Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Light pours in through the large, gray-sealed window of my training room dorm.  

In District Two, every self-respecting child enrolls in the Academy to train for the day every single child in Panem waits for: Reaping Day.

Of course I’ll be volunteering this year.  

Freshly eighteen and the pride of my district.

I throw my legs over the side of my black bed frame, messily covered by a gray patterned duvet. My feet land heavy on the cold tile floor as I cross to the mirror-lined wall of the adjoining dorm bathroom. The early light bounces off the steel fixtures and glass edges, casting sharp shadows.

I take in the usual: blond hair that refuses to stay down no matter how many times someone tries to fix it. Arms, toned, defined, exactly how I’ve trained them to be, stretching the seams of my dark gray Academy t-shirt. My eyes are a little dark around the edges. I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. I was too wired, too ready, too focused on what’s coming.

Too eager to face all of Panem as their next victor.

I grin at my reflection, crooked, wicked, confident.

“I volunteer as tribute.”

The words come out smooth, easy.  I brace my hands on the edge of the cold stainless steel sink, lean in, and say it again—this time deeper, firmer, as if it’s already being broadcast across the Capitol.

“I volunteer for this honor.”

I don’t break eye contact with myself. Not once.

But then I glance past the mirror, to the corner of the room where my reaping suit waits on its hanger. Simple. Pressed. Expensive. Designed to look effortless.

I don’t go to it. Not yet. Instead, I strip down and step into the monochrome glass shower, tossing one last glance to my reflection.

“It has to be today,” I whisper, almost like a prayer.  

Then I switch on the water.

It slams into my back; hot, clean, relentless. The steam builds fast, swallowing the walls, smothering the glass. I close my eyes and let the heat draw red tracks across my skin.

The mirror behind me fogs over completely, erasing my reflection.

Good. That version of me, the smirking, polished, camera-ready victor-in-waiting, that’s for them.  

For the Capitol.  

For the stage.  

Not here.  

Not now.

I press my forehead to the chill of the tile. A fleeting moment of cold in an otherwise boiling room.

And I remember the moment it all shifted. The moment the Academy Director looked me in the eyes and said,  

“You were made for this.”

But I wasn’t made.

I built myself for this. From blood, sweat, and bruises. From every cracked rib, every shattered knuckle, every broken, bloody nose. From every hour in the training room, every fight I won. From every sleepless night spent imagining how I’d win, how I’d make them remember me.

I built myself for this.

“Victory or nothing,” I whisper, low and steady. The steam drowns the sound before it can echo back at me.

I stay there until the water turns lukewarm, then cold. Until my muscles ache, not from pain, but from stillness. Then I shut it off. I dry off with a towel too large and far too expensive, wiping down the fogged mirror last. My reflection waits on the other side, just as sharp as it was this morning, but now colder. Calmer.

Ready.

I glance once more at the boy in the mirror. Bold, precise, a victor.

This is what they want.

I nod to myself. Just once.

Chapter Text

I pull the heavy simple white robe over my arms tying it around my waist and I step out to the hallway. The polished tile stretches endlessly in both directions grey dorms line the walls and lights unseen shine an unnaturally white glow. I walk with my head high like a soldier, every step even, my head high, my pace steady. Every step echoes the same corus: today is the day I stop being another name on the academy roster and I start being a name etched in history.

Before I leave my dorm, I open the simple painted sleek white drawer next to my bed. Inside, wrapped in a gray velvet cloth, is the coin. A simple academy tradition. Each year, the top-ranked trainee gets one before their final eligible reaping day. Nothing extravagant, smaller than my palm, etched with District 2’s crest. Its meaning is everything. I close my fingers around it letting the cold seep past my calloused skin. “Victory” I murmur, “or nothing.” The words fall like ash, I don't know who came up with them or why we all say it. I slip the coin into the still wrapped up suit breast pocket. Just in case.

In the prep room my attendants are ready as always. Dressed in colorful and elegant mashes of fabric and patterns. From my request they don't speak to me anymore then they have to. They nod and signal to each other as they carefully curate the polished grand and victorious image of me. Another brings in my suit from my dorm pulling it over me. Dark, cut sharp over my shoulders, pressed to precision. With threads of silver not enough to sparkle but enough for a glint of elegance, I didn't ask for it, but I don't argue.

I don't look soft.

I don't look sorry.

I look deadly.

One attendant smooths the sleeves, another adjusts my collar, the third wipes invisible smudge from my shoulders.

None of this will matter when I'm finally in the arena, but it matters today.

They need to see me and think of a winner.

Before I even open my mouth: He is going to win.

An attendant holds up a hand mirror framed in steel. I meet my reflection again. Eyes sharp, not a detail out of place.

Cato Hadley. District 2. Future victor.

I don't smile, I'm deadly.

They led me into the family meeting room. It's a far cry from the normal monochromatic decor of the academy. However, this room was made for show, not sentiment. Crimson velvet draped from golden adorned window frames, overlooking the marble clad courtyard outside. The chandelier gives a pale yellow light glimmering off each glass cut crystal. Black obsidian floors polished to a reflective sheen. Like a capitol viewing box without the cameras… I'm pretty sure there are no cameras anyways.

My parents are already waiting for me.

My mother sits straight on one side of the velvet loveseat, legs crossed, spine straight as she always pushed me to do. Her earrings flash with every movement. Deep black trimmed with burgundy beading hugs her frame as if it was sewn onto her. Every part of her is so curated and formulaic.

My father stands next to her straight as a soldier. His hands clasped behind him. He wears his Academy badge like a medal of honor, even though he hasn't worn a uniform in years.

They don't rise when I enter, hardly acknowledge me at all.

My father clears his throat and turns his head towards me “you're on time.” “Of course I am,” I answer, and my voice doesn't waver.

I turn away and catch the sight of my classmates and their families down the rows and rows of identical tables and couches. Some sit silently, some talk excitedly, some students sit alone.

When I turn back my mother motions for me to sit on an identical loveseat across from her and my father. I sit silently. The room smells like old cologne and wood polish. “You look presentable” my mother states, scanning me with the same critical precision she's eyed me with since I was twelve years old. “Postures strong, shoulders strong.” I nod at her. My father adds “You’re not to look uncertain when you volunteer, we expect a winner. Not a boy playing dress up.” I don't mention how he didn't even ask if I was planning on volunteering. Of course I am, that's why I'm here. “I'm not playing,” I replied, as firm as I could manage. “No, you aren't.” He nods once, almost approvingly.

My mother clears her throat clear and cutting, she leans forward, her voice quiet and her eyes boring into me “When you stand on that stage, you will remember who you represent. This district. This bloodline. Everything we have put into you.” I open my mouth to introject and she puts her hand up to stop me cutting like a blade through water and continues. “You will not flinch. Not when you call out. Not when you step onto that stage. Not when the cameras lock onto your face.” A pause “I won't,” is all I can manage.

"Good."
She adjusts her earrings and sits back.

We sit in silence for a moment, the velvet swallowing the sound. My father breaks it. "Remember what I told you. About weakness." I nod again. "It invites suffering.”

