He was alone. Which was a good thing, in a sense. He wouldn't know what to say to Gloxinia after she had appeared and saved him while he was too busy fainting. It was humiliating, how he'd let his weakness take such a large toll on him.

Alexander sighed, pushing his face further into his cupped hands. He couldn't afford to be so careless, not now. Not when there were so little of them left. The idea that the Victor was going to be revealed soon settled uneasily in the pit of his stomach, and there was something nagging at him. Telling him that something bad was about to happen.

Threatening grey clouds gathered over the horizon, blocking out the sun completely. The sense of finality was so thick in the air that he could almost taste the sultry flavor on the tip of his tongue. Through the deafening silence of the forest, he heard the familiar clicking of a sponsorship package.

The little white parachute drooped as it slipped between his knees, landing on the snowy ground. But it wasn't the black, almost camouflaged box he was used to. No, this one was a bright scarlet, contrasting against the white color it stood upon.

Curious, he picked up the hexagonal box. It clicked open, as if engineered to recognize his touch, to reveal a similarly velvet-like crimson interior. But what caught his attention this time was its contents: a long circle of rope, and a blue note.

The rope, in itself, wasn't anything special - though that was what made it odd. A rough straw rope, about as long as he was tall, curled tightly into a ring. But its purpose was something he could not figure out.

The note, on the other hand, was anything but ordinary. Its scent reminded him of the mixture of blood and perfume he'd smelt on Meri before. On the back a dark ink spelt out "To Alex," in an elegant handwriting that was not Wisteria's. That handwriting stirred something in his memory, something he felt like he would rather leave forgotten. Still, he turned the note.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

His breath caught in his throat on reading it. It was impossible. Only one person had ever said that to him. Only one person had that careful, curled script. That person was dead.

"Why did you take that?" Alex blinked at Ryan, his mind reeling with the effort of trying to understand why the other boy was so angry.

"Because she stole it?" What had been meant to be a statement came out as more of a question, displaying his uncertainty. Ryan's glare made him squirm, something that was rare even with his father. All he'd done was take the bread from that street vermin, because there was no way in hell that dirty little thing had bought it.

"So?" He blinked again, as if trying to shake away the confusion he was feeling. So? So he took it from her, wasn't that simple enough? There was an exasperated sigh from his friend, as if he was missing the most basic, obvious fault in what he'd just done.

"So you took the girl's first meal in probably days from her, because she stole it. And put it back where?" The question put him on the spot. He had no idea how to answer.

"Are you going to eat it instead?" The sarcasm loaded in Ryan's tone made him feel ridiculous. He shook his head, frowning.

"Give it back to the baker, so he can throw it away?" He wanted to shrink away. He hadn't thought of that. If he admitted to himself, it was just another of his impulses, an urge to hurt somebody that had unfortunately been that girl.

"There's nothing you can do with it now. It's been wasted. You should be ashamed of yourself, Alex, for taking away something that means so little to you, but so much to someone else," Ryan told him, and perhaps, somewhere deep down, he was.

His first reaction was one of anger. Why would anyone write this to him? What kind of sick bastard would copy a dead boy's handwriting just to mess with his mind? But an irrational part of him started to hope, that somehow, somewhere, someone had managed to bring Ryan back.

You should be ashamed of yourself

What did that even mean? All he'd done in this game was survive. Was surviving wrong? Was it so wrong for him to live?

He crushed the paper in his hand, clenching his fist so hard that he ended up tearing his own flesh with his nails.

Yes, he killed people. But it was for a reason. Because he needed to live. Because he wanted to leave this arena and...

And go back where?

The little whisper at the back of his head demanded. He found himself frozen at the question.

To those so-called friends you have?

It continued, its tone sarcastic. It laughed harshly as he clutched his head. He didn't have any friends who truly cared. And if he became Victor, all they would be is more scared of him than ever.

To your parents so they can show you off?

