In the end, they have to tear me off Blythe's body. I'm holding into her blood soaked jacket so tightly, it takes two Peacekeepers to pull me free. Then we're a muddle of heavy boot treads, howling and radio chatter until I'm safely deposited in a sterile looking room on a hovercraft that's bound for the Capitol.

To their credit, the small army of doctors and Capitol attendants onboard don't seem phased at all by my reaction. When I try to bolt for the exit, they swiftly restrain me. When I scream my throat raw, they don't bat an eye. And when I finally make a desperate swipe for the nearest scalpel, they respond almost instinctively with a needle to the neck.

I don't remember a whole lot after that, only the distinct feeling of being unable to coordinate my limbs or open my eyes. It was like being underwater, a vast, fuzzy sensation I couldn't seem to shake no matter how many times I tried. Every now and then, my ears registered something playing out above - the dull beep of a heart monitor, snippets of a whispered conversation, the soft clink of surgical tools - but nothing solid enough to grasp.

By the time I finally wake up, I'm exhausted. I don't need a mirror to know there are deep, purplish bags beneath my eyes. But my sleep deprivation is the least of my worries. As soon as it's conscious, my body kicks into high alert, scanning my surroundings for any sign of danger. Victor's syndrome, I guess. I take in the bed I'm propped up in, the medical wires dangling out of my arms, the floor to ceiling window and the door that's pressed firmly shut.

I'm back in the training center. In my old room, to be specific. Everything is exactly as I left it, completely pristine, except for the delicate vase of flowers placed neatly on my bedside table, along with a note. I reach for it without thinking, only pulling up short when the stench of roses smacks me dead in the face. My stomach drops at once, and I swear I can hear the steady tick of the heart monitor jump up several notches. Only one person could have sent this gift.

President Snow.

I pinch the note between my fingers with the kind of caution you'd give to handling a live snake, only unfolding it once I'm certain it won't bite.

Dearest Miss Medler,

May I offer you my personal congratulations on your victory. There's no denying that many people underestimated your odds, but it's clear now that you proved them wrong. You truly have followed in the footsteps of your mentor and it's my hope - along with the Capitol's - that you will continue to do so for years to come.

Yours Sincerely,

President Coriolanus Snow

I frown at the note, brain struggling to process its true meaning. Sure, I might have a small apothecary's worth of drugs pumping through my system, but even I know Snow has no intention of congratulating me. I'm still alive and that makes me a problem, and problems don't last long in Panem.

What I really want now is to tear off these covers, rip open the door, and find Finnick. But when I try to rise more than a couple of inches, I realize there's a thick restraint looped over my waist. I struggle against it at once, barely even noticing that the pain in my ribs from when Titus nearly caved them in has all but vanished. When I make no progress, the screaming starts. I don't even know who I'm calling out for, anyone at all, I guess. But no one comes. Instead, one of the machines to my right simply whirrs to life and I feel something cold and heavy worming its way through my veins. Then it's over.

When I next open my eyes, the world has changed. Soft afternoon light beams its way through the windows, tickling the side of my face that isn't crushed into my pillows. Something about the warmth brings me back to life and I have a go at uncurling my limbs. There are no more restraints, or wires or machines. I'm officially unplugged. And, more importantly, alone.

Reassured that there's no immediate threat, I do a quick once-over of my body. All evidence of the arena - blood, sweat and grime - has been wiped away. I shove my covers aside, noticing the sores and burns have magically disappeared too. It's almost as if I've been cocooned up in bed for the past few days, rather than fighting for my life in the arena.

"Impressive, don't you think?" A squeaky voice starts up from the door.

I jump out of my skin at the sound, catching the back of my head on the headboard as some I assume must be a fairly high-ranking Capitol attendant sweeps into the room.

"Careful, we don't want to have to call the doctors in again," he smiles, placing a small pile of neatly folded clothes onto the edge of my bed. "Now, do you need me to send someone in to help you get changed or do you think you can manage it yourself?"

