them—the people—on the other side of that stone. Not just Peacekeepers. Not just the Capitol’s weapons. People. And she didn’t know if any of them had taken the offer. If any had heard her voice, or Peeta’s. If any had chosen to come out before it was too late.

Her fingers trembled.

Peeta stood beside her, his arms loose at his sides, face drawn tight as he watched the black smoke curl into the sky. He hadn’t spoken since the detonations began. Neither had she.

But then, he shifted—just slightly—and she felt his hand slip around hers.

She didn’t move.

He stepped closer, pressed the side of his body to hers until she leaned into him, every line of his warmth a grounding point in the shaking landscape of her thoughts.

“They had a choice,” she whispered, as if trying to convince herself.

Peeta didn’t answer at first. Then, quietly: “Some of them didn’t.”

Katniss felt her throat tighten.

“I know why we did it,” she murmured. “I know why it matters. But that doesn’t make it right.”

“No,” Peeta said, and his voice was gentle. “It just makes it war.”

She turned to him, eyes brimming with grief she didn’t know how to carry.

He didn’t say anything more. He just reached for her, pulling her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her. Her hands clutched his jacket, face buried in the place where his heartbeat lived.

They stood there like that, the two of them against the wind, the smoke, the sky.

Watching death rise in the distance.
Holding each other in the aftermath.
Not heroes. Not victors.
Just people.

And Peeta, who knew the feel of stone walls and the silence of cells, held her like someone who understood the price of survival.

“You’re not alone,” he whispered, his hand gently stroking her hair. “Not now. Not anymore.”

And though the smoke still rose, and the mountain still burned, Katniss found her breath again—in his arms, in his voice.

Even if she didn’t believe in victory,
She could believe in this.

The sky was overcast above the broken slopes of the Nut, casting a pale gray light across the scorched stone and churned earth. Smoke still lingered from the bombing—ribbons of ash floating like ghosts between rock and shadow.

Katniss stood in front of the camera crew, wind pushing loose strands of hair across her cheeks. The moment was carefully staged. Not scripted—but prepared. She was meant to speak to the survivors. To tell them that the war was ending, that they could lay down their arms, that the rebellion would welcome those who surrendered.

Peeta stood beside her, tall and composed.

His blonde curls had grown longer during recovery, soft and messy from the wind. Pale skin stretched over sharp cheekbones now, sunken slightly from months of war and hunger, but there was strength in him again. His lips were tight with focus, his jaw tense. His blue eyes—clearer than she’d seen them in days—watched the valley below with something between vigilance and dread.

Long lashes framed those eyes, a softness that contrasted everything around them. His hands—big, calloused, the hands of a baker and a fighter—twitched slightly at his sides, restless. And he stood close to her, always close, a shield of presence even when he said nothing.

Boggs, Haymitch, Gale, and a handful of rebels waited off-camera. Cressida gave the signal.

Katniss took a breath.

Then everything changed.

From the rubble below the ridge, the mouth of the Nut cracked open—and people emerged.

A trickle at first, then a stream. Dirty, thin, wide-eyed survivors. Some still in Peacekeeper armor, others in civilian clothes. A few carried weapons, but most held up empty hands, trembling.

They were afraid.

Boggs moved quickly, raising a hand to signal the snipers not to fire. But the tension spiked instantly.

Then a shout. A crack of confusion. And a young rebel with an itchy trigger finger aimed at a man bolting from the group.

He was panicked. Wild. Armed.

He grabbed Katniss.

The world tilted.

His arm wrapped around her neck. A gun jammed against her temple. The crowd screamed. Orders were shouted. Guns drawn.

Peeta lunged—but Boggs grabbed him, yanking him back. “Wait!”

Haymitch’s voice—sharp and guttural—cut through: “Let her talk!”

Gale leveled his rifle at the man’s chest, expression grim.

“Drop it,” Gale barked. “Right now. Or I’ll end it.”

The man was shaking. Desperate. “She’ll kill us! You all will!”

Katniss didn’t struggle. Her voice, when it came, was low and steady. “Go on, do it.”

The man’s breath hitched.

“Shoot me,” she said. “Then Snow wins again.”

The world quieted.

“You kill me, someone kills you,” Katniss whispered. “Then someone kills them. The wheel turns. Always for him. Never for us.”

The man’s hand shook harder. His gun faltered.

“Stop turning it,” she said. “Please.”

He let her go.

Katniss stumbled forward as his arms dropped. The man fell to his knees, sobbing.

Peeta broke free from Boggs and was at her side in an instant, pulling her into him with a force that knocked the wind from her lungs. His arms wrapped around her, shielding her completely. His heartbeat thundered against her ear.

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “I’m okay.”
Then—

The shot.

A single, sudden crack.
Sharp. Distant. Echoing off the cliffs.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then Peeta gasped.

Katniss felt Peeta tense before he collapsed.

One heartbeat he was standing beside her, shielding her with that tall, familiar frame. His hand had just found hers again. He had whispered something—“It’s over, we did it.” And then—

The next heartbeat, his head jerked back.
A fine spray misted the air.
And Peeta Mellark dropped like a stone.

“No—”

Katniss barely caught him as his knees buckled. His weight dragged her down with him. They hit the ground hard—his body crumpling against hers, limp. Heavy. Wrong.

Her hands reached for him in pure instinct.

His face.

His hair, soft and golden, already slickening with blood.

“Peeta?” she whispered, voice cracking. “Peeta—”

But his eyes were closed. Too still.

The bullet had struck just above his temple. A perfect line of crimson cut through those blonde curls she loved to run her fingers through. There was too much blood. Too fast. Too real.

“PEETA!”

Boggs shouted for medics. Gale screamed something about the sniper’s location. Cressida was on the ground, covering Pollux. Haymitch was running—running—his voice raw and panicked.

But Katniss heard none of it.

All she heard was the silence in Peeta.

She pressed her hands to the wound. Useless. Hopeless.

His skin was pale, so pale against the dark red. His eyelashes still so long, his mouth slightly parted, a breath caught there—but unmoving.

“No, no, no,” she choked. “Please, no.”

“He’s breathing!” Boggs shouted, dropping beside her. “Katniss, move—let us in!”

She couldn’t.

Her hands were on Peeta’s cheeks, trembling. She kissed his forehead, his lips, her tears falling onto his bloodied face.

“Don’t leave me,” she begged. “Not you. Please not you.”

Medics shoved in. Haymitch pulled her back, arms around her like iron.

She fought him—fought anyone that touched her. Screaming. Thrashing.

Because Peeta Mellark had just been shot in the head.
Because the boy who always stood between her and the darkness had fallen.
And she didn’t know if anything would ever bring him back.

The hospital wing smelled like antiseptic and silence.

Peeta lay on the bed—again. Still.

Wires trailed from his chest and arms, but the worst were the ones from his head, delicate connections that disappeared into the shorn blond curls at his temple, circling the wound where the bullet had gone in and somehow, incomprehensibly, not killed him.

But it had taken something.

The doctors didn’t lie.

“He’s alive,” they said. “But we don’t know if he’ll wake up.”

And even if he did—he might not be Peeta.

He might not remember.
He might not speak.
He might not bake.

They didn’t say it, but Katniss saw it in their eyes.
He might never look at her the same way again.

So she sat. For days.

She didn’t eat. Food trays came and went, untouched. Prim visited. So did her mother. So did Gale, once. But none of them could reach her through the wall of stillness she had built between herself and the world.

Her eyes were raw from crying, then from not crying.

She kept the pearl in her hand—the one Peeta had given her in the Quarter Quell. It was small and white and impossibly whole, and it pressed into her palm like a cruel joke.

Something he left behind, still perfect.

Snow.
Had it been him?

The sniper. The timing. The location. The way it all played out like a final act in the performance that had begun so long ago in the ashes of 12.

Was this his hand again?

Was it always?

Johanna came on the fifth day.

She slouched into the room like a storm that didn’t care who drowned in its wake. Her hair was jagged, her gait uneven. She dropped into the chair beside Katniss and kicked her boots up onto the empty tray table.

“Still in Sleeping Beauty mode, huh?” she muttered, staring at Peeta’s still form. “Figures. The Capitol always did love a good coma.”

Katniss didn’t move.

Johanna shifted, her expression unreadable. “You should eat. Or at least scream at someone. You’re creeping out the medics.”

Katniss looked down at her hand, curled tightly around the pearl.

Johanna noticed. Her voice dropped, just slightly.

“They messed us up pretty good, didn’t they?”

Katniss didn’t answer.

Johanna didn’t press. She stood, clapped a hand on Katniss’s shoulder—not gently, but not cruelly—and limped out again, leaving the silence undisturbed.

That night, Katniss left the room.

She couldn’t take it anymore. Not the beeping. Not the wires. Not the ghost of the boy she loved suspended in limbo, barely breathing.

She walked blindly through the corridors of 13 until she found the old observation hall, where the wedding was being prepared.

Finnick and Annie were married the next morning.

The ceremony was simple. Quiet. Beautiful in its resistance. Finnick wore white, Annie a soft green. When he kissed her, Katniss swore the war paused to watch.

She stood at the back, unseen. Unsmiling.

Prim found her and tugged her onto the floor when the music began.

And for a few moments, Katniss danced with her sister, her feet moving through something like memory, something like longing.

Then she stopped.

The music blurred. The lights blurred.
Her hands were empty.
And Peeta wasn’t there.

That night, she packed her gear.

No cameras. No speeches. No propos.

Just her bow. Her arrows.
And war.

She kissed Peeta’s forehead once before she left, resting the pearl beside his hand.

“You keep this one safe,” she whispered.

And then she turned.

Because if there was still a wheel turning in Snow’s hands—
She would burn it down herself.
Even if she had to do it alone.

The hovercraft hissed as it touched down on the outskirts of the rebel encampment near the Capitol’s outer ring. Soldiers moved in a rhythm now—unloading gear, calling orders, setting up barricades that would likely be gone by morning. The war was creeping closer to its heart, and everyone could feel it. Tension hung in the air like smoke.

When Katniss stepped off the hovercraft ramp, the noise shifted.

Voices quieted. Heads turned.

