Cast:
Alexander Ludwig as Cato Marcellus
Josh Hutcherson as Peeta Mellark
Jacob Elordi as Marcus
Isabelle Fuhrman as Clove Valentius
Jane Fonda as Cornelia Felix-Marcellus, Cato's Grandmother (Ouma)
Emma Watson as Ophelia Daytide
Jack Quaid as Marvel
Leven Rambin as Glimmer
Mason Dye as Reef
Marie Avgeropoulos as Luna
Chris Hemsworth as Cyrus Marcellus, Cato's Father
Uma Thurman as Lucia Marcellus, Cato's Mother
Mckenna Grace as Octavia Marcellus, Cato's Sister
Morgan Freeman as Titus, Mayor of District 2
Jonathan Van Ness as Angel
Karamo Brown as Eros
Tan France as Samuel
Antoni Porowski as Gabriel
Virtus et Honos.
Strength and Honor.
The words blurred in Cato's mind, mingling with the bitter taste of salt and copper in his throat. The air at Stonebridge Academy was thick with anticipation, a suffocating pressure that settled over the courtyard. Today wasn't like any other day. Today was the test. The test that would determine who among them would rise to the honor of becoming a Legionnaire—a volunteer for the Hunger Games.
Cato stood at the center of the courtyard, his sword gripped tightly in his hands. The cold metal felt heavier than usual, its weight pressing down on him. Across from him, Marcus stood ready, his closest friend and now his final opponent. The day they had both trained for had come—the day they would face each other, not as friends, but as rivals. Only one would claim the academy's top spot.
The courtyard was deathly silent. The other cadets stood on the sidelines, their eyes fixed on the two of them. Cato could feel their gaze on him, like a physical weight bearing down. He knew what they expected: for him to fight, to win, to prove that he was worthy of the title and the burden that came with it. But as he looked at Marcus, he didn't see an enemy. He saw a brother, a comrade who had been by his side through every battle, every grueling drill.
"Begin!" The drill master's voice cut through the tension like a whip crack.
The clash of swords followed immediately, the sharp ring of metal on metal echoing off the stone walls. Cato moved on instinct, his body reacting to Marcus's strikes with practiced precision. Their movements were so familiar, each one predicting the other's, honed from years of training side by side. But today, something was different. Today, Cato's mind was elsewhere, tangled in emotions he couldn't untangle.
"You're holding back!" Marcus gritted out between strikes, his frustration clear. "Stop hesitating, Cato! You know what's at stake!"
Cato's jaw clenched. He knew. He knew all too well. But knowing didn't make it any easier. He parried another blow, his heart pounding in his chest. Marcus was right—hesitation meant failure, and failure in District 2 wasn't just defeat. It was death. But every strike, every blow felt like a betrayal. How could he bring himself to harm the person who had been his closest ally?
The duel continued, their swords a blur in the midday sun, each clash sending vibrations through Cato's bones. Sweat dripped down his face, mingling with the sting of blood. His arm throbbed from a fresh cut, but he barely registered the pain. All he could see was Marcus—his face twisted with determination, but there was something else there too. Something like fear.
A fierce strike from Marcus forced Cato onto the defensive, pushing him back step by step. The desperation in Marcus's attacks was clear—he wasn't just fighting for the title. He was fighting for survival.
"Fight me!" Marcus shouted, his voice raw with emotion. "If you don't, they'll kill us both for this!"
The words struck Cato like a blow. He knew Marcus was right. In District 2, weakness was unforgivable. If he didn't give it his all, they would both pay the price. Yet, how could he bring himself to end this?
And then it happened—a brief flicker of hesitation in Marcus's eyes, a split-second moment of doubt. It was all Cato needed. Without thinking, he sidestepped Marcus's next attack and swung his sword with precision. The blade connected with Marcus's arm.
The sound of steel hitting flesh was sickening. Blood sprayed across Cato's face, warm and thick. He watched as Marcus stumbled, his sword clattering to the ground with a metallic clang.
"Submit," Cato said, his voice strained. "It's over, Marcus—"
But Marcus refused. His face contorted in pain, blood streaming from his wound, yet his eyes burned with determination. He lunged again, his movements wild, driven by pure desperation.
Cato moved faster. His sword flashed, and before he could fully process what he was doing, the blade found its mark, plunging into Marcus's side.
The world slowed.
Marcus's body collided with Cato's, the force of it driving them both to the ground. Dirt and blood swirled in the air as they hit the earth. Marcus's hand, slick with blood, clamped around Cato's throat, his grip tightening as the life drained from him. Cato gasped for breath, his vision spotting, but he twisted the blade deeper, desperate, frantic.
