A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Sydney.

Clove pressed her eyes shut, not quite comprehending the situation quite yet. After a second, she pulled back, slamming her body to the cushioned wall, glaring balefully at Cato. "You decide to kiss me, now? What's wrong with you?" Her words were filled with venom.

"Clove—"

Her hand struck across his cheek; a loud crackle resonated across the Training Center's walls. She sidestepped Cato's forward movement and bent down to pick up her knife, sheathing it back in her jacket, where the rest of the array of knives where. Not even casting one glance back, Clove stormed out of the Training Center and straight to her house, her mind flooding with contradicting thoughts. How could Cato like me? How long has he liked me? Why is he acting so . . . strange now? Do I like him? Clove stopped mid-thought, colliding into a tree because she was so tuned out of the world. She silently cursed and chastised herself for that last question. She couldn't have possibly liked Cato. But everything became so different now, in her perspective. Her mind was muddled. What if she always had, it was just that she had never noticed?

*Cato's POV*

It was all a blur. One moment he was threatening her, the next he had kissed her. He dropped his sword and slammed his fist against the floor in frustration. Cato had lost her. Because of his stupid little feelings for her. He marched out of the room, sword in hand, and carrying Clove's jacket tossed across his shoulder. If Cato could form one clear thought, it was that he wasn't going to apologize, that was for sure. Cato's stubbornness got in the way for apologies.

The cool breeze danced in harmony with the long grass as Cato reached the exit of the Training Center. He trampled through the dirt path, heading directly to his house. He didn't really care about his father and mother's arguments, or his little sister's pleading at the moment. "Can I go training yet?" "When will I be eligible for the Games?" "What will happen if you don't return home?" These were common questions Flora tended to ask. He had the same responses each time, it was almost rehearsed. Flora was only 10, and Cato didn't need to worry about her and the Games if he won. They would have all the money in the world and not have to give a second thought for not having enough food.

Cato tugged his jacket so it was snugger and enveloped his body better as he felt a cool chill run up his spine. How had the temperature dropped so quickly? His house was visible in the distance. He sped up his pace; a strong chilly breeze fighting against his body. Cato had finally reached his house in what seemed a decade. Maybe it was just his thoughts that were stretching time, and what had just occurred. He entered his house with his key, spun around, and locked the door. His family was out. Good. Cato raced upstairs to his room, and laid down gingerly, recalling the last moments with Clove. A stab of pain shot through his forehead—when did he have a headache?—and Cato winced, both at the memory and headache. He knew it would be a while before he would be able to talk to her.

*Clove's POV*

Clove ran a hand through her hair, sighing in discontent when she reached her house. There was nothing to do anymore, now that he was gone. A fleeting sense of—worry? Satisfaction?—filled her stomach. She was thoroughly confused about Cato. Brutal, strong Cato liked her? There must have been something wrong, surely. Cato couldn't have liked her.

Clove entered her house to the noise of boys yelling. Her brothers. Blood ran up to her cheeks—she had completely forgotten about them. Her eyes dilated as she entered the family room.

Papers were sprawled out everywhere—books were torn open. Her books. It looked like a tornado traveled across the room. Chairs were pushed over, and the sharp ceramic pieces of plates spread across the whole room. She cast a glance into the kitchen, reluctantly, and an exact replica of the family room was there—shattered glasses, broken mugs, plates, and butter knives scattered the tiles. A pinkish stain decorated the walls—juice, Clove guessed, in a wavy pattern.

"MAX! SAM!" Her scream echoed throughout the house.

After a few shouts, the sound of quickened footsteps sounded down the stairs, approaching her. A ten-year-old boy entered the kitchen tentatively. He had ruffled brown hair and an innocent look to his face and bright blue that deceived many. Two seconds later, the boy who reacted to the name Sam came in, with the same features as Clove—dark brown hair and curious hazel eyes. They looked up at their sister. "We're sorry," the words came out as a jumble from both of them; as they spoke at different times.

Clove stared incredulously at them. "You two—how could you two, measly boys make this huge mess? You both better clean this up before I come back in two hours. Or you will not want to know your fate."