He studies me for a long beat. “And you are not weak.” That should feel like comfort. It doesn’t. He finally steps forward, places one hand briefly on my shoulder. Firm, not affectionate. My mother stands and smooths the lapels of my suit one last time. She doesn’t kiss my cheek. She doesn’t smile. Instead, she says, “Make them proud to have watched you win.”
Mother leans forward, voice softer but colder. “We’ve heard the rumors. Anniaka may volunteer.” I don’t flinch, but I feel the tension rise in the room.
“She’s competent,” my father says. “Efficient. Quick hands.” “She’s unpredictable,” my mother counters. “And dramatic. You’ll have to manage that. keep the camera on you. Be the anchor.” “She won’t outshine me,” I say, jaw tight. “She can fight. Fine. But I’ll lead.” My mother nods slowly. “Then make sure she knows it. From the moment you step on that stage, you aren’t equals. You’re the front-runner.” “And if someone else volunteers?” I ask, though I already know the answer. My father scoffs. “They won’t.”“They’d be fools to try,” my mother adds. “Anniaka is the Capitol’s favorite type, brutal, theatrical but she doesn’t look like a victor. You do.”
We fall into silence again.

"You know your role," my father says. "You know how to win. Now you make sure the world knows it too."
They drone on about my life after, riches, fame, eternal glory…

They drone on and I can't help but clock out.

Chapter Text

The hallways that lead out of the academy smell like polished stone and newly fired iron. I’ve walked this way before, on holidays and weekends, during drills, ceremonies, mock reapings. It's never held this much weight before. This time I'm not walking as a student, I'm walking as a weapon. Each step is rehearsed and heavy, like I'm walking straight into the pages of District 2’s history. 

Two peacekeepers flank me, but they're just for show. Everyone already knows who will be stepping forward. It's tradition. I'm the projected tribute. It's a performance in District 2. My footsteps echo a different tune now. Sharp. Heavy. Final. On the walls, silver framed photos of the past district winners watch me with heavy gleaming eyes. Their expressions vary, some proud to have won, some hollow eyed and distant. However, they all wear the same universal truth: only one makes it out. 

I keep my eyes straight ahead.

I’ve earned this moment. Every broken rib. Every sleepless night. Every moment I pushed harder than anyone else.

Outside, the July sun is brutal, The square is carved from pale stone and ringed with polished columns. At its center is the stage, gleaming under the Capitol’s banners. The escort for district two already stands in place, her bright smile stretched tight like a ribbon about to snap. 

Every building I pass is a monument to strength. Polished granite, carved arches, iron-framed windows. Even the schoolhouse looks like it could withstand a siege. This district was built like a fortress. And I was built to protect it. No, to represent it.

I pass the weapons gallery, closed, but the iron scent still leaks through the cracks. I remember watching peacekeepers shape molten steel there, bare arms shining with sweat, the forge lighting up their faces. Blades are made through fire and pressure. That the same rules apply to me.

Farther down the road, the capitol tech outlets line the streets, the rows of bright lights and window clad displays replaced by charged silence. All workers and store owners are in the crowd waiting. 

The Academy students sit front and center in the crowd. Rows of perfect posture, steel eyes, and pressed uniforms. Behind them are the children of workers, builders, and their families. The people I’m supposed to protect. Or impress. Or both.

The Training Arch towers to my left, a cold half-circle of white stone carved with the names of our district’s past victors. I’ve trained there since I was young. That’s where I first drew blood with my bare hands. Where I learned that pain is currency and I’ve paid in full.

Every crack in that floor has a story. My story.

The faces in the square are blurs now. But I know them. Every single one. The instructors who told me I was the best they'd seen in years. The medic who reset my shoulder after it was dislocated in Trials. Kids who stood beside me during drills, eyes flicking sideways, always calculating how to take me down. They never could.

A few of them are here now, standing stiff in their rows. They glance at me from the corner of their eyes, posture perfect, teeth bared in charged smiles.

I don’t give them the satisfaction of looking back.

Above, the sky is wide and cloudless, as if the Capitol themselves cleared it for the cameras. The sun is already beginning to heat the stone, baking it beneath my boots. The whole district feels like a stage.

A stage for me today.

Ahead, the reaping stage rises at the end of the plaza, granite and silver trimmed with Capitol gold. There’s a stark beauty to it. Two glass bowls glint under the sun, filled with names that are already irrelevant. They’re just props. The real tributes aren’t drawn.

They’re made.

The Capitol says we're all equal on Reaping Day, but there are some who rise above and some who get drowned out. 

I know which one I am. 

I reach the square and take my place among the rows of perfectly pampered possible district tributes. Here the air shifts, heads turn to the small group of us waiting. Everyone knows what's coming, yet they wait for it. They want spectacle. They want pride for the district. 

Up on the balcony rails, young kids wave District flags—crimson and gold banners with sharp-edged sigils. The banners snap in the wind like war cries. Girls wear silk ribbons braided in their hair. Boys playfully shove each other, mimicking knife-fights they’ve seen on screens. The older crowd is dressed like it’s a gala, slick back hair, sharp heels, military-cut suits.

The Capitol cameras pan over the crowd, catching bright faces, teeth bared in anticipation. A few chant “Two! Two! Two!” like it’s a battle cry.

This isn’t dread. This is glory. This is ours.

I stand just behind the front line of Academy trainees, hands folded behind my back like we were taught. But my jaw is tight. My fingers twitch. My pulse is steady, slow, but alert. Because it’s almost time.

Above the square, on the towering glass screen, last year’s victor is giving a speech. Polished, smiling, with a carefully curated scar across his temple—a gift from the Games, surgically enhanced. He talks about pride. Honor. Tradition. And the crowd eats it up like sweet fruit.

The escort steps forward now. A Capitol woman dressed in tiered velvet and feathers, her lips painted in lacquered gold. She smiles wide, eyes sharp. “What an exceptional turnout this year!” she says, voice floating across the square. “District Two always shows up with such passion!”

Another cheer rises. Deafening. 

She steps forward, lips taught and skirt too thin to move in equal steps. Her makeup is cakey which you could only tell from this close to her, maybe to hide failed procedures or maybe to hide natural effects of aging. Either way, her artificially pale painted skin and far too tight capitol stitched appearance dripped with luxury and her saccharine sweet voice drips on the crowd with every word as she reads off a few dully witted jokes 

“Ladies first,” she trills, lifting the name ball from the crystal bowl. I know pulling the name is just for show. I know it doesn’t really matter. But the moment still coils tight around my ribs.

Then I feel movement. Just to my left. Barely there. A shift in the air. A sucked-in breath. A body leaning forward. Someone's going to call out. My mind doesn’t even register who. Doesn’t matter. They’re going to take my place. My stage. My moment.

No.

But she barely opens her mouth. Her tongue hasn’t even curled around the first syllable.

“I volunteer!”

The words fall from my mouth before I realize. The word rips from my throat like a strike. No hesitation. No ceremony. Just a gut reaction. The crowd explodes. Cheers, camera flashes, gasps. But all I hear is the echo of my own voice still ringing in the square.

