The last cannon echoes through the arena, the Girl on Fire's flame finally extinguished. They have won, or so they were told, but neither of them are dumb. It pains her to know that after all of this, she'll have to kill him. Or maybe he'll kill her. Either way, they know that only one victor is truly allowed.

Sure enough, the announcement crackles over the invisible speakers. "Only one victor may be crowned. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

They knew it was coming, she supposes. They always knew it would come down to them.

"You should've let Thresh kill me," she says, a half-hearted attempt at humor.

He lets out a single, breathless chuckle. "Maybe," he says, and he tries to hide it but she can hear the sadness in his voice.

They leap into battle at the same moment.

They've been fighting for hours, neither able to hold the upper hand for much longer than the other. It's become a test more of the mind than of the body.

She briefly wonders if the Gamemakers will send the mutts back in, but no. This here is enough of a show, a bloody battle between the tributes of District 2 who could have been something more.

Then again, she doesn't think it'll be long until the people start to get bored.

The sun is beginning to rise, slipping up over the artificial horizon and casting a golden glow over everything. They're both exhausted, defeated. She's thought about giving up, about letting him land the death blow, but she's always been proud and will never forgive herself, even in death, for such weakness.

So she presses on, and then they're at a stalemate.

She has two knives up in the air, crossed over each other in defense against his sword, which has come dangerously close to splitting her skull. She grits her teeth and pushes as hard as she can, but she's always been smaller, physically weaker, and she's so tired.

But she's also always been smarter.

And so she slackens her stance, ever so slightly, and just as his sword is about to come down she spins away. Exhausted and lacking his usual coordination, he falls off balance. She takes the chance to kick him to the ground, to lunge forward and roll them over until she's straddling him with her heavy boots on his wrists and her forearm at his throat and her knife poised above his heart.

They're both breathing heavily, staring down at each other with pained gazes. In the dawn light, his eyes are bluer than ever, his hair liquid gold. Sweat glistens on his forehead, and she thinks he's never looked more beautiful.

His eyes hold a message. I surrender.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, leaning in close and squeezing her eyes shut because she doesn't want the audience to hear. Her forehead touches his and she can feel his breath against her face as she tries to hold back the tears, her lips hovering just above his own. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

When she opens her eyes to meet his, he doesn't look upset. He looks… at peace. It's okay, he's telling her. It's okay.

And with one last apology, one last Fuck Cato I'm so fucking sorry breathed against his lips, she drives her blade downward just as the voice of Claudius Templesmith reappears.

"Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you—the victors of District 2!"

She gasps. This time, a tear slips from the corner of her eye. It falls down, down, down, and she follows its trail. She watches as it splatters on his shirt, lands right beside the growing pool of crimson on his chest, the hilt of her dagger protruding from the wound. She watches in horror, her bloody hand flying to her mouth as his eyes widen, as blood trickles past the corner of his lips. "Cato—"

The cannon fires.

She screams.