And with that, she stormed out of the house in a flash.

*Cato's POV*

Cato pressed his hand to his neck, right where Clove had cut him, and his fingers returned with a scarlet red liquid. It seemed to be taking effect now—the cut had worsened, and blood had come pulsing out, down his white shirt, which caused it to stain in blood. He scanned his room for medical supplies. Surely, he had to have bandages in the vicinity of his house. He got injured all the time, so his parents bought new medical supplies every month. Cato stumbled up to his feet, and slowly made his way towards the corresponding side of his room.

"40 feet . . . ," he assured himself. As he got closer to the exit of his room, the more effort Cato had to take for each step. He was losing blood at a significant rate. Cato was slightly aware of the trail of blood he was making. He staggered across his room to the kitchen, where the medical cabinets were situated.

"30," Cato breathlessly walked closer and closer to the cabinets, across the living room. It seemed to be miles away to him, and his vision was starting to blur—everything was slanted to him, and his peripheral vision had already vanished.

"20," he was nearing the cabinets now. They were in sight—barely. His thoughts started to muddle. A sigh emitted from his lips as he reached out for the handle—it was just in reach. He could only form one clear thought: I'm not going to make it. Then, he fell to the floor and his vision went black.

*Clove's POV*

She forced an exasperated sigh out of her lips as she exited the mess of the house. Maybe she had been too harsh on her brothers. No, she thought. They deserved everything she said. Clove didn't feel a twinge of guilt.

Clove's quick strides began towards the forest. She wanted to stay there after this weary day. Her knife was still pocketed in her jacket, and just as she reached the edge of the forest, she laughed, to herself, and jumped down the hill. She landed soundlessly on the ground. Clove began to walk towards the abandoned wooden cabin at the outskirts of the woods. Nearing it, she noticed the windows were illuminated—who would be there? It took her a second to guess—Sydney.

Clove knocked softly at the door, then firmer the second time. A girl, about an inch taller than herself, answered the door with a smile. She had dark hair that reached down to just below her mid-back, and long, elegant features that were finished with warm eyes.

"Clove, how nice to see you."

Sydney was one of Clove's only female friends at school. All the other girls seemed, well—too girly. "Sydney," she began. "What a relief." Clove muttered to herself. Sydney would lighten her mood, after all that happened. She leaned against the doorframe, Clove's features slowly regaining her composure.

"You can sit, you know." Sydney said. Clove blinked, a wave of lethargy washing over her suddenly at the mention, and she quickly took a seat beside Sydney. "You seem . . . annoyed. What happened?"

"A lot. Don't bother asking," Clove scowled and gazed into the glowing fire. They stayed like that in silence for a few moments.

"How's Cato?"

Clove's features reddened, and she suddenly remembered their talk. Quicker than a cheetah, she stood up. "I have to go," Clove mumbled and she flew out the door in a hurry. Sydney smirked after her, not pursuing her. Something definitely happened between Cato and Clove.

Clove raced through the woods, the occasional branch scraping her limbs, but she didn't care. Her heartbeat was racing, as she thought of one person: Cato. Where was he? She needed to apologize. Picking up her pace, Clove jogged towards his house.

The door was left unlocked, as usual. The door swung open with a creek, signifying that the hinges needed oiling. Only she would know that, though—her father taught Clove everything—he wanted her to be the best. Even if it required abusing her to get out her full potential. He wanted her to be physically fit, and have a quick mind—most Careers left out the second. That was most of the reason behind her viciousness and hatred for everything. Almost everything.

Clove let out a sigh—she suspected he would have locked it this time. The first room Clove headed towards was his room. Entering the door, there was a trail of dark-red droplets on the ground—blood. Her face grew pale. What had Cato done? What had she done? She left the room abruptly, tracking down the where the trail of blood led to. The kitchen. The kitchen island shielded her view, so she slowly approached the corner of the kitchen—and there he was. His neck was pasted with blood, and his eyes were shut. His features and muscles were completely slack.

Clove screamed. I may have just been too late.