My legs move on their own, already cutting forward, eyes locked on the stage. It wasn’t supposed to be a panic. It was supposed to be a moment. A declaration. Controlled. Powerful.

But I didn’t think. I just acted .

Because I couldn’t risk it. Not after everything I’ve done.

Chapter Text

The Academy halls are always quieter after curfew, lit by the soft golden glow from the backlight walls. The time of night that makes everything feel like it was suspended in time, caught in a moment. 

I stayed behind to finish drills, more reps, to push harder. Be better. I stayed alone as I usually did. My muscles ache dull and heavy, my wrists still too tightly bound for training, sweat clinging to my back suffocating me. I was just finishing up when she slipped in. Clove. 

She was shorter back then. Even smaller than she is now. Fifteen, just barely. Still growing into the rage that settles under her skin and the fight she can't contain. Her eyes are always watching far too aggressive. 

She didn't say anything at first, just paced before settling to the bench next to mine like she owned it. 

“You're here late.” She says not looking at me, only setting her bar. Her voice is high and clear cutting through the large room making her presence seem larger than her. 

“So are you” I quip “I'm training. What's your excuse?”

She huffed, I know she's rolling her eyes and I don't even need to look at her. “Avoiding home.”

“That bad?” I ask you to give me a look.

She shrugs, eyes on the wall. “They keep saying I'm wasting time. That I need to start taking things seriously.”

I raise an eyebrow at her, “you already do.”

“Not seriously enough,” she states a bit too forcefully then adds “apparently.” She kicks her boot toe against the end of the bench leg. “They say they are not strong enough to compare.”

That makes me pause.

“You're fifteen-”

“Doesn't matter.” She cuts me off.

“You're still too young to even-”

“I know .” 

Her voice comes out sharp, raw. Then she catches herself, curling back into herself like she regretted ever letting it out.

“They keep comparing me to the girl from last year. She volunteered at sixteen and almost won.” She looks down at her feet. “You know what my mother said?”

I shake my head knowing she isn't looking at me.

“She said, ‘at least she didn't hesitate.’”

Her words hit harder than she meant them to. Or maybe she did mean it. I don't know how to respond, so I don't. So I just lean forward resting my forearms on my knees, breathing out slowly. “They just dont get it,” I say finally “You cant force this. If you go in too early you'll die fast.”

She stops short. She looks at me finally, eyes narrow. “You really think I'll die fast?” I do my best to hold her stare “No. I know you'd fight like hell, but I also think you'd be smarter waiting your turn.” She doesn't answer. Just stands silently, shouldering her bag like the conversation didn't matter. She turns away from me. Before she leaves I hear her whisper, maybe only just to herself, “Waiting doesn't always make you stronger.”

Then she was gone.

And I didn't think about it again, not really. Because back then, she was just a kid, and I was still certain that arena belonged to me. Until from far in front of me I hear that voice again, older by just a year but stronger than I've ever heard it. “I volunteer!” Not a scream. Not Desperate. Determined. I find her eyes in the crowd. 

Pushing her way towards the stage before I can even wrap my head around the words. In a navy blue dress with the academy pin adorned to the front falling just above her knees sways with the movement. Her dark hair, that cursed smirk she holds every time she wants to say ‘I told you so’, and her freckled face catches the sun as she holds her chin high, eyes locked forward like she'd been waiting for this moment her whole life. 

My moment. And for a second I forget how to breathe.

Chapter Text

The sun was merciless, high and white-hot, casting long, unforgiving shadows across the stage as the square thundered in delight. It wasn’t celebratory. It was electric, vicious, an entire district foaming at the mouth for a show.

Clove stood at the far end of the platform, back ramrod straight, her hands resting easily at her sides. She looked calm. Not serene, calm like a loaded weapon. Her expression was unreadable, carved into something cold and composed, and it made my teeth grind.

I didn’t look at her. I stared ahead, jaw locked, a storm roaring under my skin. My pulse wasn’t pounding from fear or adrenaline. It was rage. Pure and simple.

The Capitol escort bounced forward with too much energy, glittering under the midday sun like something pulled from a nightmare and dipped in sequins. “Well, isn’t this thrilling!” she trilled into the microphone, every syllable too sweet. “A pair of volunteers from our fierce and fabulous District Two! Let’s give it up for your tributes Cato and Clove!”

The crowd exploded, a wave of applause and cheers that hit like a physical force. This was entertainment for them. Tradition. Blood dressed up in velvet.

My hands curled into fists at my sides. What the hell had she done?

“And now,” the escort continued, voice lilting with delight, “let’s have our brave young tributes shake hands for the cameras!”

I didn’t move. Not at first. But Clove did.

She stepped forward with precision, every movement deliberate. Chin high, spine straight, eyes forward. She didn’t look at me, she didn’t have to. The way she walked said it all: this wasn’t a mistake. This was the plan. Her plan.

I matched her steps across the stage. Each one felt heavier than the last, a slow crawl toward the moment everything changed.

When we stopped, face to face, we raised our hands.

Hers was smaller than mine, rough with years of training, but too warm. It caught me off guard. My hand was cold, tense, fingers stiff with fury. I gripped hers harder than I should have, just shy of cruel. Not enough to leave marks, but enough to send a message.

She didn’t even blink. Worse, she smiled.

Not a big grin, not a fake for the cameras. Just the faintest curl of her lips, like she was in on a joke I hadn’t heard yet. Her thumb brushed lightly over the back of my hand, casual and confident.

It made my blood boil.

The cameras clicked around us. The escort clapped enthusiastically. I didn’t look away from Clove. She turned her face slightly, letting the sun catch the curve of her cheek, the freckles I knew ran across the tops of them like dust. She didn’t look defiant. She looked victorious.

I forced a grin, a wide, cold thing made for Capitol audiences, all white teeth and sharpened edge. I leaned in just enough to make it look sweet, like I might kiss her cheek, whisper some charming phrase to a fellow tribute.

Instead, I spoke low and bitter. “You think this is a game?” Her smirk didn’t move. “You’ll thank me later.”

My stomach twisted. I kept my face neutral, let the grin stretch a little wider, but my jaw was aching. She was playing with fire. My fire. And worse, she knew it.

“Let’s hear it again for our tributes Cato and Clove!” the escort squealed.

More cheers. Deafening this time. But I couldn’t hear them anymore. Just her voice, ringing in my skull. You’ll thank me later.

I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. But I already knew I’d lost control of this, of her. Of what this was supposed to be.

I let go of her hand first.

Chapter Text

The moment we stepped off the stage, the sound of the crowd warped into static, loud but meaningless. Capitol Peacekeepers closed in around us, smooth and mechanical, guiding us toward the Justice Building like we were already prisoners. Maybe we were.

Clove didn’t wait for anyone. She walked ahead, steps crisp and clipped, head held high like she hadn’t just detonated the last ten years of our lives on a stage. She didn’t glance at the crowd, didn’t flinch at the weight of the closing doors behind us, didn’t pause to hear her name called for visitors.

She didn’t need to.

I watched as she kept moving, past the waiting room, past the guards, down the corridor that led to the train platform. Her spine stayed straight the whole way, not even a flicker of hesitation. No goodbye to her parents. No look back at me. Just distance, measured and final.

