Felicia Feathersfowl's (I'm too lazy to explain everything about her) P.O.V:
My vision is blurry, and I feel so weak. I couldn't move a muscle even if I tried. They hurt me so much... so slowly.... it was even more painful than death. I cannot describe what they did to me, and how terrible it was.
I'm sitting upright in the corner of this deep, dark cell, my arms wrapped around my legs, clutching them to my chest. The smooth stones I lean against are cold, and I am cold, too, though beads of sweat gather on my forehead. I feel awful, I think I must have caught some sickness down here, and my stomach aches, in need of food. How drastic my diet has changed in the past, what, two weeks? I went from a rich Capitol escort's feasts to rotting away down here with nothing, for how long? It's hard to keep track of time down here, where the sun doesn't shine. It could have been minutes since they left, or days.
I wish that I could just fall asleep, but I can't. My body refuses to let me sleep and it refuses to let me die. Which would be just as nice as sleep.
A loud noise suddenly echoes around. I hope it is not them again, but it most likely is. I cannot see who it is, but they have a lantern, and they appear to be fumbling with the lock on my cell door. The door creaks open, and I can see even with my blurry vision that the figure is wearing a hooded cloak pulled down over his face. I am too weak to get up or even speak or even wonder who the person is.
They walk over to me and pick me up and carry me out of the cell. I feel so weak, and it feels so good to be carried, I just fall asleep right there in his arms. I have one final thought before I drift off into the world of sleep, but not of death.
Who is he?