She was wrapped in her black combat uniform—bow slung over her shoulder, braid tight and frayed at the edges. Her boots hit the stone with steady, deliberate steps. She carried no smile. No camera crew followed. Only purpose.

She was not here to inspire.

She was here to fight.

“Katniss?”

Gale’s voice cut through the murmurs. He stepped from behind a row of crates, stunned. He wasn’t in uniform, just combat fatigues and a half-buttoned coat. There was dirt on his cheek and blood on the collar—someone else’s, maybe.

“What are you doing here? We weren’t expecting—” He paused, scanning her face. “Is he…?”

Katniss met his eyes. Just for a moment.

Then looked away.

Gale’s expression hardened. He nodded once, solemn, quiet. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t answer.

He walked with her through the lines, past men and women who whispered her name like myth. She didn’t look at them. Couldn’t. Not when Peeta’s body was still in a bed far behind them, surrounded by wires and uncertainty.

Not when she still felt the warmth of his blood on her hands.

She stopped near the weapons tent and turned, staring past the hills toward the city skyline. The Capitol glinted through the smoke—towers like knives, windows gleaming with the wealth of a thousand stolen lives.

Snow was in there.

Breathing.

Watching.

And still, always, killing.

Katniss’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. She felt the heat in her chest, rising—not fear, not grief. Hatred. Deep and white-hot and old. She had carried it for years without naming it. Now it surged through her like wildfire, clearing out everything else.

She didn’t care what Coin wanted.

Didn’t care about strategy.

Didn’t care if she died.

No innocent was safe while Snow lived.

She looked to Gale, her voice flat. “I want in. I want the Capitol.”

Gale nodded. “We go in tomorrow. Street by street.”

“No,” she said. “I go in now.”

His brow furrowed. “Katniss, it’s not secured—”

“I don’t care.”

She turned away from him, already walking toward the supply truck, already grabbing her gear.

Gale followed. “What is this, Katniss? Revenge?”

Her voice was cold. Certain. “Justice.”

Gale didn’t stop her.

He just handed her an extra quiver. “Then let’s finish it.”

And as she stepped into the line of fire again, Katniss Everdeen made her choice.

Not to be a symbol.
Not to be the girl on fire.
Not even to survive.

But to end it.
To walk into the lion’s den.
And take his last breath with her own hands.

Chapter Text

The Capitol was beautiful from a distance.

White marble towers glinted under the pale morning light, too pristine, too still. Like a corpse in a glass coffin. Beyond the rebel lines, the outer streets were eerily silent, empty of civilians but full of danger—every alley, every step, a trap waiting to be triggered. The city was no longer just a battleground.

It was another arena.

Katniss stood inside the war tent, dressed in full black combat gear, her bow slung over her shoulder, quiver full. Her eyes swept over the holographic map projected at the center of the table, studying the intersections, the sniper points, the minefields. Beetee’s voice echoed in her mind—talk of pods, of pressure plates, of trigger wires and “game designs.” The Capitol’s last defense wasn’t its walls. It was the Games, turned outward.

A low whistle pulled her out of her thoughts.

“Well, well. Look what the rebellion dragged in.”

She turned.

Finnick stepped into the tent with his usual lopsided grin, trident slung casually over his shoulder. His uniform was unbuttoned at the collar, hair damp from sweat or rain. Beside him, Cressida lifted her camera with a nod.

“Welcome to Squad 451,” she said. “The ‘Star Squad.’ That’s what Coin’s calling us. Faces of the revolution. Shock troops with media appeal.”

Katniss frowned. “So we’re symbols. Again.”

“Symbolic cannon fodder,” Finnick added, voice dry. “You know. Just like old times.”

He moved to the edge of the table, pointing at the Capitol layout. “Beetee says the whole city’s rigged. Traps on every street. Heat sensors, proximity mines, mutts. Doesn’t matter that there’s no arena this time.”

He looked up at her, eyes sharp and bitter.

“Welcome to the Hunger Games. Again.”

Katniss felt her stomach twist.

Boggs stepped in next, nodding curtly to her. “Glad you made it, Soldier Everdeen.”

Behind him followed the rest of the squad:

Jackson, sharp-eyed and clean-cut, second in command.
Leeg 1 and Leeg 2, twin sisters with identical expressions and quick trigger fingers.
Castor, Pollux’s older brother, watching everything with quiet wariness.
Pollux, already setting up the camera rig, his silence heavier than ever.

Katniss nodded to each of them.

Boggs moved to the front of the table, tapping the layout. “Our goal is to advance through the city with as few casualties as possible, recording Propos along the way. Katniss, Peeta’s condition aside, you’re still the Mockingjay. Your presence matters.”

Katniss looked down at the map, jaw clenched. Her hand found the small pearl again, tucked into her jacket pocket.

“I’m not here for Propos,” she said quietly. “I’m here for Snow.”

Finnick glanced at her sideways. “You think you’ll get close enough?”

She met his eyes. “I plan to.”

No one argued.

Boggs continued. “The Capitol’s turned the city into a minefield. This isn’t open war—it’s a puzzle box. Every step you take, Snow will be watching. Every death will be deliberate.”

“And recorded,” Cressida added. “For whoever he still has watching.”

Katniss’s mouth was dry. Her hands itched for her bow.

She thought of Peeta. Of his head wrapped in bandages, unmoving. Of Prim. Of Rue. Of the girl who had once sung lullabies into a jungle night.

The Games were never over.

Not really.

And this time, she wasn’t here to play.

She was here to end it.

The Capitol was quiet in the way a predator is quiet—still, calculated, waiting to strike.

Their boots echoed faintly on the polished stone streets, broken glass crunching underfoot. The once-golden walkways of power were smeared with soot, blood, and ash. Massive buildings loomed like bones, hollow and gleaming. Shadows twisted down every alley, and still the air smelled faintly of flowers—artificial, chemical, the last breath of Snow’s curated world.

Squad 451 moved in formation. Boggs led with the holo clutched in one hand, the small, glowing device mapping traps ahead. It pulsed gently in his grip, green for now, blinking with quiet menace. Behind him, the others advanced in silence, weapons drawn, eyes scanning every corner.

Katniss walked just behind him, bow in hand, an arrow nocked but loose.

Her mind wasn’t on the mission.

It was on him.

On Peeta—his breath slow, his skin pale, his blue eyes closed in that hospital bed miles behind them. The wires in his head. The way his body had jerked when the bullet hit. The blood. The stillness.

It haunted her with every step.

She wasn’t sure what she was walking toward—vengeance, justice, or just the hope that if she ended Snow, maybe Peeta would somehow find his way back to her. Maybe he’d wake up.

She didn’t know what she believed anymore. Only that she had to keep walking.

The group stopped to regroup at an abandoned courtyard, where cracked fountains stood dry and birds circled overhead, startled by their presence. While the twins and Jackson moved ahead to scan the next alley, Gale came to stand beside her.

He looked tired. Paler than usual, though he tried not to show it. His rifle hung low, relaxed.

He nodded toward a burnt-out storefront across the square.

“That was a bakery once,” he said.

Katniss looked. The sign had fallen, shattered into pieces. The smell of ash still clung to the air.

“Peeta would’ve hated seeing that,” she said quietly.

Gale gave a faint smile. “He probably would’ve gone inside to try to clean it up.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

Then, softly, Gale added, “I wanted to tell you. About Madge.”

Katniss turned, surprised. “Madge?”

“She’s… we’ve been talking. Since 13. It just kind of happened. We’re together now.”

He glanced at her, waiting for something. Jealousy, maybe. Hurt. Anything.

But Katniss just nodded. The ache inside her wasn’t about Gale. Not anymore. That chapter was closed long before they’d stepped into the Capitol.

“I’m glad,” she said. And she meant it.

Gale looked relieved. Then, quieter: “She’s good to me. She doesn’t ask me to be someone I’m not.”

Katniss nodded again, her voice nearly a whisper. “That’s important.”

He didn’t press further. Didn’t ask about her. About Peeta. He knew the answer already. It lived in her posture, in the way she still touched the pocket where the pearl lived.

A loud beep from the holo broke the silence.

Boggs raised it. The screen lit red.

“Pod ahead,” he said. “Pressure-triggered. We’ll detour through the garden district.”

Katniss pulled her bow tighter to her chest. Her fingers itched for something to hit.

And as they moved again, deeper into the heart of the city, she found herself thinking—not of the Capitol, or the war, or even Snow.

But of Peeta, alone in that bed, and whether he’d ever see her again.

Whether he’d wake and still know her face.

And whether she could ever forgive herself if he didn’t.

The Capitol’s glass-and-marble skyline loomed around them like the walls of a trap. Squad 451 moved with caution now—Boggs pausing every twenty meters to scan the street ahead with the holo, its soft green light blinking in his palm like a ticking heart. The sun was high, but it offered no warmth. Only shadow.

They reached a wide boulevard, lined with broken statues of Capitol heroes and crumbling electronic billboards, their once-bright propaganda now crackling with static.

Cressida raised her voice from behind the camera rig. “This is a good spot,” she said. “Plenty of space, no civilians, good light.”

“Are we live?” Katniss asked, already unslinging her bow.

“Not live,” Castor answered. “But we’ll feed it into the Net immediately.”

Boggs stepped forward, holo in hand. “There’s a pod thirty meters ahead. Some kind of triggered explosive. Proximity sensor. Just enough to send the message without risking lives.”

Katniss nodded.

Cressida gestured to the camera crew. “Let’s get our Mockingjay in frame.”

Katniss stepped forward into the center of the wide street. Her boots scraped against cracked tile as she moved into position. She could feel the camera behind her. Could sense Cressida’s focus, the hush of the squad around them. The weight of the moment.

She took a breath, drew an arrow from her quiver, and notched it smoothly to the string. Her fingers settled into place, and her heart stilled in the space between thoughts.

In her mind, she saw Snow.
She saw Prim.
She saw Peeta—his unmoving form in the hospital bed, wires running from his head like roots trying to hold him in the world.

This is for him.

The pod’s location blinked softly on the holo. Beetee had given them the coordinates, and the exact point to hit: a sensor wired to a pressure trap.

“Two degrees left,” Boggs called. “Wind’s low. You’ve got one shot.”

Katniss narrowed her eyes, drew the string back, and exhaled.

The Capitol’s wind whispered through the ruins.

