For the first time since entering the arena, terror grips Atticus, sharp and unrelenting. His stomach churns as he stares at Albinus' broken body, limbs twisted beneath a jagged mound of rubble. Blood slicks the debris, pooling beneath the faint outline of a shattered skull barely visible in the dim, fractured light. A knife whistles past, catching his attention. Luscious hurls it at the boy from District 3, but the blade clangs uselessly against concrete. The boy vanishes behind a crumbling wall, his shadow slipping away like smoke.
Atticus lunges forward on instinct, ready to chase, but the sound of a dull, wet thud stops him in his tracks. He whirls around. Sirena is dragging herself upright, her movements sharp with pain. A severed rope dangles from her ankle, the fibers frayed and dirt-streaked. Her face, streaked with grime and sweat, is a mask of rage. She coughs, winces, and grips her spear tightly, its tip catching what little light filters through the ruins. She levels it at him, her snarl cutting through the humid, heavy air.
Their eyes lock. The world seems to shrink around them, the distant sounds of the arena fading into nothing. Sirena's dark gaze is fixed on him, a fury so intense it feels like a physical weight. Atticus' pulse pounds in his ears. Every muscle in his body tenses, waiting for her to strike.
But she doesn't. Without a word, Sirena steps backward into the shadow of a half-collapsed building, vanishing as if she were never there.
Atticus exhales sharply. His chest burnes. He spins toward Luscious and Mercurie, his voice cutting through the tension. "How do we—" His words die in his throat.
Mercurie is gone.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" The shout bursts out of him, electric through the desolate street.
Luscious turns, her face pale and taut. "Where did he go?"
Her fists clench as she scans the ruins, but there's nothing—no sign of movement, no trace of him.
It's as if Mercurie dissolved into the air.
Atticus tightens his grip on her shoulder, his knuckles white. "We can't lose it now. We stick together. One of us is winning this."
Luscious nods, though her jaw stays tight, her eyes flickering with doubt. With the Twos dead the only tributes left are the weak ones. Except Sirena, of course. She lingers in his mind like the edge of a blade, sharp and waiting.
"We'll deal with her," Atticus says, though the words feel hollow. His gaze shifts to the jagged ruins ahead. "But Three? Whatever happened to Nine was him. I'd bet a lot of money on that."
Luscious scowls. "So we hunt him?"
Atticus shakes his head. "He'll be ready for that. We move slowly. Work the area, flush him out."
They fall into step, their movements measured and cautious. The shattered street stretches out like a graveyard, littered with twisted metal, broken traps, and the stench of rotting water rushing beneath their feet. Every step feels precarious, the air thick with the weight of someone else's cruelty. Luscious starts to say something, her voice low, but then she screams. The sound rips through Atticus, freezing him in place. He whirls around just in time to see her body jerk upward, caught in a hidden snare. The rope digs into her ankle, spinning her as she dangles above the rushing water. She thrashes wildly, her screams cut off as she's dunked headfirst into the filthy torrent below.
Atticus stares, his sword trembling in his hand. For a moment, he doesn't move. A dark thought curls in the back of his mind, cold and deliberate. He could let her drown. It would be quick, easy. With her gone, he'd be alone—unstoppable. But then the memory of Sirena flashes across his mind. Her sharp gaze. Her relentless strength. Her cunning. He curses under his breath and starts forward, the sword still shaking in his grip. He knows he'll need Luscious. For now.
Gritting his teeth, Atticus slashes the rope. Luscious crashes into the water with a sickening splash, sputtering as she claws her way to the sidewalk. Her hands sink into the muck, pulling herself onto solid ground, shaking with fury.
"Thanks," she rasps through clenched teeth, her face pale beneath the grime and wet strands of hair clinging to her skin. "I really want to kill that fucker now."
Atticus forces a smirk, the unease in his chest a quiet ache. "Watch your step next time."
She rolls her eyes, a sharp movement edged more with frustration than venom. Without another word, they press forward, their steps heavier now, each motion deliberate and laden with caution. The streets stretch endlessly, each turn offering more traps, more silence. The hour grinds against them like sandpaper, scraping their nerves raw. At one point, Atticus kicks a pebble, the sound ricocheting off broken walls and crumbling metal. He exhales sharply, the frustration bubbling over.
"He's too far ahead. What the hell do we do now?"