I take a closer look at the clothes, then feel the blood drain from my face as I realize what they are. My uniform from the arena. Well, not my uniform. Last time I saw it, the thing was covered in blood and shredded by acid rain. But something tells me we're past the blood and gore now. Now the Capitol wants to see Victor.

"Miss Medler?" The Capitol attendant says, only allowing a hint of irritation into his sickly sweet tone. "The cameras are waiting."

"Cameras?" I say in a scratchy voice.

"Of course," he replies. "We wouldn't want people to miss out on the big reunion now, would we?"

Reunion? How can there be a reunion when everyone else is dead? Then it hits me. Finnick, Axel, Marina and Fenwick. They must be right outside, waiting for word that I'm awake. I'm upright before I know it, shedding my paper-thin hospital gown and pulling on my uniform at breakneck speed.

Whatever medicine they've pumped me up with must be high-end because I'm remarkably agile, barely stopping to acknowledge the attendant as he instructs me on what to do, where to look, what to say. The only things I care about are on the other side of this door.

Then it finally opens and I see them gathered in a big chamber at the end of the hall. Fenwick, Marina, Axel and Finnick.

Finnick!

I take off running so suddenly, I swear I can hear the cameraperson let out a curse as they try to keep up. But I don't care, there's only one person that I want right now.

We collide with a pronounced thud as Finnick closes the distance between us and I clutch onto him like a lifeline, terrified that if I let go he'll disappear and I'll be back in that arena again. Alone. So I squeeze even tighter, ignoring the beady eye of the camera trained on my face.

We stay like that for a few, long moments. I feel Finnick's hand carding through my hair, as if to confirm that I'm all in one piece. After a while, when I feel like I can finally breathe again, I try to say something. But what is there to say? What am I supposed to say? In the end, I wind up blurting out the first dumb thing that comes to mind.

"Hello."

Laughter. I hear it start up from the crowd just beyond me and eventually reach Finnick himself. It's a strange sound, especially after the arena. But I'm glad to have something good again. Something happy.

Finnick extracts himself from my vice-like grip and holds me at arms length, face breaking out in a relieved smile.

"Hello, Medler."

He reaches for the token hanging around my neck, twisting the spiral shell between his thumb and finger. It's a small gesture, unremarkable really to anyone that isn't us. But I understand his meaning. I've done the impossible and made good on our deal. So why does something not feel right?

And just like that, my chin starts to tremble and I feel something thick lodge itself deep in my throat. Because it's true, I survived the games. But at what price? Flashes of Blythe's blood mingling with sand and Pierce's eyes dance across my vision. I freeze where I stand, hearing but not fully processing whatever it is that the others are saying to me. I watch as Axel frowns, waving a hand in front of my face, and Marina worries a strand of candy-colored hair between her clawed nails.

It's a good thing Finnick is here then, as he knows exactly what to do when cameras are around. He's got a protective arm around my shoulder in seconds, burying my blank stare into the folds of his jacket and away from any prying lenses.

"Disbelief," he says, providing a palatable excuse for my silence. "Medler here has always been on the modest side."

"Must take after you then," Axel quips back, slapping Finnick on the back.

I burrow myself into him further. Yes, disbelief, that'll work. It's not exactly me, but I'll take lying to the Capitol over breaking down in front of the whole of Panem any day.

"You ready to go, Wren?" Finnick asks, after what feels like a lifetime.

I nod into his arm, firmly on mute. And just like that, we're on the move again, weaving down a series of corridors to an elevator that spits us out in the lobby of the training center. I focus on the sound of our footsteps clicking across the cold stone to stop my mind from wandering back into the arena.

Soon, I'll be forced out of my uniform and passed from one interview to the next. Caesar Flickerman will have the pleasure of rehashing every microsecond the past few days, retelling the games from my perspective. Or, more specifically, whatever perspective the Capitol has been cooking up for me. Then there'll be a Victory Banquet in Snow's mansion, followed by one final interview and a train journey back to Four. But for now, there is only the feeling of Finnick standing by my side, solid and sure.

And as I glance up at him, I think that should be enough. I mean, it has to be… right?