Then she released.

The arrow sliced through the air like light—perfect, precise.

It struck the pod’s control node just beneath a rusted vent. There was a brief click—a flash of golden sparks—and then a burst of flame and smoke erupted from the embedded device, scattering debris across the street. The shockwave knocked dust into the air but didn’t reach her.

The camera didn’t blink.

Cressida whispered behind the lens, “Perfect.”

The smoke twisted behind Katniss as she stood tall, lowering her bow. The scorched mark on the street steamed in the cold air—a symbol now. Not just of a weapon neutralized.

But of resistance. Of precision. Of a girl who once fought to survive and now fought to end it all.

Jackson gave a low whistle. “That’s going to play well.”

Katniss turned slightly toward the camera, the heat still thrumming in her chest. She didn’t smile.

She didn’t need to.

She was the arrow now.
And the Capitol was beginning to feel the sting.

The shop was dark and half-collapsed, its shelves empty save for broken glass and dust. What had once sold lavish Capitol perfumes now smelled of mildew, metal, and the sweat of ten exhausted soldiers. Squad 451 had taken shelter there after a long push through the southern district, weaving through rubble and pods, watching every step.

Katniss sat on the floor near the wall, bow across her knees, her muscles still tense despite the stillness. Every shadow outside the broken display window made her fingers twitch.

The sound of tires cracked through the air.

Her head snapped up.

Outside, a black Capitol vehicle approached slowly down the street. Engine low, deliberate. Too clean. Too alive.

She was on her feet in seconds, arrow notched and drawn, moving to the broken threshold.

“Vehicle incoming,” she hissed.

Boggs was already checking the holo. Jackson moved into cover. Finnick raised his trident. The whole squad held their breath.

The car stopped.

A moment passed.

Then the door opened.

A man stepped out, hands raised. White jacket. Medical insignia on his sleeve.

Not Peacekeepers.

Another door opened behind him.

And someone else stepped out—slightly off balance. Pale. Tall.

Blond curls.

Katniss froze.

Then the arrow dropped from her fingers.

“Peeta?!”

She was running before anyone could stop her, stumbling out into the open, nearly slipping on the rubble-strewn street. She reached him and grabbed his face between her hands, breath caught in her throat.

He blinked at her, lips parting. “Katniss…”

“You’re awake,” she whispered, already feeling the sting of tears. “You’re here?”

Then she really looked at him.

His skin was paper-pale. His eyes—still impossibly blue—were dull, unfocused. His movements sluggish, like the world was still half a dream. He wavered on his feet.

“Why are you here?” she said again, this time sharper, looking past him to the medic. “He’s not ready. You know he’s not ready.”

The medic looked at her, jaw clenched. “You’re right.”

Katniss narrowed her eyes. “Then why is he here?”

The man’s voice dropped. Low. Bitter. Angry.

“Because Coin sent him.”

Katniss’s stomach turned.

“She sent orders,” the medic continued. “Said he was to rejoin the Star Squad. For Propos. For morale. He woke up yesterday. The neurologists said no. The psychologists said no. Some of us fought her on it. She didn’t care.”

Peeta swayed slightly beside her. She grabbed his arm to steady him.

“She ordered him into the field before he could remember what year it was,” the medic added darkly. “And no one stopped her.”

Katniss looked at Peeta again—his gaze unfocused, body tense with unspoken confusion. He looked lost.

She turned back to the medic, fury in her chest. “He’s not a weapon.”

The medic just nodded grimly. “That’s not how she sees him.”

Finnick stepped forward, jaw tight. “We’ll take him.”

He gently wrapped an arm around Peeta, guiding him inside with soft murmurs. Peeta didn’t resist. He looked over his shoulder once at Katniss, eyes tired.

“Don’t be mad,” he whispered.

“I’m not mad at you,” she said. “I’m furious for you.”

Once he was inside, Katniss turned to Boggs, her voice shaking with fury. “Why? Why would Coin do this? She knows he’s not ready.”

Boggs was silent for a moment. Then he sighed, jaw working.

“Because she’s afraid of you.”

Katniss blinked. “What?”

“She sees what you are to people,” Boggs said. “She sees what Peeta is to you. What you are together. She doesn’t trust that power. She wants control of the symbol—of the story. And if she can’t control you, she’ll use him to anchor you. Or distract you. Or destroy you.”

The truth of it hit Katniss like a punch to the ribs. She couldn’t breathe.

“She’s making him live it again,” she whispered. “The cameras. The pain. The pressure. Just like the Capitol.”

Boggs nodded. “The tools have changed. The game hasn’t.”

Katniss’s eyes burned.

Boggs placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “But he’s our responsibility now. Mine. Yours. The squad’s. He’s one of us. And we will protect him. Like he protected you. Like he protected all of us.”

Katniss didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

She just turned to the doorway where Peeta had disappeared.

And swore, deep in her chest, that if anyone tried to hurt him again—

Katniss sat outside the crumbling shop, her back against the cold brick, bow laid across her lap like a sleeping animal. Inside, she could hear the quiet shuffle of boots, a few low voices, the distant scratch of Finnick murmuring something to Peeta.

The medic—Jon, she learned—stepped out into the gray light a moment later. He was tall and tired-looking, with jet-black hair tied back into a short tail at the nape of his neck and deep brown eyes set into a face too calm for someone dragged into a war zone. His white medical coat was stained with travel and dust, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

He stood near her, awkward at first, then sat beside her on the stone step.

Katniss didn’t look at him right away. Her jaw was tight.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

She didn’t answer.

He sighed, elbows resting on his knees. “You were right to be furious. You weren’t wrong. You were just… scared.”

That did make her look at him.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you were staying. I thought you were part of the order to… to use him.”

Jon shook his head. “No. I volunteered to come with him. Against orders. The hospital staff took a vote.” He gave a sad, dry smile. “Not very official, but we agreed someone had to be with him. Not just anyone. Someone who knew the risks.”

Katniss’s throat tightened. “Thank you.”

He nodded once. “I care about him too.”

She stared at the ground, then asked, “What should I expect? What… should I look for?”

Jon inhaled slowly, his voice even and clinical, but not cold. “The bullet missed the frontal lobe by less than a centimeter. He was lucky. If you believe in that kind of thing.”

“I don’t,” Katniss muttered.

“Well, something saved him,” Jon said. “But the trauma caused swelling. We relieved the pressure surgically, but the injury’s complicated. He’s still recovering. His brain is doing what it can.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means his memory might be unpredictable. His processing speed could slow under stress. Speech might be affected. Coordination, especially fine motor skills. He could be confused. Disoriented. More sensitive to noise. Emotionally reactive—or the opposite. And if he’s pushed too hard, too fast…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Katniss did. “It could make things worse.”

Jon nodded.

Her stomach twisted.

“Will he heal?” she asked, quietly.

“I don’t know,” Jon said gently. “Some people do. Some don’t. The brain is resilient, but unpredictable. What he needs now is patience. Gentle care. Familiarity. And safety.”

Katniss let the words settle in her chest. Familiarity. Safety.

And they’d just brought him to a war zone.

“I don’t know if I can keep him safe here,” she said.

Jon glanced sideways at her. “He doesn’t need perfect safety. Just someone who sees him.”

Katniss looked up at the cracked sky, gray and endless.

“I see him,” she whispered.

“Then that’s the best medicine he has,” Jon said. “And I’ll be here too. As long as he needs it.”

She finally looked at him again, fully this time. His eyes were tired, but steady.

“Thank you,” she said again, voice rough. “Really.”

Jon gave a tired smile. “You don’t have to thank me. Just help him stay alive.”

Katniss stood, her legs stiff, but her spine straighter.

“I will.”

And for the first time since she stepped off the hovercraft, she meant it without hesitation.

Chapter Text

The Capitol glimmered with false light in the distance, untouched towers and clean, white stone masking the rot beneath. In the gutted perfume shop, Squad 451 sat in grim silence, the air thick with tension and dust. They hadn’t moved in hours, waiting for the streets to cool down, for the traps to sleep. But it wasn’t the enemy outside that had them stiff. It was the moment folding in on itself inside.

Peeta was awake.

Half-propped against the wall on a stack of rolled coats and bags, he breathed unevenly, hands resting useless in his lap. The right side of his face was pale, his lips dry. The scar on his head—the one they all tried not to stare at—swelled red beneath taut skin, shining with the heat of inflammation. The hair around it was gone, crudely shaved for surgery, revealing the deep groove where the bullet had split flesh and skull.

He didn’t hide it.

He never tried.

Katniss sat beside him, legs folded, one hand close enough to touch but not yet reaching. Peeta’s fingers occasionally twitched—reflexes that didn’t lead anywhere. His eyes followed motion, but not words. Sometimes he blinked like he’d woken up mid-conversation. Sometimes he stared at nothing.

Jackson, standing near the door, finally spoke—voice clipped, tired, and sharp-edged.

“I don’t care what Coin ordered,” she said. “He shouldn’t be here. He’s a liability.”

No one answered. But Peeta’s breath caught slightly.

Jackson took a step forward, looking down at him—not cruel, but brutally honest. “You can’t walk ten minutes without falling behind. You can’t respond to direct commands. You’re concussed, your vision’s inconsistent, and your head’s a ticking bomb. If it were anyone else, we’d have sent you back to the med unit already.”

Peeta turned to her slowly, his blue eyes flat. Empty. And for the first time in hours, he spoke.

“Then shoot me.”

Jackson blinked.

Peeta’s voice was calm. Quiet. So steady it was more chilling than shouting.

“If you can’t stand that I’m here… if I’m slowing you down so much… then just do it. Right now.”

Katniss’s heart stopped.

Peeta looked up at Jackson—expression unreadable, voice stripped bare. “You want me gone? Make it quick. At least then I’ll stop being the problem.”

Jackson froze. Her face didn’t move. But something flickered there. Regret? Guilt? A deeper fear?

“No one’s shooting anyone,” Boggs said, stepping in fast and firm, voice low but hard as steel. “That’s not how this squad works.”

Jackson swallowed, jaw clenched.

Finnick stood, eyes blazing. “You don’t get to break what the Capitol couldn’t, Jackson.”