A wet, choking sound escaped Marcus's throat. His grip loosened, and the pressure on Cato's neck eased. Cato opened his eyes, staring up at Marcus's face. Blood streamed from the corner of his mouth, his amber eyes wide and unfocused. Slowly, the light in them began to fade.
"Cato..." Marcus's voice was barely a whisper, weak and trembling. "You did it. You won."
Cato's breath hitched. He scrambled to catch Marcus as his friend's body slumped against him, lifeless. His hands were slick with blood, warm and sticky, the weight of Marcus's form heavy in his arms.
"No," Cato breathed, his voice breaking. "No, Marcus, don't..."
Marcus's eyes fluttered open, just for a moment, a faint smile ghosting his lips. "It's okay," he whispered, his voice so soft Cato had to strain to hear him. "You did what you had to do... We both knew this was coming."
Tears blurred Cato's vision. He could barely see through them, his chest tight with grief. "I'm sorry," he choked out, the words barely audible. "I'm so sorry."
Marcus's breath was shallow, fading. He shook his head slightly, his voice a fragile whisper. "Don't be... promise me something."
"Anything," Cato rasped, holding his friend tighter.
"Win," Marcus breathed, his eyes locking with Cato's for the last time. "Win for both of us."
And with that, Marcus's eyes closed. His body went limp in Cato's arms, the life slipping away.
For a moment, the world stopped. There was nothing but the crushing silence and the weight of Marcus's final words. Cato held him close, tears mixing with the blood that soaked into the dirt beneath them.
The drill master's voice broke the silence, cold and final. "Victory to Cato, House Marcellus."
The courtyard erupted in cheers, but Cato barely heard them. The sound was distant, hollow, drowned out by the grief that gripped him.
He had won.
But it felt like the worst kind of loss.
Cato's dorm buzzed with celebration—a lavish banquet held in his honor. He was a Legionnaire now, the chosen tribute of District 2, on the cusp of volunteering for the 74th Hunger Games. The highest honor beneath being a Victor, they said. In two days, he would stand before the crowd, his name echoed across the district as a symbol of strength and glory. But as he sat at the long table, surrounded by hollow congratulations and forced smiles, the weight of it all crushed him.
He stared down at the food on his plate, the decadent feast meant to celebrate his victory, but it tasted like ash in his mouth. The wine did nothing to ease the dryness that had settled in his throat. The laughter, the cheers—none of it could reach him. It all felt distant, as if he were watching it from behind a thick glass. His eyes kept returning to the small token beneath his shirt, Marcus's ring. A simple turquoise pebble, encased in polished steel, dangling from a worn leather cord. It was the only thing grounding him in this hollow, surreal nightmare.
He couldn't take it anymore.
Rising abruptly from the table, he muttered something about needing air and slipped out of the hall before anyone could stop him. The noise and false cheer faded as he stepped into the darkened corridors of the academy. His footsteps echoed softly, the only sound in the suffocating silence.
As he walked, the numbness began to crack, a deep ache spreading through his chest. He needed to get away—far away from the academy, from the suffocating expectations, from the reality that he had killed his best friend.
Without thinking, Cato found himself racing across the courtyard, his legs carrying him toward the broken gate at the edge of the grounds. The rusted chains rattled as he shoved it open, the metal groaning in protest, but he didn't stop. He ran, faster and faster, his heart pounding in his chest, until the academy disappeared behind him, swallowed by the trees and the hills.
His breath came in ragged gasps by the time he reached the top of the ridge, his body shaking from the exertion. The place he and Marcus had always come to—to escape, to find some sense of peace. But now, standing there alone beneath the old willow tree, the emptiness swallowed him whole.
Cato collapsed onto the cold earth, his hands trembling as he pulled Marcus's ring from beneath his shirt. He held it tightly in his fist, his knuckles white, the small piece of metal burning against his palm.
He had promised Marcus he would win. Win for both of them. But what did winning even mean now? Was it really honor? Glory? Or was it just survival—just another empty step in a life that had already taken so much from him? The academy had trained him to fight, to kill, to survive. But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this suffocating emptiness. The deep, gnawing ache that clawed at his insides, pulling him into a darkness he couldn't escape.
His breath hitched, and before he could stop it, a sob tore through him. He tried to choke it down, biting his lip until he tasted blood, but the tears came anyway, hot and relentless. His body shook as he buried his face in his hands, the weight of Marcus's death crashing over him like a wave.