Luscious wipes her face with trembling hands, smearing streaks of blood and dirt into a grim canvas. Her voice is flat, exhausted. "We rest. Eat. Get ready. When we find him, we waste no time for him to pull a stupid little stunt out of his arse."
Her calm unnerves him. Atticus hesitates, his chest tightening with something nameless.
"Fine," he says, his voice clipped. "But don't let your guard down."
She snorts, her lip curling as she shoulders her pack. "I won't. But neither should you."
The silence that follows feels alive, pulsing with the breath of the arena. The faint rush of water and the distant groan of metal are its heartbeat, steady and menacing.
Finally, Atticus nods toward a crumbling building just ahead. "We'll shelter there. An hour. Then we move."
Luscious gives a curt nod, her face unreadable as she steps through the fractured doorway.
Inside, the air is damp and sour, clinging to them like a second skin. Atticus lowers himself against the wall, wincing as the ache in his leg sharpens. It's been gnawing at him, insistent and relentless. He ignores it for the cameras—weakness is not an option—but he knows it's slowing him down. If he doesn't rest, he'll stumble when it matters most. The bitter thought strikes again: The mentors want her to win. He's known it for days, but now it feels like a knife twisting in his gut. His earlier hesitation flashes in his mind—he could have let her drown. Maybe he should have.
The floor groans as Luscious shifts nearby, but she doesn't look at him. She eats in silence. Atticus forces himself to do the same—two apples, a stale sandwich, and a gulp of water. His instructors' words echo in his mind: Stay fueled. Stay sharp. The Inner-district tributes aren't built to starve. That's how districts like Eleven and Twelve have stolen victory the last three years—because the traditional alliance has faltered.
Not this year. Not him.
Time drags, heavy and suffocating, until Atticus decides the hour has passed. He hauls himself to his feet, his leg screaming in protest. "Let's go," he mutters, voice tight. Luscious is already standing, her eyes scanning the path ahead.
The street ahead goes for a while, then it narrows into a shadowed alley, jagged walls leaning inward as if the arena itself is closing around them. The only way forward is straight ahead, into the dark.
Atticus casts a glance at Luscious. "This narrows it down."
"Or we're walking into a trap," she murmurs, her voice taut, eyes scanning the narrowing alley ahead.
The damp ground muffles their steps, but the oppressive silence magnifies every other sound. When the metallic squeak cuts through the air, it's razor-sharp.
Atticus freezes, instinct sharpening his breath. He tilts his head, searching. The weak sunlight above flickers, dims, swallowed by something massive shifting overhead. His stomach twists.
"Move!" he shouts, throwing himself backward.
The crash that follows is deafening, a tidal wave of sound and force that crushes the world into chaos. A sickening crunch punctuates the roar, and when Atticus slams into the ground, the back of his head strikes concrete. Pain blooms, hot and electric, and for a heartbeat, everything spins.
Blinking hard, he drags his focus back, the world tilting into clarity. His gaze locks on Luscious.
She's crumpled beneath the massive object, limbs contorted into grotesque angles. Her knives, her sword—scattered uselessly across the pavement. The air splits with the cannon's blast, final and unyielding.
"No," he whispers, scrambling to his feet, his heart pounding a brutal rhythm in his chest. He forces himself forward, his breath shallow and ragged.
Her green eyes, bright and cutting only moments ago, are dull now, staring past him. Her head is twisted unnaturally, blood pooling beneath her, soaking into the fractured ground and staining her golden hair.
The weight of her death hits him. He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms. I'm alone.
He forces himself to look at the object—a dented white box, smeared with dirt and blood. Buttons and slats dot its surface, its edges jagged from the impact. He's never seen anything like it, but he realizes doesn't need to understand it.
A flicker of movement above draws his attention. Shadows ripple across the rooftops, distant but deliberate. His chest tightens, his breath sharpening. The killer is still watching. Waiting. Atticus grips his sword, the metal cold in his hand. The fear swirling in his gut congeals, hardening into something sharper, something merciless. He doesn't speak. Doesn't call out. He moves. Silent. Calculated. The hunt has begun.
Hope flickers faintly in Sirena's chest, fragile as a dying ember but brighter than the sun ever could be in this fucking place of broken stone and twisted metal. Albinus is dead. Crushed beneath Three's trap. The image flashes in her mind—a limp arm jutting out at a grotesque angle, half-buried beneath the rubble. The settling dust had cloaked the scene like a shroud.