Gale leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but his face had gone unreadable again—watching Peeta with something between discomfort and unease. He didn’t speak.

Katniss finally moved, her hand finding Peeta’s.

His eyes dropped to hers, and for a moment, the exhaustion in them made her feel like she’d swallowed a stone.

“You don’t ask for death,” she said softly. “Not when you already survived.”

Peeta didn’t answer. He just let his eyes fall closed.

Katniss turned to Jackson. Her voice was calmer than she expected. “He knows he’s not well. He knows what he looks like. What he feels like. He doesn’t need reminding.”

Jackson said nothing.

Boggs looked around the room. “This squad is tired. Scared. Some of us wounded. Some of us worse. We go forward together, or we don’t go at all. That includes him.”

The tension loosened slightly.

And Katniss, still holding Peeta’s hand, looked down at the broken boy she loved, and knew—deeply, painfully—that he would never make it through the Capitol alone.

But she would not leave him behind.

The night inside the ruined shop was quieter than usual. Most of the squad had drifted into an uneasy sleep, curled in corners or leaning against the walls with weapons cradled in their laps. Only the distant pop of collapsing rubble and the eerie howl of Capitol wind kept the air from being still.

Peeta was awake.

He lay on his side now, propped slightly by Finnick’s coat, a damp cloth pressed to his temple. The swelling had eased just slightly, and the new round of medication Jon had given him was finally calming the worst of the migraines. His breaths came easier, more even.

Katniss sat across from him, knees drawn to her chest, watching him in the flickering light of a dying lantern.

They just looked at each other for a long time.

No cameras. No Capitol eyes. No rebellion eyes. Just two people—shadows of who they had once been, staring across the small battlefield between them.

“Hey,” he said at last, voice hoarse.

“Hey.”

“You still mad at me?”

Katniss blinked, confused. “Why would I be mad at you?”

Peeta gave a slow, bitter smile. “For being here. For not being… stronger.”

She shook her head. “I’m mad at Coin. And Snow. And the whole war. Not you.”

There was a silence between them. Then his voice broke it, low and steady.

“I would rather die than go back to the Capitol.”

She froze.

Peeta didn’t look away.

“I think about it every day,” he said. “About how close I came. About how lucky I was to be shot. To be saved. Because if they’d taken me again…” He trailed off. Swallowed. “I wouldn’t make it. I’m not strong enough anymore.”

Katniss’s throat ached. Her hands curled into fists.

He looked down at the floor. “If it happens again, I won’t fight. I’ll take whatever’s quick. I won’t let them use me. Not again.”

There was a long silence.

Then Gale’s voice cut in from across the room, flat but calm. “I’ve got nightlock.”

Katniss turned sharply.

He was sitting near the far window, not even pretending to sleep, his rifle beside him. His eyes flicked between them. “Coin gave us each one. In case we’re captured.”

Peeta said nothing. Just nodded slowly. That was all.

Katniss stood abruptly, breath too shallow.

“Katniss—” Peeta began.

But she was already moving.

She pushed through the broken doorway into the night, stumbling into the cool darkness, air thick with Capitol smog and ash. The stars above were blocked by smoke, the city lights giving everything a metallic sheen.

She leaned against a wall, gripping the stone with both hands. Her body trembled.

It wasn’t the idea of death that broke her. It wasn’t even Peeta’s calm acceptance of it.

It was the realization that he meant it.

That after everything, after surviving the Games, the Capitol’s prison, the rape, the torture, the bullet—he didn’t want to survive anymore if it meant risking being taken again.

And the worst part?

She couldn’t even blame him.

She imagined it—seeing her family gunned down before her eyes. Their bodies left to rot in a cell with her. Hands that were not her own violating her, reshaping her body into something they could use. Being dragged back from the edge again and again just so they could break her again.

No.

If that had been her—she wouldn’t want to survive either.

Her chest seized, breath catching in her throat.

No, not now.

But it came anyway.

Panic.

Sharp and suffocating. Like drowning in smoke.

She sank to her knees behind the building, the world swimming. She pressed her hands to her face, trying to breathe, trying to be Katniss Everdeen, the girl who could take it, the symbol who never cracked—

—but she cracked.

And in the quiet, no cameras rolling, no speeches to give, she sobbed into her hands.

Because he was breaking in front of her.
Because she couldn’t save him.
Because she wasn’t sure anyone could.

They moved through the Capitol like ghosts with guns—silent, alert, breath catching at every corner. The streets were hollowed out, storefronts shattered, balconies blackened by fire. The rebellion had moved closer, but the Capitol still had its claws in every inch of concrete. The pods waited in silence, traps coiled into the bones of the city.

They stepped into the square just past dawn.

It was wide, open, the buildings on either side looming and clean. Too clean. Peeta walked beside Katniss, his breath short but even, sweat clinging to his brow. His gait was steady—just steady enough.

Jackson watched him like a hawk.

He hadn’t slowed down once. Not even after Jackson’s hard truth back in the shop. Not after Gale handed him that nightlock capsule. Peeta hadn’t complained or looked for sympathy. He just moved forward, jaw tight, pain stitched into every line of his face. He was hurting. Katniss saw it in the way he blinked too slowly, the way he winced subtly when the sun hit the side of his head where the scar still swelled red and raw.

But he didn’t ask for help.
He’d had enough of being seen as fragile.
He just kept going.

Katniss raised her bow, scanning the far end of the square. A sensor blinked faintly on the holo. She spotted the tripwire housing—a sleek Capitol machine, cleverly disguised behind a statue’s base.

Without hesitation, she loosed an arrow.

The wire snapped.

Gunfire erupted.

Not from soldiers—automated, blaring, sweeping gunfire from hidden turrets embedded in the statues. The squad dropped, rolling for cover as concrete exploded around them.

Peeta didn’t scream. He tensed, the sound clearly slicing through his nerves like razors, but he held. Katniss looked over—he crouched beside her, blinking against the sound, knuckles white around his weapon. Still here. Still himself.

Boggs stepped forward toward the center of the square, eyes fixed on the holo—calculating their path.

Then it happened.

The pod triggered.

There was a click.

And then the blast.

BOOM.

A fireball of pressure and smoke threw Katniss back. She hit the ground hard and rolled, ears ringing.

“Boggs!”

She didn’t remember screaming, but she heard it.

She scrambled to her feet. Peeta was already beside her, hand out, trying to steady her, trying to move with her—but her body was already in motion.

She ran to Boggs.

And stopped.

His body was on the pavement. His legs were gone—torn clean off at the knees, blood pooling thick and fast. He was still conscious, barely, eyes wide and wild.

Finnick’s voice cracked across the square: “No!”

Katniss dropped beside Boggs, hands shaking, unsure what she could even do.

Boggs gasped. “Listen—listen to me—”

“Stay with me,” she said, voice high, broken.

“Protect Peeta,” he rasped. “Protect each other.”

She swallowed a sob. “We will. I swear.”

His hand shot up, grabbing her wrist. “If Jackson threatens either of you—shoot her.”

Katniss stared. “Boggs—”

But his eyes had already dimmed. His body slumped.

He was gone.

Behind her, a scream—

“NO!”

Leeg 1 had stepped forward—just two feet—
And vanished in a white flash of light.

Another pod.

The square shifted. Walls began to slide inward, loud mechanical locks clanking into place.

“Run!” Katniss shouted.

She grabbed Peeta’s arm, felt him stumble, but he followed. Finnick was already moving. Castor and Pollux sprinted. Cressida shoved her gear forward and ran.

They bolted toward a doorway just before the square sealed behind them with a boom that shook the earth.

Katniss and Peeta crashed inside a narrow stairwell, coughing, panting, covered in dust and blood.

Peeta collapsed to the floor, curled against the cold tile, shaking violently. “Boggs—he—he was talking to me. And then—then—”

His voice cracked. His hands clawed at his hair.

Katniss knelt beside him. “Peeta—”

“He didn’t even scream,” Peeta choked out. “It just—happened. Like my father. Like my mother. They shot them and I—I couldn’t stop it. I was right there.”

Finnick moved in, crouching, whispering something gentle. His hand was on Peeta’s back, grounding him, anchoring him. His voice trembled, but he kept it low. “You’re here. You’re still here.”

Katniss stepped back, her body locked in place. Her fingers trembled around the holo, sticky with Boggs’s blood.

And she snapped.

“I’m not just here for the propos,” she said suddenly, loudly. “I’m here to kill Snow.”

Everyone turned to her.

Her voice shook with exhaustion, but she stood tall.

“Boggs knew it. Coin knows it. I don’t care if that’s not the plan—that’s why I’m here.”

Cressida stepped forward, cautious. “Katniss—”

“I know the holo is herd-coded now,” Katniss said, eyes locked on Finnick, on Pollux, on all of them. “I’m in charge. Boggs gave me that before he died.”

Peeta, still gasping for air, looked up at her through tears.

“I’m going to kill Snow,” she said. “Even if it kills me too.”

No one argued.

Not because they agreed.
But because they understood.

There was no Capitol anymore.
No Games.
Only survivors.
Only what came next.

And Katniss had chosen hers.

The stairwell held the echoes of Boggs’s dying voice. Blood was still smeared on the holo, clutched in Katniss’s hand. The squad stood in a tight cluster, hearts pounding, lungs still dragging in the dusty air after the escape.

Then a sound—metal sliding, the click of a safety.

Katniss turned.

Jackson.

She stood at the edge of the stairwell, weapon raised, aimed square at Katniss’s chest.

“You’re not in command,” Jackson said flatly. Her eyes were cold, her mouth set. “Boggs gave you the holo. Not the authority.”

No one moved.

Then another sound—quicker, sharper.

Gale.

He raised his rifle and aimed it at Jackson’s head, voice low and calm. “Put it down.”

Jackson didn’t blink. “Don’t be stupid.”

“You pull that trigger,” Gale said, “and I will pull mine.”

The moment stretched.

Peeta, still trembling slightly but aware, had risen to his feet and placed a hand on the stair rail for balance. Finnick had stepped between Jackson and Katniss—not blocking either—but ready.

Katniss didn’t flinch. Her voice was even. “You’re right. He gave me the holo. That’s all I claim.”

Jackson hesitated.

The silence cracked.

Jackson lowered her gun.

Slow. Controlled.