He hadn't just lost a friend. He had taken his life. His best friend, the one person who understood him, who stood beside him through it all. Gone. And for what? So that he could be here, on the edge of glory, alone in the darkness?
"I'm sorry, Marcus," he whispered, his voice breaking as he clutched the ring tighter. "I'm so sorry."
The night stretched on, the cold seeping into his bones as the stars remained hidden behind thick clouds. His body ached, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow, gnawing grief that consumed him.
Cato didn't know how long he sat there, curled beneath the willow tree, his tears drying on his cheeks, his breath ragged and uneven. Hours, maybe. The academy, the Games, all of it felt distant now—like an illusion that had been shattered, leaving nothing but the raw reality of his loss.
Eventually, when the numbness began to creep back in, he made a quiet vow to himself. To Marcus. He would win, but not for glory, not for the Capitol's twisted games. He would win for Marcus, to honor the friend he had lost. To survive, to find meaning in this hollow world that had already taken so much from him.
As the first light of dawn began to edge over the horizon, Cato forced himself to stand. His body felt heavy, every muscle aching from the hours spent in the cold, but there was no time to rest. Today was Marcus's funeral.
The ceremony was as cold and formal as everything else in District 2. Marcus's ashes had already been placed in an urn, ready to be sent to his family. The Drill Master gave a speech about honor and sacrifice, but the words felt like sand in Cato's ears, dry and meaningless. When the time came for the Legionnaire salute, Cato mimicked the gesture, his right fist pressed against his chest in the precise position as if driving a knife into his heart. But even that felt empty, just another motion in a life that no longer made sense.
As the funeral ended and the other cadets dispersed, Cato felt a strange calm settle over him. There was no more running, no more avoiding what was to come. The Hunger Games were on the horizon, the Reaping only days away. But for the first time, he felt something stir inside him—not hope, exactly, but a resolve. A spark.
He would face the Games, not for the Capitol, not for District 2's twisted sense of honor. But for Marcus. For the friend who had stood beside him through it all, and for the promise he had made in his final breath.
After the ceremony, an instructor came to collect Cato for his final physical before leaving the academy. The examination was a blur—the cold lights, the impersonal touches as they stripped him down, prodding him like an animal to be sent to slaughter. Usually, their comments about his scars or his strength would have sparked anger or pride, but now they were just white noise. His mind was elsewhere, lost in the haze of grief and exhaustion.
Finally, the examination ended, and Cato found himself sitting in the back of a private shuttle, his belongings packed and tossed carelessly into the seat beside him.
The academy was behind him now, and for the first time in eight years, Cato was going home. Yet the dread of Reaping Day loomed in the back of his mind like a storm cloud. The gentle rocking of the shuttle, the hum of the engine—it all blurred together as exhaustion finally pulled him under. His eyes grew heavy, and despite everything, sleep claimed him.
And for a brief moment, the world was silent.
Cato dreamt of the halcyon days of his youth when he and his Ouma hiked near the mountains at the border of District 2.
Cornelia was a marvelous woman—a victor of the 25th Hunger Games. She had been a formidable warrior, defeating her enemies with unparalleled grace and courage. Her striking beauty and undeniable charisma were legendary. Tall and slender, she carried herself gracefully and confidently, her piercing blue eyes radiating fierce intelligence and determination.
The weekends of his youth were spent with her whenever his parents allowed it.
One sunny morning, they woke up early and headed to the trailhead outside the Victor's Village. The air was fresh and crisp, and the trees were lush with greenery.
As they started on the trail, Cato hopped from rock to rock, pointing out all the interesting plants and animals. As they climbed higher, the path became steeper and more rugged, but his Ouma kept a steady pace and encouraged him to keep going. They took breaks to catch their breath and enjoy the stunning view overlooking the valley of District 2, with colorful wildflowers dotting the mountainside.
After hours of climbing, they reached the top. Standing at the peak, they took in the breathtaking view of the surrounding mountains and valleys. Cornelia beamed with pride at his strength and resilience as they sat down to rest and shared some apples she had packed for the trip.
He would gather bundles of yellow flowers and tell her they were pretty, just like her. She called them Lion's Teeth because their leaves were jagged like a lion's.
She used to give him a flower picked from inside a bundle of Lion's Teeth in the shape of a white starburst. She called them Wish Flowers, but she said the people of old called them dandelions.
"Our lives are never our own, Cato—they are threads of fate sewn together by someone else's hand. So, upon this flower, make a wish. Hold it tight to your heart and seal it with a kiss, and your wish might come true one day."