I stopped at the edge of the entryway and watched the darkness swallow her. The Peacekeepers didn’t move to stop her. They wouldn’t dare. She’d already made it clear that whatever rules applied here, she didn’t recognize them.

Part of me wanted to go after her. Grab her arm, make her face me, demand to know why the hell she thought this was hers to choose. But another part, the louder part, was still too furious to follow. She’d made herself clear. It didn't matter.

The air inside the Justice Building was sharp with polish and cold marble. The scent of sterility. Of control. I stood in that quiet too long, the press of silence settling over me like a shroud, until the doors opened behind me.

My parents arrived dressed like they were attending a Capitol gala. My mother wore deep navy silk, diamond earrings like sharpened teeth hanging from her ears. My father’s charcoal-gray suit was cut to precision, the fabric expensive enough to speak before he did. They didn’t look at the room. They looked only at me, and not like they saw a son. Like they were evaluating something they’d built.

“We’re proud of you,” my father said, his voice low and clipped, as if emotion would weaken the impact. “You did what you were raised to do.” My mother’s gaze swept over me with surgical precision. “Posture was perfect. Jawline strong. That suit they put you in was hideous, but you wore it well.” That was their version of a farewell. No hug. No tearful moments. Just analysis, critique, a quiet nod of approval for a product they were ready to send off.

“You’ve trained for this since you could walk,” my father continued, stepping closer. His hand landed on my shoulder, heavy and deliberate. It wasn’t comforting. It was anchoring. “Don’t doubt yourself now. Control the narrative. That’s how you win. Before you even lift a blade.”

My mother adjusted a wrinkle in my sleeve that wasn’t there. “You’re not just muscle. Don’t let them think you are. Be brutal when it counts, but charming when it matters. The Capitol needs to love you before they fear you.” I nodded once. I couldn’t speak, not without something ugly leaking out. My jaw ached from holding it together. There was a silence after their words, not peaceful, but thick and suffocating. Like the room itself was holding its breath.

Then my mother’s eyes flicked toward the hallway where Clove had vanished. Her tone cooled further. “She’s clever. Undisciplined, but clever. Don’t underestimate her.” I didn’t respond. My father gave a final nod. “We’ll be watching.”

And just like that, they turned and left, their footsteps echoing sharp across the floor before the door shut behind them. I stood alone in the quiet aftermath, the echo of Clove’s absence louder than anything they’d said.

No Peacekeepers. No cameras. Just the cold, the weight of everything I hadn’t said to her, and the knowledge that she hadn’t needed a goodbye, because she’d already decided how this story would go.

I turned toward the corridor, toward the dark hallway she’d disappeared into without even a glance back. My boots were too loud against the stone as I followed into the dark. After her.  

Not because I forgave her.  Not because I wasn’t still burning. Because I wasn’t going to let her write the whole damn thing without me.

Clove wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in this building, not in this moment. This was my Games. My moment. Mine.

I’d spent years being sharpened for this, honed like the tip of a blade, trained to the edge of breaking, but never past it. The arena was supposed to be my proving ground. A clean line from the Academy to the Capitol. Victory, and nothing less.

And now Clove, reckless, impulsive Clove, had decided she belonged here, too.

I turned toward the hallway where Clove had disappeared, her footsteps sharp and sure as she strode toward the train. Part of me wanted to rip after her, to close the distance and drag her back into the spotlight, to remind her who she was, what she was doing here. But I stayed still, watching the door she’d walked through swallow her whole.

She didn’t need me to help her with training or talk through her problems with her parents. Not anymore.  I was supposed to be the one who didn’t need anyone, the one who had it all under control.

I exhaled sharply and stepped forward.

Clove had ruined that.

The air felt colder now. A part of me knew it wasn’t the temperature. wasn’t the marble or the polished stone or the sterile perfection of this place. No. It was the silence. The absolute absence of anything that made sense. The Capitol had taught me how to be sharp, how to make my name something they couldn’t ignore. They had crafted me, built me into the thing they wanted me to be: dangerous, polished, inevitable.

But Clove? She wasn’t supposed to be a part of that narrative. She was supposed to stay in the background, a footnote in my story. someone to come home for. Instead, she’d cut herself in, like she belonged here, like she could stand beside me and share in this moment of undeniable victory. What the hell did she think she was doing? I clenched my fists as I walked down the corridor, the sound of my boots echoing off the walls. The darkened hallway stretched before me, the train platform just out of sight. My thoughts twisted. I was pissed, more furious than I had any right to be. She was just a girl. A kid, really.

She didn’t matter.

And yet, everything about her. her smug smile, her quiet defiance, made me feel like she was everything.

Her hand in mine had been a reminder of how little control I had over anything.

I had her by the wrist. I had her in my grasp, my power, my domain. But she’d just taken it all with that one goddamn smile. I wasn’t supposed to feel like this rattled, confused, unsettled. But here I was, hating every second of it.

I shook my head, trying to force the thoughts away, but they kept coming back.

Clove had challenged me. And I had no idea what to do with that.

“Control the narrative.” My father’s voice echoed in my head, the same way it always had. He’d said it to me a thousand times. Control the narrative, and you control everything.

But what if the narrative wasn’t mine to control anymore? What if Clove was changing the story? No. I wouldn’t let that happen.

I would carve my path through her, and every inch of the Games, until she knew who she was up against. She wouldn’t break me. She wouldn’t win.

But the sting of her absence, her refusal to even acknowledge my presence. It cut deeper than I wanted to admit. The silence between us stretched too long, and I felt it gnawing at the edges of everything I’d built.

I walked faster now, my stride lengthening with each step. The walls seemed to narrow, like the weight of my thoughts was pressing in on me from all sides.

If she wanted to play this game, I would show her how, but I wouldn’t be the only one left standing.

Clove was clever, sure. Unrefined, but clever. She thought she could walk away like that, like nothing mattered. Like I wouldn’t notice.

But I noticed. I noticed her. And when the time came, I wouldn’t just win. I would make sure she knew exactly what it meant to stand against me. No more games. No more pretending. I would make her feel every step of this. And by the time we reached that platform, there would be no room for doubts. No room for her to think she was ever truly meant to do this. 

I wasn’t just the District Two tribute. I was the tribute. And no one, not Clove, not the Capitol, not anyone, was going to take that from me.

I reached the train platform, the dark metal looming ahead. It wasn’t just the end of this hallway. It was the start of everything. The Games. The arena. The blood. And when Clove joined me on that train, I would make sure she understood her place in it.

I didn’t need her. Not to win. Not to prove anything. But I wasn’t going to let her think she had the power to control anything, either. Not anymore.

Chapter Text

The train felt like a cage. Each step echoed down the narrow hallway, each click of my boots sending a ripple of frustration through my chest. I didn’t know where I was going. maybe nowhere, maybe just trying to outrun the storm. The Peacekeepers trailed me, silent, their eyes fixed on me like I was some kind of threat. But it wasn’t them that had me on edge. 

It was her.