Gale lowered his too, tension bleeding from his shoulders.

Jackson holstered her weapon and stepped back without a word. The moment passed, but something raw and permanent stayed behind.

No one said thank you.

They just moved.

⸻

They pushed through two city blocks under cover of shadows, crossing silent streets and hopping barricades left by earlier squads. The Capitol was colder now, emptier. The destruction didn’t feel like victory—it felt like desperation.

They reached a half-demolished apartment building with a lobby still intact and took cover.

Inside, the squad split naturally. Cressida and Pollux cleared the rooms. Castor took watch on the balcony. Jackson kept to herself in the corner, sitting, cleaning her weapon. She didn’t speak.

Peeta and Finnick sat quietly by the fire-scorched hearth. Peeta’s body had calmed—his hands no longer shook, and his breath came easier. Finnick leaned close, murmuring. They spoke in low tones, sharing pain only they could understand: what it meant to be used, unmade, reshaped by others’ power.

Katniss sat near the boarded window, watching the street through the broken glass, when Gale joined her.

He sat beside her, not close, but not far either. His rifle across his knees. His eyes on Peeta for a long time before he finally spoke.

“He’s stronger than I thought.”

Katniss nodded slowly.

Gale’s jaw worked. “I still think he’s not ready. But… I see it now. He’s not giving up.”

“He wants to die,” she said flatly. “But he keeps choosing to live anyway. That’s stronger than anything I’ve ever done.”

Gale looked at her, quietly. “You love him.”

They both went quiet.

After a while, Gale spoke again. “What happens if you die before you get to Snow?”

“Then someone else kills him,” she said. “As long as he dies, I don’t care what happens to me.”

Gale studied her. “And after?”

Katniss didn’t answer. Not because she didn’t know.

But because there was no after.

Just the mission.
The hollowed-out streets.
The holo in her hand.
And the boy with the bullet scar who kept walking beside her.

Still alive.
Still fighting.
Even if part of him was already gone.

The light in the apartment had gone copper—sunset bleeding through the broken windowpanes, slicing shadows across the squad. The smell of dust and oil hung in the air. Somewhere deep in the Capitol, another explosion sounded like a collapsing lung.

But inside, it was Peeta’s silence that cracked the room apart.

He hadn’t moved in hours. Sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, fingers twisted together like he was holding something invisible. Something already broken.

Pollux had left the ration bar beside him. Untouched.

Jon checked his pulse and temperature. Still steady. Still human.

But not alive.

And when Katniss had had enough—when she couldn’t take one more second of watching him disappear inch by inch, after everything they’d all sacrificed to keep him alive—she snapped.

“You didn’t make it this far just to kill yourself now,” she spat, marching across the room, voice sharp and rising.

Peeta blinked. Slowly. Like her voice came from underwater.

The squad froze. Heads turned. Even Jackson—ever guarded—looked up from her gear.

“I said,” Katniss continued, eyes burning, “you didn’t come back from the Capitol, from being tortured, from nearly dying—again—just to sit in a corner and give up.”

Peeta’s lips parted.

He blinked again. But this time, his eyes narrowed.

And something shifted in him.

He stood. Not fast—but with purpose. With heat.

“You think this is what I want?” he snapped, voice low but sharp. “You think I’m enjoying this? Sitting here feeling like a shell of who I was? Feeling like I was peeled open and stitched back together wrong?”

His voice rose now, enough to make Gale stiffen where he leaned by the window.

“You think I asked to wake up in some underground bunker, find out my family was executed like animals, that I missed it, that I couldn’t stop it, and then get dragged across a warzone with half my brain still bleeding just so everyone can watch me and decide if I’m worth the effort?!”

His breath hitched. His hands trembled.

“I am fighting,” he said, stabbing the words through clenched teeth. “Every minute. Every step. You think it’s easier to lie down and rot? It’s not. But I’m tired, Katniss. I am so tired.”

Katniss stepped back slightly, stunned—but not retreating.

Peeta took another breath—shaky, rough. “I don’t want to die. Not really. But I don’t want to live like this, either. A burden. A symbol. A spectacle. And I sure as hell don’t want to be told how I should be grateful I survived.”

The squad was silent.

Finnick looked away, jaw clenched.

Jackson, for once, said nothing.

Katniss swallowed hard. Her voice came softer, but still lit with fire. “Then fight with me. Not against me. Not against yourself.”

Peeta stared at her. His jaw clenched. His eyes were glassy—but not soft. Not now.

“I’m trying,” he whispered. “But you don’t get to tell me how.”

Katniss didn’t move. But something in her dropped. A breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. A grief she hadn’t allowed herself to admit.

She nodded slowly. “Okay.”

And then she sat down beside him. Not touching him this time. Just with him.

Peeta didn’t speak again. Neither did she.

But the fight had changed.

Because finally—finally—he was in it.
Not as a ghost. Not as a burden.

But as Peeta.
Wounded. Furious. Alive.
And refusing, in his own way, to let them carry him without a fight.

The door had barely clicked shut behind Peeta when Katniss stood up.

Not abruptly. Not dramatically.

But with a tension so quiet, so tightly wound, it felt like a fault line shifting just before the earth splits.

She didn’t say anything. Not right away. She just moved to the broken window, the Capitol’s spires jagged in the distance like teeth waiting to bite. Her fists clenched and unclenched at her sides. Her breathing was sharp, fast—but silent.

The squad watched her from the corners of the room. Finnick leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, his eyes cautious. Cressida looked up from where she was tending to her camera rig. Gale didn’t move. He’d never seen this version of her before. But even he didn’t speak.

Katniss pressed her palms to the window frame. Cold stone. Cracked glass. The Capitol sky was on fire with smoke, glowing as if the whole city were about to cave in.

Then she exhaled—sharply.

Her voice was low. Measured. But it burned.

She ran a hand through her hair, hard, pulling at the braid as if she could tear the pressure loose.

“I know he’s hurting. I know he’s traumatized. He has every reason to be broken, and I have no right to expect him to be whole. But I’m still here too. I’m drowning too.”

Her breath hitched, a quiet crack in her fury. But she caught it, folded it, shoved it down.

"I’m mad that he’s making me watch him disappear. And I can’t stop it. No matter what I say. No matter what I do.”

She turned to Finnick then, because he would understand—he had to.

“Do you know what it’s like to still love someone who’s not entirely there anymore?”

Finnick’s expression softened—not with pity, but with recognition. He gave the smallest nod.

Katniss looked back toward the door Peeta had walked through.

“He’s not just sick. He’s gone, sometimes. In his eyes. In his voice. And I don’t know what version of him I’m going to get when he wakes up or comes back or opens his mouth. And I hate that I’m scared of it. I hate that I resent it.”

The words burned on the way out. Raw. Real.

“I want him back,” she whispered. “But I’m terrified he doesn’t want to come back. Not to this. Not to me.”

No one spoke.

And when Katniss finally sat again—back against the cold stone wall, legs pulled to her chest, fingers still shaking—it wasn’t because the anger had passed.

It was because she had no more room left to hold it.

Peeta returned hours later.

The apartment was quieter than before. Most of the squad had settled into a rhythm of rest and tension—staring, waiting, surviving. The moment he stepped back into the room, Katniss felt it like static in her skin.

He looked worn. Gray. Not physically worse—but weighed down in that way only silence and grief could manage. He didn’t look at anyone, just headed toward the far corner, where a collapsed chair and some crumpled rations waited.

Katniss stood slowly. She didn’t know when she had decided to follow him, but her body was already moving.

“Peeta,” she called, voice low but sharp.

He paused, didn’t turn.

“Peeta.”

This time, he turned his head. “What?”

His tone wasn’t angry—but tired. So tired it scraped.

She closed the distance between them. Her pulse thudded in her neck, fast and full of all the words she hadn’t said since the square. The outburst. The silence. The begging.

“You don’t get to shut me out like this.”

Peeta scoffed, low and bitter. “You think I’m choosing this?”

Katniss stepped closer. “You disappeared. Again. You always disappear. You sit in corners like you’re already dead and expect us to be okay with it.”

“I needed space.” Peeta’s voice rose, trembling. “I needed one second where I wasn’t the broken boy people are waiting to see collapse again!”

“You think you’re the only one in pain?” she snapped. “I’ve been holding this squad together while watching you fade, Peeta. You think I’m not scared every second that I’ll turn around and find you—gone?”

“That’s not fair—”

“No, it’s not,” she cut in. “None of this is. But you don’t get to be angry at me for fighting to keep you alive.”

Peeta’s fists clenched at his sides.

“I’m not angry that you’re trying,” he said. “I’m angry that you look at me like I’m something you have to fix. Like I’m a problem to be managed. Like you’re afraid of what I’ll say or do next.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Yes, it is,” he barked. “You flinch when I twitch. You watch me like I’m a time bomb. And maybe I am. But do you even know what that feels like?”

“I’m watching you because I care!” Katniss shouted, suddenly breathless. “Because I love you and I don’t know how to do this without you. And I’m terrified that one day I’ll look at you and you won’t be you anymore!”

Silence crashed over them.

Peeta stared at her. Something cracked in his eyes—not anger. Just heartbreak.

“I’m not the boy with the bread anymore,” he said softly. “Maybe I never was.”

Tears hit Katniss’s eyes before she could stop them.

“Then who are you, Peeta?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” he said. “And maybe you won’t love whoever that turns out to be.”

She looked away, like the truth might destroy her.

“I already do,” she said. “Even when I hate you. Even when I can’t reach you. I still do.”

He looked stunned. Hurt.

And before either of them could speak again, Finnick’s voice broke the silence from across the room: “Maybe you two should stop fighting each other and remember who we’re actually here for.”

Katniss turned, cheeks burning, breath ragged.

But she didn’t apologize.

Neither did Peeta.

They just stood there, angry and cracked, breathing in the mess they’d made of each other

They hadn’t spoken since the fight.

Peeta had retreated to the corner again—but this time, not to vanish. He sat upright. Eyes focused. Tension in his jaw, yes—but presence in his posture. It was something.

Katniss hadn’t apologized. Neither had he. But the silence between them felt different now. Not resentful. Just raw. Wounded and breathing.

Then the old television unit—half embedded in a Capitol wall panel—buzzed to life.

