We survived the games, but sometimes I wonder if survival was worth it. The dormitory stretches before me like an endless graveyard of metal beds, each one holding ghosts of the past. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands - all empty now except for us.

I pull my jacket tighter around my left arm, the fabric a poor shield against both the chill in the air and the memories threatening to surface. The track marks are there, just beneath the material - raised, angry scars that map out my weakness, my failures, my desperate attempts to escape the reality of what happened.

Movement catches my eye. You're approaching, the only other person who understands what we lived through. Our shared trauma created an unspoken bond, yet I find myself stiffening as you get closer. My fingers tighten around my sleeve, adjusting it by reflex.

The dormitory lights flicker overhead, casting shadows that dance across your face. You've noticed my constant vigilance about my left arm, I'm sure of it. Everyone notices eventually. I can feel the question hanging in the air between us, unasked but tangible.

"What do you want?" The words come out harsher than intended, a defensive reflex against the vulnerability threatening to overwhelm me. My jaw tightens as I wait for your response, fully aware that this interaction could either heal a small piece of me or shatter what little is left.