She walked off, like I didn’t exist. Like she hadn’t just made a goddamn mockery of me in front of the entire district. Like I was some bystander in this messed-up game she was playing, and I couldn’t even figure out the rules.

What the hell is wrong with her?

I passed a door. Another. She had to be in there. I could feel it. Her scent still lingered in the air, like it had been left behind in the dust of her departure. I’m going to tear this place apart, I thought, gritting my teeth.

My hands balled into fists. The anger clawed up my throat, burning hotter the more I tried to swallow it down. It was like an inferno, swallowing everything. Every reason, every ounce of control I’d ever had. I wanted to break something. I wanted to smash the walls. I wanted to make her feel what I was feeling. 

I slammed my fist into the wall next to her door.  The dull thud reverberated through the hall, a hollow sound that felt like it echoed into oblivion.  She’s ignoring me, the thought seethed through my mind, twisting into something darker.  I didn’t care if she was pissed. I didn’t care if she was trying to get under my skin. I needed her to look at me. I raised my hand to the door, my knuckles cracking as I pounded against it.

“Clove!” The sound of my voice surprised even me. Raw. Angry. A shout that ripped itself from my chest before I could stop it.  Nothing.  She’s ignoring me. It was suffocating. The fury clawed at me harder now, suffocating every other thought, burning away the cool-headed clarity I liked to think I had.

I banged on the door again, this time harder, more desperate. “Clove!” My voice was sharper, jagged. “Open the damn door!” I could hear her. Breathing, maybe, or just pretending not to hear me. Damn her. Damn her for thinking she could do this.I stepped back, chest heaving, trying to control the rage that had consumed me.  I knew it wouldn’t help. I knew banging on the door like a maniac wouldn’t get me anywhere. It wouldn’t change a damn thing. But I couldn’t stop. It was like the anger had taken over, and I was its puppet. For a second, I stood there, listening to the hollow silence. Her voice wasn’t coming. Her footsteps weren’t coming. Nothing was coming. She was not coming.

Fine .

I turned on my heel and walked away, my fists still clenched so tight I thought my nails might break skin. I didn’t even know where I was going anymore. I didn’t care. The train had become an endless labyrinth. No end in sight. I passed empty cabins, doors closed, and walls that seemed to whisper my name like I was some lost soul. But it was her that consumed me. Like she was at the center of everything. Her silence, her defiance, her goddamn refusal to meet me where I wanted her to be. But I was done. I couldn’t do it anymore. 

Clove. Her face, her words, all of it. Every single second we spent together in training, every little speech about survival, about winning. It had all been part of the plan. Her plan. She never cared about me. Never cared about anything more than using me, manipulating me to get herself to the top. She had her sights set on victory, and I was just a pawn. The thought hit me like a jolt, a shot of ice straight to my chest. It was the truth. I wasn’t just angry at her, I was angry at myself. Angry for thinking she’d ever care about anything more than the game. About being this unstoppable force, this piece of the Capitol glory. I slammed open another door, the sound deafening in the emptiness. I wanted to scream. To break something. To make all of it stop, to make her stop breaking me down, piece by piece. 

I stepped inside the cabin. The space was small, just enough for a bed, a table, and a window that gave me a view of nothing but endless tracks stretching to infinity. I slammed the door shut behind me, the metallic sound a relief as it cut off the noise of the train. I threw myself down onto the bed, not even bothering to undress. I wasn’t going to sleep. I wasn’t going to rest. There was no peace here. Not until I knew what the hell was going on inside her head. Not until I figured it out.

How could I have been so blind? All those talks we had, all those hours spent training together, sparring, pushing each other to be better. It was all a game. I remembered the way her smile had twisted when she volunteered. Like she had it all figured out. Like she knew something I didn’t. Like she was two steps ahead of me the entire time, and I never even noticed.

But there was nothing. Nothing except the sound of my pulse ringing in my ears, the heat of rage still burning in my chest. I let my fists relax, my fingers loosening, but the anger didn’t go anywhere. It lingered in the air, thick and suffocating, and I just couldn’t escape it. And for all the rage, for all the fury, I couldn’t stop the stupid, stupid thought that kept clawing at me beneath everything else.

But I wasn’t ready to say it. Not yet. 

Chapter Text

The dining car was quiet, too clean. The plates gleamed like mirrors, the table polished to a sterile sheen. I sat at the far end, my shoulders tight, jaw clenched, watching the door like it had personally insulted me.

Then it opened. And she walked in.

Clove.

She moved like she always did, precise, no wasted effort, but her eyes looked... wrong. Unreadable. Blank, almost glassy, like she hadn’t slept, or had cried until she couldn’t anymore. If she had. I couldn’t tell. I didn’t know what she looked like when she cried.

She didn’t look at me. Just sat down like this was routine. Like it was dinner after another training session. Like the Reaping hadn’t happened at all.

“Glad you could join me,” I said, words tight.

She didn’t answer right away. Picked up her fork, toyed with the food on her plate like she didn’t care what it was. Or maybe she wasn’t hungry. Maybe she was making a point.

“You locked yourself in your room,” I added, sharper now.

Her voice came quiet, cool. “I didn’t feel like talking.”

“To me, or anyone?”

“Does it matter?”

I leaned back in my chair, biting down on the edge of every word. “You just walked away. Didn’t even look back. Not at your parents. Not at me.”

She blinked slowly, finally meeting my eyes. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Say goodbye, maybe.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Why?”

“Because I thought—” My voice caught. I swallowed it down. “Never mind.”

“No, go on,” she said. “You thought what?”

I stared at her, daring her to flinch. She didn’t.

“I thought we were—” I shook my head. “Forget it.”

Her fork clinked against her plate as she set it down. “I don’t know what you think this is, Cato. But we were training partners. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” I laughed once, sharp and humorless. “So all those nights in the training center, the strategies, the time… what, I was just convenient?”

She didn’t answer. Just looked at me, gaze unreadable. Like she was measuring something.

“You’re good at pretending,” I said.

“You’re good at assuming.”

The silence dragged, hot and brittle between us.

“You think you’re the only one trying to survive?” she added, softly now. Too softly. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I thought I did,” I snapped.

“Well, you don’t.” Her voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t anything. And that made it worse.

She stood then, not fast, not slow. Just decisive. Like she’d said what needed to be said and didn’t care how it landed. Her chair scraped back, her hands didn’t shake.

I stayed seated, but my fingers curled into fists on the table.

“Don’t expect loyalty,” I muttered.

She paused. Looked over her shoulder just once. Her eyes met mine, calm and flat.

“I never asked for it.”

And she left.

Again.

This time I didn’t yell after her. I didn’t follow. I just sat there, alone in a room full of expensive silence, trying to convince myself it didn’t mean anything.

That she didn’t mean anything.

Chapter Text

The train rocked gently under my feet, a low hum thrumming through the metal bones of the corridor. Somewhere behind me, the Capitol lights glowed faint through the tinted windows. I didn’t look. I couldn’t sleep. Not with her words still crawling under my skin. “I never asked for it.” That phrase hit harder than a blow to the jaw. Because she hadn’t. And because I’d given it anyway. I was pacing. Slow, deliberate, like it would burn something out of me. My hands flexed open and closed at my sides. I kept seeing her face across the dining table. so quiet, so damn still. Like none of this touched her. Like I was the only one losing my grip.

