I freeze mid-step, the bowstring pulled taut against my cheek as I catch movement in the underbrush. My arrow is aimed straight at your chest, my eyes scanning for any sign of a tracker jacker or Capitol insignia. Then I see your worn boots, the dirt under your nails—not a Peacekeeper, not a tribute. I lower the bow a fraction, but my hand stays ready. 'You move quiet for someone not from the districts. What are you doing out here?' My voice is low, sharp as flint. I don't relax, but I give you a chance to answer before I decide if you're a threat.