Her fingers drift to her ankle, rubbing the raw, angry burns the rope had left behind. The skin is tender, the ache gnawing deep, but she forces herself to ignore it, her hands trembling. Rope burns are nothing new. In Four, they come with the territory. But knowing the pain doesn't make it easier to bear. Then the cannon fires, and her stomach twists, bile rising in her throat.
The Ones. They've taken Mercurie. The guilt claws at her instantly, swift and merciless. He was doomed anyway, she tells herself, repeating the thought like a mantra, trying to dull the ache behind her ribs. But it doesn't help. It never does. She forces herself to focus, sorting through the faces of her remaining competitors like tally marks. Who's left? Who's the biggest threat? The names come sharper now. The groan of floorboards above shatters her thoughts.
Sirena goes still, the air in her lungs freezing. Her body locks, every muscle rigid and waiting. Someone's here. Her grip tightens on her spear, her knuckles going white. Stay calm. Don't panic. The words loop in her head, a fragile prayer against the storm of her heartbeat. Slowly, she rises, the pain in her ankle a screaming counterpoint to her movements. She pushes it away. Pain is a luxury she can't afford. Not now.
The staircase looms ahead, a shadowed maw in the dim light. Sirena approaches it low and quiet, every step deliberate. Dust swirls in the still air, and the faint smell of mildew clings to her senses, grounding her in the moment. She feels as if she's the actress in one of those Capitol horror movies, followed by not just the cameras, but the overwhelming presence of the monster behind the camera.
She reaches for the door at the bottom of the stairs and eases it open, an inch at a time. The hinges groan, loud enough to make her wince, the sound like a blade through the silence. She freezes, teeth gritted, ears straining for any sound above.
The silence presses in, oppressive and heavy, broken only by the rush of her pulse. She knows who it is—or at least she thinks she does. The Ones had been on the street, circling like wolves, Mercurie already in their jaws. Three—cunning, calculating Three—had vanished after springing his trap. He's alive. He has to be. And now he's here.
Her fingers curl tighter around the spear until it feels fused to her palm. Each step up the stairs is agony, her ankle screaming in protest, but she pushes through. The creak of the wood beneath her feet feels deafening, each sound reverberating through her bones. It has to be him. But as she climbs, dread coils tighter in her chest. The truth waits at the top of the stairs, shrouded in the unknown, and Sirena doesn't know if she's ready to face what's waiting in the dark.
The door groans softly as Sirena eases it open, just enough to slip through. Her breath is shallow, measured, each exhale dampened against the quiet. The hinges creak, the sound loud enough to set her on edge. Her mind pulls her to a different quiet—nights spent sneaking out to watch the stars, their cold, distant light brushing against the edges of her fears. She remembers one in particular: her first Reaping night. The air had felt heavier, and for the first time, the weight of dread had settled on her chest. Who went to the Capitol that year? The girl's face blurs in her memory, a hazy snapshot of someone who wasn't a volunteer. She'd made it far, though. Far enough for Johanna Mason to put an axe through her clavicle.
Sirena clenches her jaw and climbs the stairs, forcing the thought away. The first level is eerily quiet. She halts by the door and presses her ear to the frame, listening for any trace of life. There's a faint noise above—movement. Deliberate. Careful. She ascends another flight, her muscles wound tight, every step deliberate. By the time she reaches the next door, the sound is sharper, closer. Someone's here.
Her grip on the spear tightens, her knuckles screaming against the strain. If she bursts in, she might have the upper hand. Mercurie or Atticus wouldn't react fast enough. Luscious might lash out without thinking. But if it's Three? He'd be gone before she could make her move. He's slippery like that—always disappearing into cracks and shadows.
The decision is yanked away from her when a scream tears through the air, high and jagged. A second later, a crash reverberates through the building, loud enough to shake the walls. Sirena's pulse spikes.
Fuck it.
She shoves the door open and steps through, spear raised. The scene inside slams into her like a blow. Three stumbles back, his face pale and twisted in pain, both hands pressed to his side in a futile attempt to stem the blood pouring through his fingers. The floor beneath him is streaked crimson, the color stark against the grime. Atticus looms over him, a predator closing in, his sword catching a glint of the weak light as he swings. Three dodges at the last second, but the motion sends him careening into the wall. His back hits with a thud, and a ragged gasp tears from his lungs.