He couldn't remember what he wished for because it was a long time ago, and only little kids believed in such things anyway.
Cato's eyes snapped open as the shuttle jolted over another bump in the road. His gaze drifted to the window, where the familiar, dusty landscape of golden stone and dry plains rolled by, a subtle reminder that he was almost home. Almost back in District 2.
The thought brought little comfort.
He'd been away for so long, immersed in the rigid world of Stonebridge Academy, training to be something more than the boy who left at ten years old. To be a victor. To bring honor to his family's name, just like Cornelia had done. It had been years since he'd seen her, and now, as the Reaping approached, a flicker of hope danced in his chest. Maybe he'd get to see her before the Games began.
But that hope was quickly overshadowed by the weight of other memories. Darker ones. His father.
Cato's jaw tightened, recalling the towering figure who had loomed over him his entire childhood. A man who had no interest in becoming a victor himself, happy instead to bask in the glory of Cornelia's victory. Cato's father had risen to power as Head Peacekeeper, a man revered for his strength but feared for his cruelty. Cato wondered, now that he was older, stronger, if the man's strikes would still sting the same. Or if he'd even try to hit him at all.
A shift in the cabin reminded him of the only person whose shadow didn't suffocate him: his younger sister, Octavia.
Eight years younger, she had the same spark of curiosity and mischief that he'd had before Stonebridge turned him into something colder. He hadn't seen her in years, but his father made it clear that if Cato failed, Octavia was their backup plan. She'd be the one to bring glory to the family. Cato clenched his fists at the thought. He didn't know if his father treated her the way he'd treated him. A part of him didn't want to know.
The shuttle finally came to a halt, the driver announcing they couldn't go any further on the narrow cobblestone streets of Victor's Village. Cato thanked him, grabbed his bags, and stepped into the hot, midday sun. The air felt heavy, dry, and oppressive—everything District 2 was.
The sight of the limestone houses lining the street stirred something uneasy in him. Each one, a silent monument to the district's past victors, felt like a weight on his shoulders. When he reached the second house on the left, his old home, his heart beat faster.
The door was the same—thick, dark oak, intimidating and strong. Just like the family who lived inside. He knocked, the sound heavy against the silence of the street.
After a few moments, he heard the soft patter of footsteps. The door creaked open, revealing his mother. She looked older now—more tired, her blonde hair streaked with gray, her eyes carrying years of worry. For a second, she just stared at him, her mouth slightly open in disbelief.
"Cato?" Her voice cracked, as if saying his name made her realize he was real.
He swallowed, forcing a smile. "Hey, Mom."
She didn't say anything else, just pulled him into a hug, tighter than he remembered. Her tears soaked into his shoulder, her small frame trembling against him. "You're home," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
For a brief moment, he let himself hold her back. The familiar scent of lavender and soap wrapped around him, stirring memories of simpler times, before he knew what it meant to kill.
"I'm home," he said quietly, though the word felt foreign on his tongue. Home wasn't where you belonged. It was just a place where your memories lived. And right now, those memories felt like ghosts.
Inside the house, things were eerily familiar—everything in its place, yet somehow smaller than he remembered. The space felt emptier, too, without his father's overbearing presence. His mother led him to the kitchen, where the scent of freshly baked bread wafted through the air, reminding him of afternoons spent running through the garden with Octavia.
"She's at school," his mother said softly, as if reading his thoughts. "Octavia will be so happy to see you."
The thought of his little sister made something in his chest unclench, just slightly.
Cato ate with his mother, their conversation strained and punctuated by uncomfortable silences. She asked about the Academy, his training, and the upcoming Reaping, but every question felt like it carried the weight of what was to come. He gave short answers, his mind wandering to the Games and what he'd have to face.
After the meal, Cato's mother offered him a small smile, the same kind one she used to give him when he'd scraped his knees or bruised his shins in the garden. "Why don't you go out and get some air? The garden's still the same. You always used to love it."
He nodded, grateful for the excuse to be alone for a moment. As he stepped outside, the afternoon sun bathed the garden in a warm, golden light. The tall grass swayed gently in the breeze, and at the far end of the yard, he spotted her.
Octavia.
She was running through the tall grass, her laughter echoing in the air, carefree and bright. She wasn't the little girl he remembered. She'd grown taller, her blonde hair whipping behind her as she moved. But the spark in her eyes was still there—the same lightness, the same sense of wonder.
When she spotted him, her face lit up, and she sprinted toward him. "Cato!" she shouted, her voice ringing with joy as she threw herself into his arms, nearly knocking him over.