Everyone turned.

The screen flickered. Static. Then white. And then—

President Snow.

Pristine as ever. A blood-red rose pinned to his collar. His voice calm, deliberate, poisoned with that familiar, soothing malice.

“To the citizens of Panem,” he began, “we mourn the unfortunate loss of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, the so-called Mockingjay and her lover, who died in an act of reckless rebellion earlier today. Their deaths mark the end of this senseless insurrection.”

Peeta stood. Slowly. Like a storm rising behind still eyes.

“They were symbols,” Snow continued. “Symbols built on deception. And like all lies, they have burned away in the truth.”

Katniss felt her heart hammering—not from shock, but fury.

Peeta’s lips curled into a bitter, hollow smile. “So that’s it. He erases us.”

The image flickered—and then shifted.

Coin.

Flashing into view with practiced grief. Standing at a podium, draped in gray. A portrait of Katniss and Peeta—stale and government-issued—sat behind her, wreathed in digital flowers.

“It is with great sorrow,” Coin said, “that we confirm the loss of our Mockingjay and our beloved Peeta Mellark. Their sacrifice will not be forgotten.”

Katniss’s stomach twisted.

Peeta scoffed, voice hard. “Fake tears. She’s smiling inside.”

“Both governments playing the same game,” Finnick muttered. “Control the narrative. Make martyrs. Win with symbols.”

Peeta crossed his arms, shaking his head. “They don’t even care if we’re dead. Just useful.”

Katniss didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. Her rage felt molten.

Pollux stepped forward suddenly, tapping Castor’s shoulder and gesturing urgently. They exchanged quick signs, then turned to the group.

“Pollux says we don’t have to keep pushing through the streets,” Castor translated. “Too many pods. Too exposed.”

Cressida leaned in. “There’s an underground access. Sewers. Maintenance tunnels. Hidden infrastructure below the Capitol.”

“The Capitol doesn’t show it on maps,” Gale said, frowning.

“They wouldn’t,” Cressida replied. “But Pollux knows them. He used to work there. When he was a cameraman. Before they—”

She didn’t finish.

Katniss looked to Pollux, who gave a solemn nod.

Peeta, still bristling from the broadcast, looked at Katniss now.

“Then we go down,” she said.

Her voice was clear. Flat. Cold with resolve.

“They want us ghosts?” she added. “Fine. Let them fear the ones they buried too early.”

And this time, no one argued.

The entrance to the sewers gaped beneath the city like a wound. The metal grate creaked as it was pulled aside, revealing a tunnel that descended steeply into damp stone and stale air. Pollux led the way, flashlight beam cutting through the dark like a spear. His silence was a comfort now—steady, familiar, grounded.

One by one, Squad 451 dropped into the depths of the Capitol.

Katniss went third. Peeta followed her, reluctantly, his movements slow but deliberate. He hadn’t spoken since the broadcast—since Coin’s synthetic mourning, since Snow declared them already dead. His mouth had pressed into a line ever since. His eyes were unreadable.

The tension between them still hung like humidity—dense, charged, unresolved. Occasionally their eyes met. Briefly. Then looked away. The memory of the fight hovered between them like smoke that hadn’t cleared.

As they moved deeper into the tunnels, the air grew colder. Damper.

Katniss noticed the sheen of moisture along the walls. The trickling sound that began faintly, then grew into something steady. Then loud.

The tunnel opened into a water channel.

A real sewer. Waist-deep. Filthy, dark, reeking. The only way forward.

Pollux flashed a signal with his hand: This is the path.

Katniss stepped forward, bow still slung over her shoulder, quiver carefully strapped to her back. She didn’t flinch as she moved into the water. The cold hit instantly, but she ignored it.

Behind her, Peeta froze.

His breath caught. Loud in the stillness.

“No,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Katniss turned. “What?”

His face had gone pale. The flashlight trembled in his hand. His eyes locked on the black water ahead.

He didn’t move.

Katniss understood in a flash. Too fast, too clearly.

Water. Torture. The Capitol. The drowning simulation chambers. The weight. The cold. The powerlessness.

It’s not just fear. It’s trauma.

Peeta took one step back.

“I can’t—” he said, voice shaking. “I can’t go in there.”

Katniss stared at him. Her voice came sharper than she intended, edged with the remnants of their last fight, the frustration still simmering just beneath her skin.

“Yes, you can.”

Peeta’s eyes flicked to her. “Katniss—”

“You’re not in the Capitol. You’re not strapped to a table. No one is holding you down. You are not being tortured. You are walking through water.”

His breath stuttered.

She stepped back, grabbed his wrist.

And pulled.

Not gentle. Not soft.

Peeta stumbled forward—his boots hit the water with a splash. He gasped, breath catching like he’d been dunked into ice. The cold surged around them both, waist-deep and dragging. But Katniss held on. Her fingers dug into his jacket sleeve.

“You’re here,” she snapped. “With me. Not in the past. Not in that room. You made it out. You’re not broken, and you’re not dying. So pull yourself together and walk.”

The squad was silent. No one said a word.

Peeta blinked. A long, slow blink. The panic still danced in the corner of his expression—but it no longer controlled him.

He nodded.

Just once.

And stepped forward.

Not fast. Not gracefully.

But with purpose.

Katniss didn’t let go until she knew he could keep moving.

He didn’t speak.

But he kept pace beside her—slogging through the black water, step by miserable step. Breathing hard. Shoulders hunched. But moving.

The air in the dry chamber stank of mildew, rust, and fatigue. They’d found a maintenance alcove along the sewer route—just wide enough to sit, dry enough to pretend it was safe. The squad collapsed into themselves, backs against walls, shivering silently as their bodies tried to find rest they didn’t believe in.

Katniss sat awake.

She was cold, too—but the guilt kept her warmer than it should have. Guilt for the way she’d pulled Peeta into the water like a soldier instead of a friend. Like a symbol, not a boy who’d been nearly drowned by monsters in white coats.

He hadn’t looked at her since. Not once.

He sat across the small chamber, his back resting against a rusted pipe, legs pulled up to his chest, his posture tight. There was something hollow in his silence. Not empty—but careful. Deliberate.

Finnick knelt beside him, pressed something into his hand—a crushed protein wafer. Peeta took it, slowly, and bit into it like it tasted of ash.

“You should sleep,” Gale said from near the wall. His voice was quiet, almost kind.

Peeta didn’t respond.

Then, slowly, he looked up.

Across the shadows.
At Katniss.

Their eyes met.

His expression was unreadable. Not anger. Not quite sadness. Just the ghost of a boy holding himself together, piece by quiet piece.

She didn’t look away.

But she didn’t move toward him either.

Cressida and Jackson were huddled near the holo, whispering over the map.

“We’re here,” Jackson muttered. “At the split.”

Pollux nodded, pointed with sharp fingers. His signs came fast, firm.

Castor translated. “We have two options forward. One path takes us directly beneath the Capitol square. Dangerous, but faster. The other loops underground longer—safer, but more pods.”

Cressida frowned. “There’s no ‘safe’ anymore.”

Jackson sighed. “We’ll decide at first light. Get what sleep you can.”

One by one, the squad curled into their cloaks and makeshift bedding. Silence crept back in. The air grew colder. The weight of stone pressed in from all sides.

Peeta shifted. Tried to lay back. But his body didn’t settle. His eyes remained open.

Katniss saw it.

Even as he closed them on command, she saw the way his jaw clenched. The way his fingers twitched like they were bracing for an impact that never came.

She stood. Quiet.

And crossed to him.

He didn’t look at her.

But when she sat beside him, he didn’t move away.

Gently, wordlessly, she guided his head down. He resisted, for half a breath. Then let her.

His head rested in her lap, his body tense but unmoving. Her fingers brushed through his curls—no apology in words, but all of it in touch.

He didn’t speak.
Neither did she.

But somewhere in the slow, silent hours, he closed his eyes for real.

⸻

It was Peeta who heard it first.

A sound—faint, inhuman. Not echo. Not water. Something wrong.

His body tensed like a trap sprung. He sat up fast, startling Katniss awake.

“Something’s coming,” he whispered.

Then louder, “Wake up.”

Finnick stirred. “What is it—?”

Peeta stood fully, breathing hard. “I don’t know. Screaming. It’s not human.”

Then they all heard it.

A high, unnatural shriek—like metal screaming and flesh tearing at once. A hundred voices in unison, echoing up through the tunnel behind them.

Katniss was on her feet, bow already in hand.

Peeta’s face had gone pale. His eyes wild.

“Mutts,” he breathed.

And all at once, the silence was shattered.

Chapter Text

The scream hadn’t stopped echoing when they ran.

Through the black water. Through rusted maintenance grates and tight concrete gaps. Gasping, slipping, stumbling through the bowels of the Capitol. The tunnels narrowed and stretched, walls sweating moisture, echoes folding over themselves until it felt like the screaming came from every direction.

No one spoke.

No one breathed unless they had to.

Until the first shriek came from ahead.

Then they came.

White. Huge. Slinking on slick limbs. Reptilian but wrong. Scaled but flesh. Teeth too many, eyes too few. Muttations—Snow’s creations—his last Games.

They lunged from the water, hissing, screeching, thrashing with terrifying force.

Everything happened at once.

Katniss reached for Peeta instinctively. He was beside her before she knew she’d moved. No tension. No fight. Only survival. Only them.

“Move!” Jackson shouted. “Go! Go!”

But it was too late.

The mutts descended.

Water exploded in white spray. One beast lunged straight at Jackson, jaws wide—and in one sickening snap, she was gone.

Blood. Pieces.

Katniss screamed but there was no time.

They surged into a side chamber—some kind of filtration room. A steel door slammed behind them, but more mutts slipped through before it closed.

Chaos.

Peeta fought with staggering violence—driven not by rage but by need. He grabbed a rusted steel pipe and swung, cracking bone and scale. One mutt fell. Another lunged, and he shoved it back with everything he had. His face was splattered red. His scar was open and leaking blood. But he didn’t stop.

Katniss fired arrow after arrow. Precise. Deadly. Her arms burned. Her quiver emptied.

Gale’s rifle lit the dark like lightning, each blast knocking the monsters back, only for more to slither forward.