Sirena freezes in the doorway, her feet glued to the ground. She's stuck watching, a helpless witness to murder. Atticus doesn't hesitate. He closes the distance, dropping to his knees and pinning Three to the floor. The room falls into a suffocating silence, broken only by the wet rasp of Three's breath. The blade comes down.
Three screams, a sharp, desperate sound that cuts off as Atticus drives the sword into his stomach. The boy's hands flail weakly, clawing at Atticus' jacket, pulling at fabric as if he could anchor himself to the world of living, thread by thread. His lips part, forming words that never come, just a wet, broken sound—half a plea, half a sob. Blood pools beneath him, dark and viscous, and a thin rivulet escapes his mouth, slipping down his chin. His eyes glaze over, the light in them dimming until there's nothing left. His hands fall away. His head lolls to the side, lifeless against the ground. The cannon fires.
Sirena doesn't move. Her chest heaves, her hands trembling where they grip the spear. Her body feels both weightless and impossibly heavy, caught between action and paralysis. Atticus straightens, slow and deliberate. His chest rises and falls with even breaths, his expression carved from stone. He looks down at Three's body with all the warmth of a butcher appraising his kill.
Then his eyes find hers. There's no gloating, no malice. Just that cold, green gaze—unreadable, unrelenting. Sirena's stomach churns, a molten wave of fury bubbling up from somewhere deep. She hates him. More than she thought possible. More than she's ever hated anyone in her life. Her grip on the spear tightens. She doesn't know how this will end, but one thing is certain: she will not leave this arena without making him pay.
Sirena doesn't hesitate. The spear arcs down like a thunderbolt, aimed to split him apart. Atticus twists, his body a blur, and the weapon screams against the concrete in a teeth-grinding screech as it misses its mark. She whirls, the motion instinctive, just as his blade slices through the air, narrowly missing her neck. His strikes come fast, precise, but she meets him with raw, unrelenting force. There's no room for words, no space for pleasantries—their hatred bleeds through in every swing, every desperate lunge.
He thrusts toward her heart. She sidesteps, the motion sharp and animalistic, and slams her boot into his ribs. The crack of impact reverberates through her, satisfying in its brutality. Atticus crumples, skidding across the floor like dead weight. He groans, clutching his side, but she doesn't advance. Not yet. Her fingers brush the gash across her chest, slick with blood. She looks at him, her glare sharp enough to cut. "Do I look scared of you, Rousseau?" Her voice shakes with fury, each word spat like venom. "Do I look fucking scared?"
Her words echo, a challenge, a declaration. She moves closer, her breathing ragged. The world around her feels distant, reduced to the pounding in her ears and the fire coursing through her veins. Atticus scrambles back, his movements disjointed and desperate.
His green eyes widen, panic flooding them. "Please!" he gasps, his voice breaking. "Sirena, there's no honor in this! Let me stand!"
She doesn't answer. Her boot slams into his ribs again, silencing him with a choked cry. His pleas dissolve into incoherent mutters, lost beneath her anger. The next kick snaps his head back, blood spraying from his shattered nose. He looks up at her, his face a ruin of crimson and rage. And there it is—true, unshakable fear. For the first time, it's his eyes that plead for mercy.
Sirena doesn't stop. Her spear drives into his stomach, the force shaking her entire frame. His scream tears through the air, mingling with her own, a jagged crescendo of pain and fury. She leans in, her face inches from his, her breath ragged and hot against his skin. "I want you to die knowing you're nothing. No one will remember you once the cannon sounds. No one will care."
His eyes flicker—pain, anger, and something faintly like defiance—but it vanishes as quickly as it comes. His hands claw weakly at the spear, trembling as he tries to stem the flood of blood pouring from him. It's useless.
He collapses onto his side, his gasps shallow and wet, his chest heaving with effort. His body twitches once, twice, and then goes still.
The cannon fires.
For a long moment, Sirena doesn't move. She stands over his lifeless body, her chest heaving, her arms quaking under the weight of her spear. Her hatred burns on, a smoldering ember that refuses to die. Finally, she turns. No glance over her shoulder, no pause to reflect. She descends the stairs, her legs trembling beneath her.
In the lower levels, she devours the last scraps of her food, draining what remains of her water. The empty bag falls from her hands, forgotten. She pulls out a strip of rough cloth, wrapping it tight around her chest. Her fingers fumble, but the bleeding slows. It'll hold for now. One left. Her legs threaten to give way as she steps outside, but she grits her teeth, forcing herself forward. Every step is agony, but she doesn't falter. Weakness has no place here. Not now. Not when the end is so close.