Then I heard her door open. Clove stepped out, her hair loose, her expression unreadable in the low light. We both froze. She didn’t speak. Neither did I. But she didn’t turn back. She came forward. Slowly, like she was walking a tightrope, like she might change her mind at any second. We stopped a few feet apart.

“What do you want?” she asked, voice flat. But there was something off in it. Like she was bracing.

“I could ask you the same.”

Her eyes flicked away, down the corridor, toward nothing. “I needed air.”

I stepped in closer, just one pace. She didn’t move. “From what? The room you locked yourself in? Or me?”

She tensed. Barely. But I saw it.

“You’re looking for something I don’t have,” she said.

“Bullshit.” My voice came sharper than I meant, too raw. “You’ve got something. I’ve seen it. You just don’t want to show it.”

She crossed her arms. “You don’t get to tell me who I am.”

“No, you already decided that for me, right?” I laughed bitterly. “The brute. The easy shield. Just keep him close until you don’t need him anymore.”

“You think that’s what I’ve been doing?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’ve been doing,” I shot back. “You shut me out and expect me not to react? You volunteered, Clove. You jumped in without hesitation. Don’t act like I’m the one who screwed this up.”

Her jaw twitched, and for the first time, something flared in her eyes, something messy. Pain? Fury? I didn’t care. Or maybe I did too much.

“I didn’t do it for you,” she said, like she wanted it to hurt. “I didn’t even think about you.”

That landed harder than anything else she’d said.

I stepped back like she’d hit me. “Right. Of course not.”

She didn’t apologize. She didn’t blink. She just stood there, breathing shallow, fists clenched like maybe she’d finally reached her edge too.

“You made your choice,” I muttered. “Fine. Just don’t come running when it turns to hell.”

“I won’t.”

We stared at each other in the silence that followed, both too proud to break it. Both far too tired to keep fighting. But neither of us walked away. We just stood there, in the middle of a metal hallway in the dead of night, not touching, not speaking. Caught between something furious and something unspoken. A tether fraying at both ends.

And still holding.

Chapter Text

Breakfast was already set when I walked into the dining car. Silver lids over steaming platters. A vase of blood-red roses someone probably thought was tasteful. I hated how clean everything looked—how civilized. Like we weren’t headed straight for the slaughterhouse of glory bathed in blood and riches.

Clove was already there. Of course she was. Sitting rigid in her seat, fork untouched, eyes locked on the far window like it would open and swallow her whole. Her tray was full. She hadn’t taken a bite.

Our mentor sat between us, half-drunk already, blinking blearily at a cup of coffee like it might apologize for existing. He didn’t speak when I slid into the seat across from her. Didn’t even look up. Just muttered something under his breath about “District Two never shuts the hell up” and started cutting into a croissant like it wronged him.

I didn’t speak either. Not at first. Just watched her. She didn’t look up. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her lip looked slightly swollen—bitten, maybe, in sleep. If she even slept. I didn’t. I wondered if she did. Then I hated myself for wondering.

I stabbed a piece of whatever the cooks were pretending to be eggs. Took a bite. Couldn’t taste it.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” I said suddenly despite myself.

She blinked. But didn’t turn her head.

“Which part?” she asked, voice carefully neutral.

“Any of it,” I said, then hesitated. “Or maybe I did. I don’t know. I was pissed.”

“I noticed.”

Our mentor let out a dry little chuckle. “Should I leave you two to it or keep pretending I’m deaf?”

Neither of us answered. Clove finally turned her head toward me, slowly. Her eyes looked clearer this morning. Not calm, but… focused. Like something in her had crystallized overnight. It unnerved me more than any blade she’d ever thrown.

She nodded. “Yeah. I figured.”

But something about the way she held my gaze too still—made me think she hadn’t. Or maybe not all of it.

“Whatever you think this is,” she said, “you don’t know me.” She rasps out. 

I stared at her. “That’s not true.”

“You know the version of me you saw in the gym. In the arena simulations. In training. That’s not the same thing.”

“Then why did you talk to me?” I demanded. “Why train with me? Why let me think—”

“You wanted to think it,” she snapped. “That’s not my fault.”

Our mentor groaned and pushed his plate away. “Gods above, I miss the days when tributes didn’t flirt over knives and coffee.”

Clove stood, hard enough her chair scraped loudly against the floor.

“I’m not hungry,” she muttered, and started to stand to leave. But I stood too. “You don’t get to make me the villain here, Clove.” She stopped short.

“I don’t have time for a villain,” she said quietly. “I have a clock ticking over my head. You’re not the center of that.” And then she turned herself away from me and sat down again. I sat down again. My food was cold. I didn’t touch it. 

Later the train hummed beneath us, a steady mechanical rhythm that didn’t quite drown out the silence.

We sat across from each other in the lounge, plates from breakfast pushed aside, untouched. Our mentor had left twenty minutes ago. bored or disgusted, I couldn’t tell. Probably both. Clove sat curled into her side of the booth, arms crossed, legs tucked up, chin tilted toward the window. She wasn’t looking at anything. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused. Somewhere far away.

I leaned back, arms stretched across the top of the seat, watching her. Trying not to.

“District Three,” I said finally, just to cut through the weight in the air. “The boy’s a tech rat. Small. Fast fingers. Glasses.”

Clove didn’t turn her head. “Explosives expert,” she muttered. “Don’t let the quiet fool you.”

“And the girl?”

She shrugged, a small shift of her shoulder. “Forgettable.”

We both knew that didn’t mean harmless. Just… not worth remembering yet.

I pulled the list of tributes from my pocket. Creased and smudged, marked with our shorthand: weak, fast, watcher, dangerous. I tapped my nail against a name.

“District Four.”

“Young, both of them.” Clove said, sharper now. “The boy may try to ally.”

“He’s built like a swimmer.”

“And cocky. You’ll hate him.”

“I already do.”

That made her glance over. Just briefly. But her eyes were tired, like the fight had burned through the bone. Not all of it mine, I realized, though, I wasn’t innocent.

I didn’t know how to fix it. Didn’t even know if I wanted to. Clove took the list from me, scanned it. “District Ten. The boy. Strong. Cattle handler. Might be slow, but if he gets a weapon in his hand, he’ll make it count.”

“And the girl?” “Shaky,” she said. “Scared already. If we run into her, let her bolt. She’ll break before she bleeds.”

I nodded. Took the list back. “District Eleven’s boy…” I said, and trailed off. He stood out. He was quiet on stage, but there was something behind his eyes. Something that didn’t match the others.

Clove didn’t answer right away. “Big. Probably stronger than you.” I raised an eyebrow. She didn’t take it back. “You’ll have to be faster. And crueler.” “That won’t be a problem.” She didn’t flinch at that. Just looked at me a little too long. Like she was still deciding what I meant when I said things like that. Or maybe what she wanted me to mean.

“And the girl?” I asked.

Clove’s mouth pressed flat. “Smart. Scared. But smart.”