One mutt caught Katniss by the ankle and yanked her under—
Freezing water. No air. Claws scraping skin.
She fought, panicked. Couldn’t reach her knife. Couldn’t—

Peeta’s arms were there. Grabbing her. Wrenching her upward.

The mutt died on the tip of his blade, and he pushed her up the access ladder.

“Go!” he shouted, voice raw. “Climb!”

She climbed.

Cressida followed, dragging a shaking Pollux—eyes wide, lips parted, but no words. Only strangled, animal sounds of trauma.

Then Castor screamed.

Katniss turned just in time to see a mutt leap from below, jaws wide.

It caught him mid-ladder.

Dragged him down.

Blood painted the wall in streaks. Pollux tried to scream—tried to scream—but only those strangled, high-pitched sounds came. Sounds not meant for grief this real.

“Peeta!” Katniss screamed. “Peeta, we have to go!”

He came.

Eyes burning. Weapon gone. Hands bloodied.

Finnick was just behind him.

They reached the top—and then a white blur snatched Finnick’s ankle. He screamed, grabbed the rung.

Peeta turned to pull him—just as five mutts exploded from the tunnel below.

Claws. Fangs. Writhing mouths.

Finnick fought. But it was over in seconds.

They tore him apart.

Katniss’s scream ripped from her lungs.

She yanked the holo from her belt, hand shaking.

No plan. Just rage.

She whispered Boggs’s last code.

“Nightlock, Nightlock, Nightlock.”

And threw it down the shaft.

The explosion ripped through the tunnel—heat, flame, rock, smoke.

Gone.

Everything gone.

They climbed. Fast. Numb.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t look back.

Only when their boots hit solid ground—when a trapdoor opened into musty air, a dim hallway, the scent of something not war—did they stop.

A figure stood waiting. Covered in fur, eyes painted, sharp and watchful.

Tigris.

Katniss collapsed into the wall, breath gone, face streaked with tears she hadn’t noticed.

Peeta stood swaying, arms limp, clothes soaked with blood that wasn’t all his. He didn’t speak.

Gale stood beside them.

“They’re dead,” he said.

Katniss nodded. “I know.”

And Tigris led them into the dark, to the last corner of the war.

To whatever was left.

The corridor beyond the tunnel mouth stank of ash and mold. Tigris led them into a hollowed-out storeroom beneath her shop—lined with fur coats, old mannequins, and scraps of velvet that did little to hide the fact that this was a graveyard for things long discarded.

Katniss collapsed into a pile of fabric and dust, limbs trembling, throat raw from smoke. Peeta sat beside her, silent, his hand still bleeding where he’d crushed the mutt’s head against the tunnel wall. He hadn’t said a word since Finnick died. Since the explosion. Since everything.

Gale leaned against the wall, eyes closed, rifle loose in his grip. Cressida was somewhere in the next room, consoling a near-catatonic Pollux, who sat with his knees pulled to his chest, mouthing a song without sound.

And then the realization crashed down.

Jon.

Katniss sat up straight. “Where’s Jon?” she rasped.

No one answered.

Peeta blinked, then turned his head, eyes slowly widening. “He was behind me… I thought he was—”

“No,” Gale said, pushing off the wall. “He was with Castor. He helped boost him up the ladder.”

Katniss was already standing, blood rushing to her ears.

Cressida reappeared in the doorway. Her face was pale. “He didn’t come through.”

The silence that followed was thick. Awful.

Katniss pressed her hand to her mouth. Not just because she had missed it, but because it felt like the final thread snapping loose. Jon—quiet, stubborn Jon, who had followed Peeta here against every order, against common sense. Who had brought medicine and steadiness and rare, quiet care in the shadows of death.

Gale cleared his throat. “I saw him on the ladder. He turned back to help Castor—he didn’t have to—but he did.”

Katniss shut her eyes.

Cressida spoke softly, barely above a whisper. “I think… I think he went back when the mutts took Castor. Tried to pull him free. Tried to fight. And then… they both went under.”

No body.

No scream.

Just gone.

Peeta slowly lowered his head into his hands. His voice came hoarse, barely audible. “He was the only one who never treated me like a weapon.”

Katniss sat beside him, shoulders brushing his. “He was more than a medic,” she murmured. “He chose to be here. He didn’t owe us anything.”

They stayed like that for a long while. No one spoke.

Because Jon hadn’t died on camera. Not with a speech. Not in a blaze of rebellion.

He died off-screen, the way so many did.

Trying to save someone else.

Trying to pull someone up when the darkness came.

And now he was gone, like all the rest.

Like Boggs. Like Jackson. Like Leeg 1. Like Castor. Like Finnick.

And somehow—impossibly—they still had farther to go.

Katniss swallowed the grief. Pressed it down beneath everything else.

But she would remember Jon’s name.

And Peeta—quiet, broken Peeta—would carry that death like another scar. Not on his skin. But inside.

And in that dim room beneath the Capitol, grief became fuel.
For survival.
For revenge.
For the end.

Tigris’s den was quiet now. Too quiet. Like the city above was holding its breath.

The group had found a semblance of shelter beneath velvet and dust, surrounded by faded mannequins and walls that once belonged to fashion but now belonged to ghosts. Tigris moved like a wraith among them—silent, solemn, kind. She didn’t ask what had happened. She didn’t need to.

She brought them clothes—plain and warm. Gray, soft, smelling faintly of lavender and the past.

Katniss changed behind one of the curtains, her limbs slow, bruises pulling at every movement. She emerged to find Peeta already seated on a fur-covered bench, freshly dressed, his skin too pale. He looked up as she approached, his hair still wet from when she’d gently sponged the blood and grime from his face.

He reached up, quietly, and brushed a strand of damp hair from her forehead.

His fingers lingered for a second too long, but she didn’t pull away.

Across the room, Gale sat with his back to the wall, shirt torn, neck dark with drying blood. A mutt had bitten him hard—narrowly missing his throat. Katniss crouched beside him, hands trembling as she threaded the needle and worked stitches into the ragged wound. He hissed but didn’t complain.

“I’ve had worse,” Gale muttered.

“So have we all,” Katniss said softly.

Peeta sat nearby, silent as she approached him next. His head wound had reopened during the escape—blood seeping slowly through the frayed bandages. She unwrapped them, cleaned the edges, tried to stitch them closed with steady hands. But he flinched. His whole body trembled. Sweat slicked his skin.

A few hours later, he was burning up.

Katniss found him half-asleep, curled near the heater, skin hot and breath shallow. She pressed a hand to his forehead and cursed under her breath. The wound was inflamed, angry.

Tigris arrived silently, placing a tin cup with medicine by his side. Fever reducer, she signed quietly to Cressida. Something left from before.

Katniss knelt beside him, feeding him small sips, brushing his curls away from his face.

Peeta’s lashes fluttered. “Still here?”

“I’m always here,” she whispered.

Then the dam broke.

She tried to speak, but the words tangled in her throat. Then spilled.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, then louder, rougher, “I’m sorry I was so angry.”

Her hands trembled. Her chest cracked open.

“I dragged you through hell, and I treated you like it was your fault. Like you weren’t dying too. I told myself it was a mission, that Coin gave it to me, but she didn’t. I lied, Peeta. I brought us here. I made us go underground. It’s my fault Finnick is dead. It’s my fault Jon—”

She couldn’t finish.

The sob tore out of her like a wound reopening. She covered her face. Her whole body shook.

Peeta sat up slowly, breath labored, but gaze steady.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said softly.

She looked at him, eyes red.

“All that matters,” he continued, “is that we make it count. All of it.”

He reached out, pressed a trembling hand to her chest, over her heart.

“Or else… we lose everyone.”

Katniss closed her eyes.

And for the first time since the tunnels, she let herself fall—forward, into him. Her forehead on his shoulder, her fingers gripping his shirt. They held each other—not to heal, but to stay standing. To hold the dead between them, and promise they would not be forgotten.

Not Jon.
Not Finnick.
Not anyone.

They had to make it matter.
Because it was all they had left.

The city was gray with smoke, and quiet in the way things are only quiet before the slaughter.

Katniss, Peeta, and Gale walked through the ruins of the Capitol, following the crowds toward the President’s Palace. The war was over, they were told. The rebels had won. Snow had surrendered. All that remained was the clean-up, the trials. The justice.

But justice had a strange shape in the Capitol.

Children were being gathered in front of the Palace gates. Capitol children, pale and frightened, herded like sheep into the square. Rebel guards kept them in tight lines. Some clung to toys, others to one another. They had been told they would be taken to safety. To shelter.

Katniss stood on the rooftop of a partially collapsed building with Peeta and Gale. Watching. Waiting. Uneasy.

It was too quiet.

Peeta shifted beside her. “This doesn’t feel right.”

Then came the scream of something unnatural. A whistling. A sound like betrayal.

The first bomb fell.

A blast of heat and noise tore through the square. Katniss was thrown backward—her ears ringing, her body slamming into stone. She saw sky, smoke, fire. Heard nothing.

Peeta’s face appeared in the haze, blood at his temple. He grabbed her shoulders.

“Katniss! Katniss, get up!”

She gasped, coughing. Her arms burned. Her neck burned.

Then—

A flash of movement.

A small figure in white, moving through the carnage.

Prim.

Holding a medical bag. Running forward to help the children.

“Prim—” Katniss choked.

She shoved Peeta’s hand away. Stumbled forward, down the stairs, into the chaos. Screaming. “Prim! PRIM!”

Their eyes met for the briefest second.

And then the second bomb fell.

The world went white.

Then black.

⸻

She woke in pieces.

Pain first. Then heat. Then the cold press of a wet cloth. The burn on her arm made her gasp.

She was in a hospital bed. Pale walls. Monitors beeping. IV in her arm. Her neck bandaged, raw and blistered.

Her mother sat beside her. So still. Too still. Her face had collapsed into something hollow.

Haymitch sat on the far side of the room, silent. Not drunk. Just wrecked.

Katniss didn’t ask.

She didn’t need to.

Prim was gone.

She felt it like a thread snapped in her chest. No wail came. No scream. Just silence. A silence so deep it dug into her bones.

Prim is gone.

She didn’t cry. Couldn’t.

She didn’t care.

The war was over. They had won.

And nothing mattered.