The stair betrays him, slick with grime, and Mercurie's foot slides out. Gravity drags him down in an instant, the impact jarring through his spine as the floor greets him with brutal indifference. The air flees his lungs, and for a moment, all he can do is lie there. Dust spins lazily above him, a suffocating haze that blurs the ceiling's jagged cracks. Then the groan of concrete under strain punches through his daze. Run.
His command is immediate and primal. His chest burns as he pulls in a ragged breath and scrambles upright, ignoring the pain that claws at his ribs. There's no time for it. If he doesn't move now, the ground will entomb him like so many others.
The vibrations come first—faint, sickly waves that ripple through his balance, distorting the edges of his vision. The ceiling protests, creaking like a beast in its death throes. He dives toward the doorway just as the room buckles behind him. A slab of concrete crashes down in a deafening roar. Dust and noise explode around him, choking the air as he stumbles outside, face-first into a stagnant pool of water.
The foulness floods his senses, acrid and bitter, but he barely registers it. He coughs, splutters, and keeps moving. Behind him, the building folds into itself, collapsing in a symphony of destruction. Wood snaps, glass shatters, and the Gamemakers paint their violence across the skyline.
Other structures follow suit, crumbling like brittle bones beneath invisible hands. The ground beneath him shivers, the asphalt rippling in waves that threaten to unmoor him. Streetlights flicker, their glow narrowing into the distance like fireflies on the wind. Follow them, the lights seem to say. Run.
And he does, falling into step with their rhythm, his breath syncing to the pounding of his heart. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Control is survival. If his body falters, the rest will follow. The lights lead him to a wide alley, lined with buildings stripped bare of life. Above, the broken skeleton of a glass awning clings stubbornly, its jagged edges glinting faintly in the dim light. Mercurie slows, his senses sharp and coiled.
He's the first to arrive. Pressing into a shadowed corner, he stills, blending into the ruins. Time crawls, stretching each second into an eternity. Silence gnaws at his nerves, clawing with unseen hands. Five minutes. Ten. His pulse beats louder, a rising tide threatening to drown him.
At fifteen minutes, footsteps echo faintly through the alley. He risks a glance. Sirena. She moves like a storm held barely in check, her spear gripped tight, her gaze sharp and searching. Blood streaks her clothes, her breaths shallow and jagged. The air around her brims with the violence she's carried here.
Mercurie's heart sinks into his stomach. Not Atticus. Not Luscious. Her. For a moment, he freezes, as though staying still will prolong what he has to do. Every instinct begs him to wait, to let her burn herself out on the empty shadows. But that other voice—the one that has kept him alive through everything—presses its demand. Now or never.
He steps out.
Her eyes snap to him instantly, bright and cutting as a blade. Her body tightens, every line coiled for the attack she's already anticipating. But she doesn't strike. Mercurie's breath catches. He swallows hard, his throat dry as ash. The alley feels impossibly small, the air dense with tension that weighs heavier with every second they spend not moving.
Between them, every breath is a countdown.
"I'll be honest," Sirena says as he approaches, her voice calm, deliberate, each word a stone laid carefully in a trap. "I thought the Ones got you earlier. Figured Luscious' cannon was for you."
Mercurie shrugs, though the motion feels unnatural, his heartbeat rattling in his ribs. "I ran the second they turned their attention to you, dangling there like bait. Staying would've been suicide."
Her lips twist into the faintest smirk, but her eyes remain sharp, her stance unwavering. "So," she says, tilting her head, "what now? You planning to kill me?"
His pulse hammers harder, like it's trying to leap free of his chest. He's so close—just one strike from freedom. But the thought doesn't settle. He pictures the victors of District 5, their hollow stares, their brokenness on full display for the Capitol year after year. A mockery of survival. What kind of life is that?
And yet, he doesn't want to die.
"It's got to be one of us," he says, the words brittle, fragile. "Why not me?"
Sirena dips her head, as if weighing his life in her hands. "That's the question, isn't it?"
The silence presses in, thick and smothering, stretching each second. Mercurie feels sweat gather on his brow, every muscle in his body poised for the strike that hasn't come.
"Who'd have thought it'd be us?" he says, trying to ease the tension, though his voice cracks on the words. "You really thought that cannon was for me? I figured I'd see Atticus here. It'd be easier killing him than you."