“Not an issue then,” I said, bitter.

My hands curled around the edge of the table.

Clove tilted her head. “You’ll want her dead first.” I didn’t deny it. We sat like that for a while longer. Not talking. Not moving. The train clattered onward. I stayed focused on the list, scratching lines and notes into the corners. Tearing holes in paper just to feel something give. The names blurred together after a while. Except hers.

Of course.

District Twelve.

“They’ll die first,” I muttered, like it was fact. Maybe it was. That’s how it usually went.

“Maybe,” Clove said, too even. Her fingers traced down the page to Katniss’s name. “She volunteered.”

I glanced over. “So? To protect her sister. That’s weakness, not strategy.”

Clove’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. “It’s not weakness if it makes people watch her. You saw her up there. She wasn’t afraid.” I scoffed. “She didn’t look like she even knew where she was. She shook like a leaf.”

“She stood straight.” Clove leaned back, arms folding again. “And she stood alone.” I didn’t like the way she said that. Like she respected it.

“She’s a token,” I said sharply. “They’ll keep her around for a show, then drop her once she can't hold up.”

Clove tilted her head toward me. “She is the show. You saw the way people looked at her.”

I looked down at the name again, irritated that it was burned into my memory now. Katniss Everdeen. Outlier. Volunteer. District Twelve never had a shot, until now. And everyone knew it.

“She’ll get the boy killed,” I muttered.

Clove gave a humorless snort. “Maybe he wants her to. Did you see his face on stage?”

“Yeah. Like he was about to cry.”

“Or explode,” she said. “He looked like he already lost something.”

“Probably realized he’s cannon fodder,” I said, turning the page upside down. “That’s what happens when you fall for someone before the Games start. Stupid.” Clove’s silence answered that one. I didn’t look at her.

They were a threat because they didn’t follow the rules—Katniss most of all. She didn’t fit the mold, didn’t speak like someone who trained for this, didn’t carry herself like a Career. And yet she was in our heads.

Clove looked back at me, finally. “If we see her in the arena first…?”

“She’s dead.”

The words left my mouth too fast, too bitter.

Clove didn’t flinch. Just nodded and looked away.

We didn’t say anything after that. The list sat between us like a line we couldn’t uncross.

Katniss Everdeen. A girl who stepped forward for her sister and now stood at the center of a storm.

And I hated that I noticed.

At dinner Clove kept to herself, cold and controlled, working out alone or trailing behind our group just far enough to make a point.

She wasn’t isolating because she was scared.

She was sharpening something invisible, and I didn’t know what it was.

At dinner, she sat across the table and didn’t say a word.

I ate in silence too. Let the Capitol workers prattle on about how “excited” they were to see our “strength on display.” One of them had glitter in their eyebrows. Another tried to touch my bicep and made a comment about how “intense” District Two boys always were. Clove's fork slipped in her hand with a metallic clang against the plate. I didn’t flinch. But I saw it. That twitch in her mouth. The fire under her calm. Finally. When we got back to the room corridor, I followed her. Not because I had something to say. Not because I even knew what I wanted. Because I didn’t like the distance she kept between us.

“You’re still not talking to me?” I asked, leaning on the wall outside her door.

She turned, slow. Tired. “We’re talking.”

“Bullshit.”

She looked at me. “Why do you care so much?”

And for a second, I didn’t have an answer. Just that she was in my blood like a splinter I couldn’t dig out.

“I don’t,” I lied.

She studied me for a beat. Like she wanted to call it out. Like she almost did.

But then she said nothing. Just turned the knob and shut the door behind her.

I stood there a long time after. Still. Quiet. I hated the way my chest felt like it was caving in. I still hear her voice in my head like an echo through a tunnel. I hated that I couldn’t tell if she was shutting me out because she had a plan—or because she was already gone. In a few days time, we’d be in front of the Gamemakers. Showing them what we’re made of.

Chapter Text

For the chariot ride, they dressed us like war gods.

Not tributes. Not teenagers. Gods.

The stylist, still nameless, still humming to himself like he was conjuring something, draped us in gold like it meant salvation. Or sacrifice. I couldn’t tell which. Our armor gleamed under the prep room lights, every piece sculpted and lacquered to a blinding sheen. They’d molded the chest plates from gold-painted varaform, cut sharp along the shoulders and collarbone like it was meant to slice. Beneath that: metallic leather layered over a gold spandex bodysuit so tight it moved with the pulse of your breath. A leather underskirt hung from the hips in jagged panels, overlapped like a gladiator’s. Over everything, they fixed sheer capes, flecked with glitter that shimmered when we turned, like the remnants of treasure troves.

Our boots were painted to match, up to the knee in rigid gold. Our belts were molded with wings. Our arms were stacked with cuffs and rings. They even painted the edges of our fingers, the high points of our cheekbones, dusted our lashes in gold to catch the light. The Capitol didn’t want fighters. They wanted idols . Victory sculpted into flesh.

Clove looked like fury gilded in sunlight.

They twisted her hair back into something brutal, tight braids coiled into a crown. Gold foil streaked through the strands like veins. Her mouth was painted in matte bronze, her eyes rimmed in burnished shadow. She didn’t look at herself once. Just stood there while they arranged her like a weapon.

Me? I looked like I was carved from conquest. Every edge of me polished until it gleamed. Even my hands didn’t look like mine anymore.

The prep team was already squealing over District Twelve, two chariots down. Someone gasped: “They’re on fire!” I didn’t turn. Until I caught a flicker of orange. Not the costume. The girl.

There she was. That volunteer. Katniss Everdeen. Her dress clung to her like smoke, embers licking up the hem and wrists. She was fire without knowing how to wield it. New, raw, dangerous. The Capitol crowd screamed for her before she’d even moved. She looked stunned. Shellshocked. Like her body hadn’t caught up with her decision.

But everyone saw her.

Clove’s eyes locked on the girl, then flicked to me, unreadable. I stared at Everdeen. Not because I cared. Because I recognized the shift. I could feel it in the air. The Capitol didn’t cheer like that for just anyone.

She hadn’t earned it. She hadn’t trained. She hadn’t bled for this.

And yet, she was the moment.

Something twisted behind my ribs. Something hot and mean. I grabbed Clove’s wrist before I knew what I was doing and yanked her toward me.

“What are you doing—?” she hissed, but I didn’t answer. I turned her to face Katniss. Let her see the girl. Let her see me . I stared across the gap between us like I could set her alight just by looking. Let her know I saw her. Let her know we weren’t impressed.

Clove stood beside me, stiff, caught in whatever this was. She didn’t ask again.

We climbed the steps to the chariot in silence. I offered my hand to help her up, and for once, she took it. Her grip was solid. Always had been. The horns blared. The gates rumbled open. The crowd erupted like thunder splitting stone.

Clove took my hand without hesitation, united front, golden pair, golden tributes of District Two. She tried to raise our arms, to show strength and dominance. But I didn’t let her. I held her hand firm, low, between us, and didn’t let her lift it. Not tonight. Not when the Capitol’s eyes were still fixed on her .