It sounded almost smug. He wanted to ignore the voice, to forget the note and all the questions it brought. But he couldn't, because everything it was saying was true.

There's nowhere to go back to. Your survival would be a waste.

His heart clenched at that. The rope in his lap suddenly felt much heavier than it had before. Its purpose was so clear to him now, that he couldn't believe he hadn't guessed before.

You should be ashamed of yourself, for taking away others' lives when they had so much more meaning than yours.

He tried to stop it, fully aware that millions of people was watching his despair on their screens. But the awful truth that he was forced to face, and the fact that it had come from Ryan...

Tears started to spill from his eyes, soft sobs sending tremors down his body. He tried to hide his face in his hands, as if that would conceal the fact that he was, finally, so broken down.

Memories of everything he'd done in the games, of James, Demetriot and even Azrael hit him like a lightning strike. They had something to go back to. They had someone whose heart was broken because of him. How could he have done that, when he knew perfectly how it feels to have your loved one ripped away from you just so that someone else can survive in their place?

Through the misery, he almost wanted to laugh out loud. It was something he'd never thought he would even think to do. He had thought he knew himself well, but now the rope...the rope called to him.

Out of nowhere, the dull pain in his head started to escalate, to the point that he knew if he tried to stand up, he would just fall right back down. Even his own body hated him.

"Would you ever kill yourself?" It was such a sudden thought, especially coming from Ryan of all people. His eyes narrowed, as he looked over to his friend sitting on the lower branch of their tree.

"Of course not," His friend laughed at that, and he quirked an eyebrow. "What?"

Ryan shrugged, smiling. "Nothing. It's just that you talk about killing other so easily..." He trailed off, leaving Alex to think about his words.

"Yeah,but this is different..." He started, only to be cut off.

"How?" He made to speak, only to find that he had nothing to say. So he just growled lightly, crossing his arms. That earned him a snicker.

"Shut up. Damn you and your questions," Ryan tilted his head, as if he had no idea what Alex was talking about. But of course he did. Every time Alex tried to disagree with his point, he'd ask an irritatingly intelligent question that would throw his friend off. He also knew how much that annoyed the boy.

"It's a good thing though," Ryan muttered, so quietly that Alex would have thought he was talking to himself, if he hadn't known better.

"What is? That I'm fine with killing or that I'd never kill myself?" Ryan shot him a look that said the answer was obvious. But every time Ryan thought the answer was obvious, Alex could never guess it right.

"Both, Alex. Both," Ryan exaggerated his speech, as if he was trying to explain the technicalities of fine dining to a monkey. Alex rolled his eyes at that, but he didn't speak.

"I mean, we both know you're going to end up in the Games one way or another. You have to be fine with killing. But..."

But what?

Ryan kept quiet for such a long time that Alex thought he wasn't going to continue. He was just about to say something, when Ryan looked up at him, close to tears.

Immediately, he got off his own branch, moving to sit beside his friend. Ryan started to cry into his shoulder, arms around his waist. Sobs shook the smaller boy's body.

"Ryan? What's wrong? You have to tell me what happening, Ryan, please. You're freaking me out," Panic surged through him when his friend refused to say anything.

"You can't die. You can't leave me. You won't, right? When you go into the Games, you'll come back, right?" The torrent of pleas made an odd feeling rise in his chest. He wanted to agree, but he didn't want to break a promise to his friend, either.

"Alex, please? You'll live, won't you?" He forced himself to smile, and nod.

"I'll live. Of course, I will. Damn it, Ryan. I haven't even been chosen yet," He injected as much humor as he could into his voice. It worked. Ryan smiled softly.

"I'm sorry. I just..." Suddenly conscious of their position, Ryan removed his arms from Alex's torso, looking away.

"I want you to live,"

"I want you to live." That was what Ryan had said. But that was when he was still alive. What about now? Would he still want Alex to live?

"I want you to live." A kind of resolve came over him, causing him to push the length of straw away from him. He would live, if for nothing else, to keep his promise to Ryan