⸻

When she was released from the medical wing days later, she wandered the palace garden like a ghost.

Snow was there.

Sitting among the roses, wrapped in a blanket, lips painted red with blood. His eyes sparked when he saw her.

“Miss Everdeen,” he croaked. “Come to finish me off?”

Katniss said nothing.

Snow smiled faintly. “I assume you’ve heard… Coin is planning a very symbolic execution. Me, of course. Public. Grand.”

Katniss stared.

He leaned closer. “But those bombs, my dear. The ones that killed your sister? Not mine.”

Her breath caught. Her fingers curled. “Liar.”

“Why would I lie now?” Snow rasped. “I had no reason to kill the children. Or your sister. Coin, though… she had every reason. To turn public sentiment. To make you feel.”

His smile twisted.

“She needed a final act of horror to unite the districts. And she used you to deliver it.”

Katniss’s heart beat like war drums.

Snow coughed. Blood on his lips.

She left him there. Rotting in his victory. Dying in his truth.

⸻

Peeta found her later.

He had been released that morning. Still limping. His head bandaged, his skin pale and drawn. But he saw her and moved to her like gravity. He wrapped his arms around her—warm and real—and held her.

She didn’t cry.

Her arms went around him, but her eyes stayed hollow. Her cheek against his shoulder. Her mind far away.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

She didn’t answer.

⸻

On the morning of the execution, Effie dressed her.

Soft gray uniform. Her hair braided tight. Face pale. Hands steady.

“Are you sure?” Effie asked.

Katniss didn’t answer.

They brought her into the square. The stage gleamed white. Coin stood above, face serene, cloaked in silver.

Snow was tied to a post. Bleeding. Smiling.

Katniss raised the bow. Notched the arrow.

Everyone held their breath.

And then—
She turned the bow.

Let the arrow fly.

Straight into Coin’s heart.

Gasps. Chaos. Screams.

Snow began to laugh—choking, coughing—until blood drowned it out.

Katniss fell to her knees.

And the rebellion, for the first time, became her own.

The square had dissolved into chaos. Coin’s blood still stained the marble steps. Her body was sprawled across the stage, eyes wide in disbelief, the silver cloak crumpled like foil. Snow had slumped in his bindings, red bubbling from his lips in laughter—or perhaps shock—as the guards swarmed.

And Katniss—

She had dropped her bow the moment the arrow left her hands.

She didn’t fight. She didn’t speak. She just stood there, dazed, waiting for the inevitable.

The soldiers didn’t hesitate.

They grabbed her by both arms, hard. Metal cuffs snapped around her wrists. The crowd screamed, surged. Someone tried to run toward her—Finnick? No. Peeta.

He pushed past guards, shouting her name. “Katniss! Katniss! Stop! Don’t touch her—!”

A rifle butt caught him in the chest. He stumbled, coughed, but didn’t stop.

“You can’t do this!” he yelled. “She’s not your prisoner—she saved us from Coin!”

Another guard slammed him into the platform. His hand bloodied as he swung blindly at them.

“She was right!” he roared. “Coin was just another Snow! You saw what she did!”

Katniss twisted in the soldiers’ grasp to look at him—but they dragged her back, toward the steel doors of the building.

Peeta struggled, eyes wild. His voice broke. “Let me see her! Please—let me just—she’s all I have!”

And then Haymitch was there. Out of nowhere. Arms around Peeta’s chest, dragging him back. Not cruelly—but with force. With urgency.

“Let it go, kid,” Haymitch whispered. “You fight them now, they put a bullet in your head.”

Peeta thrashed, shouting, “You let them take her? After everything? After Prim?”

“Do you trust her?” Haymitch said, voice low and gravel-sharp. “Do you trust Katniss?”

Peeta froze. Breath hitching.

Haymitch’s hand gripped his shoulder. “Then let her finish what she started.”

The doors slammed behind Katniss.

The world went silent.

They dragged her through halls of white, blood drying on her clothes, wrists burning against the cuffs. Then into the cell—cold, concrete, empty.

They threw her in and locked the door.

She didn’t scream.

Didn’t fight.

She just sat there.

Back against the wall. Arms wrapped around herself. Eyes open.
Watching the door.

Waiting.

Because she knew Peeta was out there.
And he wouldn’t stop.
Not really.

Not until she came back.

She didn’t know how long she’d been in the cell.

Days. Maybe more.

There were no windows. Just the steel door. Meals left without words. Guards who didn’t look her in the eye. No trial. No questions. Just silence.

And then—one day—the door opened.

No one spoke, but Haymitch was standing there. A little older. A little more hunched. Still holding on.

He nodded. Just once.

“It’s over.”

⸻

Katniss walked out of the Capitol through halls stripped of banners, through streets where the stones still remembered screams. Snow was dead. Coin too. The Rebellion—fractured, splintered—was trying to hold itself upright.

Peeta was waiting.

He stood at the transport platform, hands bruised and bandaged. His hair had grown a little. The scar on his temple was darker now, but his eyes were clearer. Sadder. But steady.

When he saw her, he didn’t speak. Didn’t smile.

He just pulled her into his arms and held her there.

No speeches. No tears.

Just together.

⸻

They went home.

Or what was left of it.

District 12 was no longer ashes, but it was not yet alive. The war had carved it down to the bone. Buildings half-standing, streets cracked. The Victor’s Village had survived, mostly, and the woods still whispered, but everything else was scarred.

They walked through it slowly.

Gale didn’t come back with them.

Neither did her mother. She’d gone to the new hospitals in District 4, needing distance from the dead. From Prim.

Only a handful of others returned. People who had nowhere else to go.

They didn’t speak much. But when they did, it was in quiet voices. Reverent. Haunted. Still breathing.

Katniss stood on the porch of her old house, staring at the door, Peeta beside her.

“Does it feel like home?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

“Will it ever?”

She didn’t know.

But they went inside.

And they began again.

⸻

The grief didn’t vanish. It lived with them. Moved with them.

Sometimes Katniss would wake in the middle of the night, reaching for Prim’s voice, and find only silence. Sometimes Peeta would freeze by the sink, eyes wide, lost in some buried echo of pain, and she would take his hand.

Sometimes they cried.

More often, they simply sat. Together. Close.

They planted flowers in the spring. Dandelions. Peeta baked again. Not often. But enough. He painted, too. Their memories. Their scars.

Katniss hunted when she needed space. And sometimes, she just walked through the ruins, fingers brushing the walls like they were old friends.

But they lived.

They carried the dead with them. But they carried each other, too.

And that was enough.

Not for joy. Not for peace.

But for something like healing.

For something like hope.

Chapter Text

Time passed. Not in sweeping declarations, not in grand recoveries or heroic proclamations. But in quiet things.

The days, one after the other, stitched together a fragile kind of life.

Peeta and Katniss stayed in the Victor’s Village—half-empty, still haunted. Greasy Sae visited weekly, dropping off food when she could, sometimes staying long enough to make them eat it with her. She’d never say much, but her eyes said plenty. She treated Peeta gently, and Katniss fiercely. It helped.

Haymitch came by, too—always with that ever-present grimace, sarcasm sharp as ever.

“Well,” he muttered once, looking around their kitchen, “you two are doing a hell of a job playing house in a graveyard.”

He stayed the night after that. Katniss found him asleep on the couch the next morning, a blanket she didn’t remember giving him tucked under his chin.

Some things didn’t need words.

⸻

District 12 rebuilt slowly. The blackened earth was coaxed back to life. A few families returned. Children played in the mud-streaked fields, their laughter shrill but healing. A new justice building rose. A school. A trade post. A market.

And the bakery.

Peeta rebuilt it with Tom, the town’s carpenter—a quiet man who’d lost two daughters to the bombs. Peeta’s hands trembled when he first touched the old stones, but he kept going. Brick by brick. The new ovens lit for the first time on a gray spring morning.

The bread didn’t taste like it used to.

It tasted better.

Like something earned.

⸻

Katniss hunted when the silence got too thick. The woods never asked questions. They just welcomed her back, green and wide and honest. She kept a bow beside the door, and Peeta always smiled when she returned with game slung over her shoulder. Sometimes he joined her, though the walking tired him faster now.

He still limped, some days. Still touched the scar on his temple when he thought no one was looking.

He didn’t talk much about the Capitol. Not what they did to him. Not how it felt to scream and not be heard. But sometimes—on the worst nights—he’d wake choking, eyes wide, begging for someone to say his name.

Katniss would be there. Every time.

And when the nightmares came for her—when Prim’s scream echoed through her bones and she clawed at air—Peeta held her until the shaking stopped. No questions. No judgment.

Just here.

⸻

Some nights, the screams echoed between their houses. Katniss. Peeta. Haymitch. Others.

Some nights were too long.

Some nights were a mercy.

But they survived them. Together.

They never said “we’re healed.” That wasn’t true.

But the wounds weren’t bleeding anymore.

And some nights, the stars above District 12 were clear again.

⸻

Two years passed like a slow breath.

One cold evening in autumn, Peeta had been painting. Katniss had been cleaning the fletching on her arrows. He set the brush down, smudged with ochre and blue, and looked at her the way he sometimes did when he thought she wasn’t paying attention.

She was.

She always was.

She crossed the room. Sat beside him. Took his hand.

There was no speech. No grand moment.

She leaned in and kissed him—soft and steady and sure. He kissed her back.

It didn’t feel sudden.

It felt like something they’d been building for years. Not a firestorm. A hearth.

Something warm.

⸻

They shared a bed after that. Not always for intimacy. Often for comfort. For sleep. For dreams that didn’t have to be endured alone.

They made love in slow moments, when the weight of memory wasn’t too heavy. When the morning was soft. When the light outside reminded them that life went on, even when the world once tried to stop it.

⸻

They spoke of Finnick sometimes.

When Katniss touched her braid and remembered Annie’s smile. When Peeta baked sea-salt bread and stared too long at the horizon.

They lit a candle every year on the day the bombs fell.

For Prim. For Finnick. For Peetas Family. For all of them.

⸻

Their love was not fireworks. It was not built on declarations.

It was built on touch, on shared silence, on reaching out when it mattered.

They didn’t rebuild what they lost.

They learned to carry it.

Together.

And that—
was enough.