He chuckled, hugging her tightly. "You've grown."
"You're really home!" she exclaimed, beaming up at him.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Cato smiled. A real, unforced smile.
They spent the afternoon in the garden, just like they used to when they were younger. Octavia dragged him toward the far corner of the yard where the wish flowers—dandelions—grew in clusters. She knelt down, plucking one from the earth and holding it up to him with a grin.
"Remember these?" she asked, her eyes bright with nostalgia. "You used to call them wish flowers."
He took the delicate flower from her, twirling it between his fingers. "Yeah," he said softly, the memory of it tugging at something deep inside. "I remember."
Octavia giggled, blowing on her own wish flower, scattering the white seeds into the air. "Come on," she said, looking up at him. "Make a wish."
Cato hesitated. He didn't believe in wishes anymore. Not in this world, not after everything he had seen. But for Octavia, for the sister who still held on to that sense of magic, he closed his eyes and made a silent wish before blowing the seeds into the breeze.
Octavia watched the seeds float away, a satisfied smile on her face. "See?" she said quietly, glancing up at him. "They're still magic."
He didn't believe in magic anymore, but in that moment, watching his sister's face light up with innocent wonder, something inside him softened. Maybe the wish flowers weren't magic. But maybe, just maybe, Octavia was.
And that was enough.
That evening, his family gathered for dinner. The table was meticulously set, the aroma of braised lamb and roasted vegetables filling the air, but tension hung thick in the room. Cato's mother had prepared his favorite dishes, a gesture that once made him feel at home. Now, it only reminded him of the weight on his shoulders, every bite heavy with expectation.
At the head of the table, Cato's father reclined, the stench of alcohol clinging to him. His graying blonde hair was disheveled, and his goatee was unkempt. His face flushed with drink, but his eyes were still sharp, cutting through the room like a knife. He slammed his hand on the table, rattling the dishes with a laugh that was more bark than joy.
"Ahh, my boy! Finally done with your training, huh? Took you long enough!" His voice boomed, the edge of command lingering beneath the twisted pride.
Cato nodded, his voice steady but tight. "Yes, sir. It's done."
His father's smile faded, his eyes narrowing as he studied Cato. "And what's your plan for the arena? You think you're just gonna stand there looking dumb, or you got something ready?" The challenge in his tone was unmistakable.
Cato hesitated, unsure of how to answer. The pause was enough to make his father snap. "You better be ready, boy! They won't wait for you to figure it out. You think anyone cares if you choke?"
Before the tension could thicken, Octavia's voice piped up, bright and eager. "Cato, can you show me how to fight? I wanna be strong like you!"
Her innocent excitement broke the atmosphere for a brief second. Cato forced a smile, glancing briefly at his father. "Maybe when you're older," he said gently. "For now, just keep being the best little sister."
"But I'm already strong!" Octavia pouted, flexing what little muscles she had.
Cato chuckled softly, though it was tinged with sadness. "I know, Tav. We've got time. I promise."
"Promise?" she asked, her eyes wide and hopeful.
"Promise," he nodded, his voice thick with the weight of a promise he wasn't sure he could keep.
His father's chair scraped harshly against the floor as he stood.
"Enough of this nonsense!" he barked. "Strength doesn't come from playing games and making promises you can't keep. It comes from doing what has to be done."
His gaze shifted to Cato, eyes hard. "You think you're ready for the Games? Then stop feeding her fantasies and focus on what matters."
Cato stood silent, his father's words hitting like a blow. His mother had gone still beside him, while Octavia's lip quivered, her confusion visible as she glanced between them.
"Yes, sir," Cato muttered, keeping his voice low and steady, though a part of him wanted to yell, to grab his father—
But he didn't. He couldn't.
After a long pause, his father grunted and turned, heading toward the study. "No mistakes, Cato," he called over his shoulder. "Act like a Marcellus."
Cato said nothing until the heavy thud of the study door echoed through the house. Only then did he exhale, the room now thick with the aftermath. His mother cleared the plates quickly, her movements robotic, her face expressionless. Octavia's earlier excitement had dimmed, her usual chatter now muted as she followed Cato into the kitchen.
"Cato," she whispered, tugging at his sleeve once they were alone. "Dad didn't mean it… right?"
Cato's heart clenched. He wanted to lie, to tell her everything was fine, but he couldn't. Not anymore. "He's just… strict," Cato said hollowly. "He wants us to be strong."
"But you are strong," Octavia replied, her voice full of conviction. "You're the strongest person I know!"
