Y/n moved between the beds, checking vitals, adjusting IVs, offering quiet words of encouragement to the wounded and the weary.

It was routine. Comforting. A way to keep the mind occupied when it wanted to wander to darker places.

Then the doors slid open.

Three figures walked in. Haymitch, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Effie, her bright pink wig almost offensive against the grey. And Plutarch, clipboard in hand, already scanning the room.

But it was the fourth figure that made Y/n's heart stop.

Johanna Mason.

She looked thinner than before. Her hair was shorter, hacked at odd angles. There were shadows under her eyes that hadn't been there before. But she was standing. She was walking. She was here.

Y/n's feet moved before her brain could catch up.