This arena isn't just a collection of landscapes; it's a sensory tapestry woven with danger. Every scent, every sound, every subtle shift in the environment triggers a primal response within me, an instinctual understanding of the threats and the potential for survival. It's as if I possess a heightened awareness, a deep connection to the wild that allows me to perceive the arena not just with my eyes, but with a sharpened, almost animalistic intuition.

This place is a hunt, and my senses are honed for the kill… or for survival.

The humidity clings to my skin, thick and suffocating. The salty tang of the water burns my nostrils, mingling with the distant scent of blood and sweat. The artificial wind carries whispers of movement, rustling leaves that shouldn't be moving, the distant snap of a branch underfoot. This arena breathes, shifts, watches. It's alive in a way that most wouldn't understand.

But I do.

I close my eyes, letting the sounds guide me. Then, it clicks.

This arena is a clock.

I open my eyes, scanning the structure around us. The sections, the traps, the shifting dangers—it's all in a pattern. Twelve sections, each with its own horror, activating at different times. If I can predict the cycle, I can use it to my advantage.

Then I hear them.

A man and a woman, distant and nearly imperceptible to anyone else, but clear as a bell to me. They are counting down, their voices detached, eerie, and mechanical.

"Three…"

"Two…"

"One…"

I move between the breaths of their words, diving into the water just as the gong sounds, slicing through the surface like a blade. The water welcomes me, pulling me into its embrace. My body moves effortlessly, muscles working in perfect harmony. Every stroke propels me forward, my tail helping me glide swiftly. The other tributes thrash and struggle, but to me, the water is nothing but a second home.

I reach the platform in seconds, vaulting onto land. The Cornucopia gleams before me, a twisted shrine to survival. Without hesitation, I grab a bow and arrows—these will be for Katniss. Three tridents—Finnick's weapon of choice. And a handful of knives—Peeta will need these. My movements are quick, precise, and before anyone else can react, I retreat to the water.

I wait at the shore, eyes locked onto the chaos.

Katniss and Finnick break the surface, gasping for breath. Without a word, I toss Katniss the bow and quiver, then throw Finnick a trident. He catches it easily, twirling it in his grip before nodding his thanks. They don't question how I got them, nor do they hesitate to take them.

I dive back into the water, searching for Peeta. I find him struggling, his strokes weak and uneven. Without a word, I grab him and haul him onto my back, swimming him to shore. He coughs as we break the surface, clutching onto me as I pull him onto the wet sand. Mags stumbles up beside us, having made it on her own.

Two other tributes reach the shore at the same time. I don't think—I act.

"Go," I hiss to Peeta and Mags. "Into the forest. Run."

They don't argue. Peeta hesitates for only a second before grabbing Mags and helping her move. As soon as they're gone, I face the two tributes.

They're armed, but so am I.

The fight is quick, brutal. My enhanced reflexes allow me to dodge their swings, my knives cutting through the air like lightning. I don't need to kill them—I just need to keep them at bay. I strike fast, slashing at their arms, forcing them to retreat. The moment they hesitate, I take off, sprinting into the jungle.

I follow the scent of salt and sweat, tracking Katniss. She isn't far.

I burst through the foliage just in time to see her and Finnick locked in a tense staring contest.

I know that look. Katniss is debating whether or not to kill him.

"Katniss," I say quickly, stepping between them. She blinks, shaking herself out of her thoughts. "We don't have time for this. How many do you think are still alive?"

She frowns but follows my train of thought. Without another word, she scrambles up a nearby tree, her sharp eyes scanning the arena.

"The bloodbath is still going," she calls down.

That means we have a little time before the next real threat comes.

Finnick exhales, shifting his grip on his trident. "We need water," he says.

I nod. "Then let's find it."

And with that, we vanish into the jungle, the clock of the arena ticking away behind us.