Cato forced a smile, though it pained him. "Thanks, Tav."
Her eyes were wide and pleading as she tugged his arm again. "Can we look at the stars like we used to? Please?"
He hesitated, glancing toward the hallway leading to his father's study. But when he saw the hurt in her eyes, he couldn't say no. "Yeah," he said softly. "Let's go."
They slipped outside into the cool night, laying blankets on the grass. The stars twinkled overhead, and for a moment, it felt like things hadn't changed. Octavia pointed out constellations with the same joy as always, but Cato couldn't shake the heaviness gnawing at him.
"Octavia," he said quietly, turning his head toward her. "You know I won't always be here, right? There are things I have to do."
She looked at him, her face scrunched up in confusion. "What do you mean? You're always gonna be here. You have to be! Who else is gonna help me find the Big Bear?"
Cato swallowed hard. He wanted to protect her, but he couldn't lie. "I'll always be your big brother, Tav. But I have responsibilities now."
Octavia's lip wobbled, her small hands gripping his tightly. "But you'll come back, right? You have to come back."
The words hit him hard, the weight of them almost unbearable. He forced himself to nod, though it felt like a lie.
"I'll try," he whispered. "I promise."
She searched his face for reassurance, her wide eyes tearful. "You have to, Cato. You never break your promises."
His chest tightened as he squeezed her hand. "I'll try, Tav." But even as he spoke, the knot inside him grew tighter, the future uncertain.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Cato lay awake in his room, staring at the ceiling, the image of Marcus's lifeless body replaying in his mind like a twisted loop. His father's harsh words echoed, and the weight of expectations—of everything he'd done and everything still looming—pressed down on him like a suffocating blanket.
He couldn't take it anymore.
Slipping out of bed, Cato moved in desperation. His hands shook as he rifled through his bag, searching frantically for one of those tiny white pills.
Refrain.
The conditioning pill of the Legionnaires. It had been his lifeline for the past eight years, numbing everything—fear, pain, regret—keeping his mind detached from the weight of his training. But in their final year, Stonebridge stripped the pills from prospective Legionnaires. They were forced to feel again, to confront what the Academy had spent years hardening them against.
Cato had vowed to get through the final year without them. But when ten of his classmates had taken their lives, unable to cope with the emotions flooding back in, he'd made a different plan. He'd bribed younger trainees with rations, trading food for the pills, just enough to survive. Just enough to numb the edges.
But now he was out. His fingers dug through every pocket, every hidden compartment of his bag, but came up empty. The desperation in his chest twisted into a knot, tighter with each passing second. He was out of luck. And now, without Refrain, without that sweet, mind-numbing relief, he was forced to feel. Forced to confront the pain, the guilt, the anger—all of it, raw and unchecked.
His heart pounded as he wandered through the quiet house, his feet leading him aimlessly until he found himself in the kitchen. Grabbing a glass, he tried to steady his hands enough to pour water, but the tremors in his fingers betrayed him. Water spilled over the edge, pooling on the counter, unnoticed. He set the glass down, bracing himself against the counter, breathing heavily.
In the window, he caught a glimpse of his reflection—a gaunt, hollow version of himself. His once strong and unyielding form now looked fragile, ghostlike. It was as if everything the Academy had molded him into was crumbling away before his eyes. Without Refrain, without the numbness, he could see it all clearly now—every crack in the armor, every wound he'd ignored, now laid bare. The boy who once believed in glory and strength, the boy who followed orders without question, was gone.
All that remained was this broken version of him.
"Couldn't sleep?" his mother's soft voice broke through the silence. She stood in the doorway, her face lined with worry.
Cato shook his head, staring down at the water. "No," he muttered, his voice strained. "I can't stop thinking about… everything."
Cato's mother stepped closer, her hand lightly resting on his arm, her brow furrowed with concern. The quiet between them stretched, the weight of his words sinking in. She searched his face, her eyes soft but tired, the same exhaustion that had settled over her for years.
"I killed him, Mom," Cato whispered, his voice cracking. "Marcus... He was my friend, and I killed him. I had to. I didn't want to, but I had to."
She stood still for a moment, her breath catching. The raw pain in his voice pierced through her, but she didn't flinch. Instead, she sighed, her shoulders drooping ever so slightly. She looked up at him, and her eyes filled with an unspoken sadness, not just for him, but for everything this life had taken from them both.
"Cato," she said softly, her voice trembling but steady, "I wish I could tell you that what you did was easy to understand. I wish I could tell you that you'll be okay. But this… this isn't something that goes away."