Her expression hardens instantly, storm clouds gathering in her eyes. "I killed him. Gave him what he deserved." Her tone is cold.
Her words land like a shock to his nerves. Mercurie's stomach twists. "What he deserved?" he echoes.
"He treated us like garbage," she snaps, her voice sharp enough to cut. "Like we weren't even human. I gave him exactly what he earned." Her gaze doesn't waver, her conviction unflinching. "You'll see it on the replay if you make it out of here. There's honor in this. Just not for him."
Mercurie shifts, the weight of her words sinking deep. He'd hated Atticus too, but the way she speaks of his death makes something curdle inside him. He doubts Atticus' death was clean, but he can't picture Sirena finding joy in someone's death. Even Atticus'
He forces the thought away. It doesn't matter. Not now.
"How do we do this?" he asks, his voice barely audible, a whisper lost in the crisp air between them.
Her eyes lock onto his, cold and unblinking. "You've watched the Games. You know what happens now."
Her spear rises—not a lunge, but a deliberate, slow movement, testing the waters. Mercurie flinches back instinctively, his hands raised in surrender.
"Wait," he says, panic lacing his words. "You're not even going to give me a chance?"
She exhales sharply, lowering the spear with a flicker of irritation. "I only raised it, didn't I? Stop jumping at shadows. You think I'd just kill you while your guard's down?"
"Honestly? Yeah."
Sirena's lips press into a thin line. After a long pause, she pulls a small blade from her jacket and tosses it at his feet. "Fine. So it's fair. I'll toss the spear."
Mercurie doesn't move at first, his eyes darting between her face and the blade glinting in the dirt. Slowly, he unsheathes his own knife, its edge catching the dim light like a shard of broken glass.
"Keep it," he says, forcing a steadiness into his voice he doesn't feel. "I've got my own."
Their weapons hang between them, gleaming with the promise of violence. The air crackles with tension, the fragile balance of a moment that could shatter with a single breath. Neither moves. Neither blinks.
They both know what comes next.
They lock eyes, the tension between them coiled tight enough to snap. Neither moves. The alley feels smaller now.
Then Mercurie lets out a strangled laugh, sharp and ragged, like a crack in the silence. "Fuck, I—" He shakes his head, his breath hitching. "I can't even move. My legs won't fucking listen."
Sirena's lips twitch, almost into a smile, but her gaze stays hard, calculating. "I'm wrecked too," she says, her tone light but edged with steel. "Here's a thought: we take twenty minutes. Catch our breath, hydrate, whatever scraps we've got left. Then we give the audience what they want."
"Rejuvenate?" Mercurie raises an eyebrow.
"Exactly." Her smirk deepens. "Drink your water, pop some Capitol energy pills if you've got 'em. Meet back here in twenty. No tricks."
He hesitates, the absurdity of her proposal gnawing at him. But his limbs ache, his mind feels splintered. The offer of relief, no matter how fleeting, is too tempting. Against his better judgment, he nods. "Fine. Twenty minutes."
They break the standoff together, each turning away from the fight rushing up to meet them. Mercurie sinks to the ground, pulling his water bottle from his pack. The lid snaps open with a faint pop, and he drinks deeply, the lukewarm liquid doing little to ease the dryness in his throat.
But the air shifts.
A flicker at the edge of his memories. Sirena's face flashes in his mind—her sharp eyes, the glint of something cold and unforgiving beneath her exhaustion, just before she turned away.
Too late.
The whistle of the spear cuts through the stillness. He turns instinctively, but his body is heavy, uncooperative. The weapon hits with a sickening impact, piercing his chest and driving him back. He stumbles, the world tilting as his knees give way.
Pain blooms, sharp and all-consuming, as the tip of the spear juts from his back. He gasps, choking on the air that refuses to fill his lungs. His hands tremble, reaching out for something—anything—to hold onto.
The cannon fires before he's even dead, its hollow boom echoing through the alley.
Mercurie forces his head up, his vision darkening at the edges. His lips curl into a faint, bitter snarl as he meets Sirena's gaze one last time. He wants to spit at her feet, some final act of defiance, but his body betrays him.
The triumphant blare of Capitol trumpets swells, cutting through the suffocating quiet.
Sirena stands over him, her chest heaving, but her expression is unreadable. She doesn't smile. Doesn't gloat. She simply watches as the light fades from his eyes, then turns away. Mercurie's body lies still. Panem has its victor.