Cato's breath hitched, and he looked down, his hands still shaking. He wanted to believe she could fix it somehow, that her words could make the weight of what he had done lift. But they couldn't.
She hesitated before continuing. "You did what you thought you had to. And in this place... in District 2, they train you to think that's what makes you strong. But… killing him—it doesn't mean you're strong, Cato. It doesn't mean you're weak either. It means you survived."
Her words hung heavy in the air, the truth of them cutting through Cato like a knife. He felt the tears welling in his eyes again but blinked them away. Surviving. Was that all he was doing now?
She sighed, pulling him into her arms. Her grip wasn't tight or reassuring like it had been when he was a child, but it was real, grounded in the shared pain they carried.
"I can't tell you how to feel," she whispered against his shoulder. "I can't make this better. But you're still here. And maybe that's enough for now."
Cato buried his face in her shoulder, his chest tightening, unable to hold back the tears any longer. She stroked his hair, a small comfort that did little to ease the storm inside him, but at least he didn't have to carry it alone.
"You'll never be him," she said, her voice low. "No matter what you've done, you're not your father. And I don't expect you to be perfect. But you have to decide what kind of man you're going to be, Cato. And I know you'll figure it out. Just... take it one day at a time."
He nodded against her shoulder, the lump in his throat almost too much to bear. He didn't know if he could be the man she believed he could be, but for now, her words gave him something to hold on to. Something that felt real.
"I'll try," he whispered, though the words barely came out.
His mother didn't push for more. She simply held him, the two of them standing there in the quiet kitchen, sharing a moment that felt fragile, but real. No promises, no false reassurances—just the truth. And in that, there was something close to comfort.
Cato's stomach lurched violently, and he barely made it to the toilet in time. The harsh retching left him weak and trembling, the sour taste lingering in his mouth. He leaned heavily against the cool porcelain, the sound of the running shower masking the sounds of his distress. The warm water poured over him as he stepped into the shower, offering temporary relief to his stiff muscles and churning thoughts.
He wiped the fog from the mirror after stepping out, the cool air of the bathroom hitting his damp skin. As he splashed cold water on his face, he studied his reflection—pale, drawn, with dark circles under his eyes. His once fierce, unyielding expression now seemed hollow, the eyes staring back at him dull and haunted. He tried to summon the anger and ferocity that had shielded him at the Academy, but all he felt was an overwhelming sense of despair, the weight of loss pressing down on him.
He fumbled for the eye drops, trying to soothe his bloodshot eyes. His hands shook slightly as he applied them. A knock at the door startled him, the sudden sound breaking the silence.
"Yes?" he called out, his voice more strained than he intended.
His mother's voice, gentle yet tinged with concern, came through the door. "Breakfast is ready."
"I'll be out in a minute," Cato replied, though the thought of food made his stomach churn anew. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He needed to compose himself before facing his family. They couldn't see the cracks in his facade, not now.
He quickly fixed his blonde hair, applying some wax to tame it. As he leaned on the sink, his reflection stared back at him—a visage that seemed far removed from the image of a victor or a Legionnaire. His golden skin looked sickly, and the bags under his eyes were a testament to sleepless nights.
"Get it together, Cato," he muttered under his breath. "Virtus et Honos, Virtus et Honos, Virtus et Honos."
Once a source of strength, the mantra felt empty now, echoing in the silence like a hollow promise. The glamour of the Academy seemed a distant memory, overshadowed by the reality of Marcus's death and the burdens he carried.
Another knock interrupted his thoughts, sharper this time. "Cato? I've laid something out for you," his mother said, her voice softening. "Come downstairs whenever you're ready—your father is going ahead."
He heard her footsteps fade away, leaving him alone once more. He glanced down and realized he had been gripping the sink so tightly that the marble had cracked. A small shard had embedded itself in his palm, and blood oozed from the wound. Cato pulled it out, the pain sharp but oddly grounding. He quickly bandaged the cut, the sting a stark reminder of his reality—a painful but necessary anchor to the present.
He dressed quickly in the light blue button-up shirt and black slacks his mother had laid out, the clothes feeling strangely constrictive. He slipped on a pair of black oxfords and tucked Marcus's token beneath his shirt, the smooth stone a comforting weight against his chest. It was a tangible connection to his past, a reminder of what he had lost and what he had to fight for.
As he descended the stairs, the smell of breakfast greeted him—pancakes, muffins, and fresh fruit. His mother and Octavia were already seated at the dining room table, both dressed elegantly in pale gold fabric dresses. The sight of them brought a lump to his throat; they looked so hopeful, so proud. He felt a surge of protectiveness and a pang of guilt. How could he burden them with his fears and doubts?
The color of the dresses reminded him of butter, a taste he hadn't savored in a long time. But the thought of eating turned his stomach. He accepted a glass of water instead, taking a small sip as Octavia chattered excitedly about her latest school project. He noticed crumbs on her dress and a smudge of blueberry on her cheek, evidence of her enthusiasm for breakfast.
His mother noticed his lack of appetite and gently prodded, "Are you hungry? You should eat something."
Cato shook his head, cutting her off more brusquely than he intended. "I'm fine, Mom. We should head out soon. They'll be starting soon." The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but he couldn't stomach the idea of eating. Not when his insides felt like they were twisted in knots.
His mother gave him a searching look but didn't press further.
The walk to the Reaping was a blur of noise and color. The streets of District 2 were alive with festivities, vendors selling goods, and people celebrating. For the citizens, it was a day of pride and honor, a chance to showcase the strength of their tributes. But for Cato, the cheerful atmosphere felt jarring, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside him. The nostalgia of past Reapings, when he watched with eager anticipation, had lost its shine.
Octavia held his hand tightly as they navigated the bustling market, her small hand comforting. They passed stalls selling luxury goods, meats, and cheeses, eventually arriving at the grand courtyard before the Justice Building. The building stood imposing with its dark volcanic basalt and creamy limestone pillars, banners fluttering under the watchful eyes of camera crews.
Cato found himself corralled with other eighteen-year-olds, and his fellow tributes from the Academy nodded at him in acknowledgment. The weight of their expectations pressed down on him; he was the pride of District 2, the chosen Legionnaire. He forced himself to stand tall, projecting the confidence and strength that everyone expected from him, even as doubts gnawed at his resolve.
His attention shifted to the makeshift stage where Mayor Titus stood, tall and commanding. Beside him, Ophelia Daytide, the Capitol-born escort, was a striking contrast with her alabaster makeup, cotton candy-colored hair, and butterfly-themed dress. The sight of them filled Cato with a mix of resentment and resignation. This was the beginning of his journey to the Capitol and to the Games, where his life would be on display for the entertainment of others.
Mayor Titus stepped forward to the podium as the town clock struck noon.
"My friends of District Two, on this Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games Reaping Day, I welcome you!" His voice boomed across the courtyard, met with applause and cheers from the gathered crowd. Cato clenched his fists, feeling a surge of conflicting emotions—anger, fear, and a grim determination.
"This day reminds us of our violent past and the kindness shown by the Capitol," Mayor Titus continued, his tone reverent. "It's a time for repentance and gratitude. We, the citizens of District Two, take pride in preparing new victors—Legionnaires, bred for glory and honor."
Cato joined in the Legionnaire salute, placing his hand over his heart. The gesture felt heavier than ever, symbolizing his sacrifices and the ones yet to come. As he looked out over the sea of faces, he knew that he had already given up so much—his innocence, his friend Marcus, and, perhaps, his life. Yet, he felt the weight of his father's expectations, his mother's silent support, and Octavia's unwavering belief in him.
Mayor Titus took his seat, and Ophelia Daytide stepped forward, her serene voice a practiced performance. "Welcome, champions of District Two. Happy Hunger Games!" Her words, though hollow, served to heighten the crowd's excitement.
The drawing began with Ophelia plunging her hand into the girls' bowl. The tension was palpable, the crowd holding its breath. But before she could pull a name, a voice rang out, strong and clear. "I volunteer as tribute!"
The cheers erupted as a brunette emerged, her confidence evident as she stepped forward. Clove, from House Valentius, a year younger but already a prodigy. Her eyes were sharply focused, and when they met Cato's, he saw a reflection of his determination.
Ophelia then moved to the boys' bowl, but Cato was ready. "I volunteer as tribute!" he called out, his voice carrying across the courtyard. A rush of adrenaline surged through him as he stepped forward, forcing a smile. This was his role, his destiny—he would not shy away from it.
Ophelia beamed, raising both his and Clove's hands. They turned to face the crowd as Panem's anthem played, the music echoing through the courtyard. "District Two, your Legionnaires! May the odds be ever in their favor!"
Cato's smile faltered as he scanned the crowd, catching sight of his mother and Octavia. Their faces were a mixture of pride and concern, and Octavia's eyes shone with unshed tears. The sight nearly broke him, but he held himself together, knowing he couldn't afford to show weakness now because the odds had yet to be very dependable as of late.