This moment wasn’t for them. It was supposed to be ours.

I felt Clove shift beside me, just a breath of movement, the gold flecks of her cloak brushing my arm. She didn’t pull again. Didn’t speak.

We rode forward like a matched set. The Capitol lights turned us molten. Every cheer cracked against the sky. I could hear our names tangled in the roar. But I didn’t lift my eyes. Didn’t smile. Didn’t play.

Beside me, Clove didn’t blink. Her face didn’t crack once. She knew how to hold the line, even when the line was fraying. But I felt it in her hand, the strain.

Let them cheer.

Let them scream.

Let them crown us as gods.

Because the storm they built with all that gold and fire? They had no idea what it would become. 

The chariot coasted around the final bend of the avenue. The roar didn’t fade—it sharpened. Swelled. Became surgical in its focus. Lights flared so bright it turned the marble buildings to mirrors. Confetti burst from cannons above, catching the air in a blizzard of silver.And then we saw them.

The grand viewing balcony loomed like a shrine, perched above the crowd, centered like the eye of a storm. Lined with silk-robed officials and ambassadors, preening Capitol elites with peacock-colored hair and lenses that changed with their moods. But none of them mattered.

Not when he stepped forward. President Snow. White suit. Red rose. Smile like a slit throat. He didn’t wave. Didn’t blink. He didn’t need to. He simply was . He watched each chariot pass like he was measuring their worth, like he already knew which of us would die first and which would entertain him the most before the end. When our chariot drew close, I felt Clove’s spine lengthen beside me. She didn’t lift our hands. But her chin lifted a fraction higher, her shoulders pulled square.

I didn’t move. My jaw stayed locked, my eyes never left his. He looked at us. Just for a breath. No nod. No smile. No signal. Just the weight of being seen .

And then we passed. The lights flared one final time. The anthem swelled. The gates to the City Circle closed behind us, and the cheering dissolved into a vacuum. We rolled into silence. The air in the tunnel was thick with smoke and glitter. Gold feathers clung to my skin. My palm throbbed from how hard I’d held hers.  Her fingers were red by the time we rolled into the tunnels again. When the lights went out, when the doors sealed behind us and the world above screamed our names, Clove let go slowly trailing her skin over mine. Then it was over, like we hadn’t just stood before a nation as golden gods, and cracked somewhere invisible.

I didn’t say anything.

Neither did she.

Let the Capitol believe they had us figured out.

Let them believe this was all costume.

Because under all that shine, I was already burning.

Chapter Text

The rooftop was quiet. Not silent, this city didn’t do silence but quiet enough. Wind skimmed the edge of the building, cool and sharp, tugging at the edge of my cloak. From up here, the Capitol looked fake. Just lights and color and illusion. Like someone painted it over a corpse.

Clove leaned against the ledge, hands gripping the cold marble. Her hair whipped around her face, tangled, undone. She looked smaller like this. Stripped of gold and weapons and rage. Just a girl in too-heavy armor.

I didn’t speak. Not at first.

She’d come up here without a word, same as me. Maybe hoping I wouldn’t follow. Maybe hoping I would.

After a few minutes of the wind filling the silence.

“You shouldn’t have volunteered,” I said finally. It came out sharp, too hard. I didn’t mean for it to sound like a threat.

She didn’t look at me. “Don’t tell me what I should’ve done.”

“You didn’t need to.” My voice was low now, but no softer. “You think I couldn’t win without you?”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

That landed like a slap. No hesitation. No apology. Again.

My jaw locked. “Right. Of course not.”

Clove turned toward me then, slowly. Her eyes were shadowed, unreadable. “You think this is all about you?”

“No,” I said, stepping closer. “I think we spent years fighting side by side, bleeding together, getting strong together, and then the moment came, you shoved me out of the way like none of it meant anything.”

“I didn’t shove you.”

“You didn’t have to. You made me watch .”

The wind snapped louder. The ache in my chest was sharp, molten. I didn’t know if it was anger or something else

“I didn’t do it to hurt you,” she said.

“You did it without me,” I snapped. “That’s the same thing.”

We stood like that, a few feet apart, with everything unsaid between us hanging like smoke.

“I had to,” she murmured. “This was mine.”

“Bullshit.”

“I did .” Her voice cracked—not loud, but sharp. “I couldn’t let it go to someone else. Not this time. Not after—”

She bit it off. Whatever truth was trying to escape. Her fingers curled tighter on the stone.

“You don’t get to pull some noble martyr act now,” I said, stepping closer. “You volunteered, and you left me out of it. You left us. You expect me to just… what? Accept it?”

“No.” Her eyes met mine. For once, they weren’t guarded. “I don’t expect you to understand. You never saw it. You never saw me. You saw who you wanted me to be.”

My chest twisted. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

I hated that she might be right. That maybe I had written us a story she never agreed to star in.

I stared at her, and for a second, I didn’t see the knife-happy, steel-spined warrior I trained with. I saw the girl underneath. The one who stayed late after training when she thought no one noticed. The one who never let anyone patch her up, who hid bruises like secrets. The one who smiled, really smiled, exactly once, and I never forgot it.

“You said it was yours,” I said. “What did you mean?”

She was quiet a long time. Her shoulders rose, then dropped.

“I was supposed to die a long time ago,” she said softly. “I don’t mean in the arena. I mean before. I think I was already dead, just walking around pretending. This… this was the only thing that felt real. The only thing I chose.”

The words hit like a sucker punch.

“I wanted you to be part of it,” she said. “I did. But I couldn’t need you.”

Something in me cracked. I hadn’t expected her to say that. I’d expected lies, silence, rage. Not this brutal honesty.

“So what happens now?” I asked. My voice was rough.

She didn’t answer right away. Just stepped toward me, close enough to share breath.

“I didn’t do it for you,” she said again. “But I do care. I care more than I’m supposed to. That’s the problem, Cato.”

I swallowed hard. 

Her hand brushed mine. A whisper of contact.

“Clove—”

“Let me finish.”

She looked at me like she was memorizing something. Maybe she was. Maybe we both were.

“We won't both live.” That hurts. Like hell it hurts but it's true. She doesn't continue.

The city blazed beneath us. The Capitol sang its war song, oblivious.

I reached out and caught her wrist before she could leave. Held it gently.

“We were good together,” I said. “Before.”

She nodded, barely. “We could still be.”

Something shifted. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But something cracked open between us. A breath. A heartbeat. A maybe.

We stood there in the dark, breathing the same wind, our shoulders inches apart. Her skin was cold against mine. Not shaking. Just still. Tense, but not tense like before.

“I used to think we’d win together, year after another” I said, not looking at her. “That we’d make it out, both of us.”

Her hand didn’t move. But she didn’t look at me either.

“Now I think I just didn’t want to be alone in it.”

Clove’s breath hitched… barely. A small, quiet sound that would’ve been swallowed by the wind if I hadn’t been waiting for it.

“You’re not alone,” she said. “Even when I’m not saying the right things. Even when I’m—”

“Pushing me away?”

She nodded once.

“That’s the only way I know how to survive.”

We stood in it. The rawness. The ruined edge of something that used to be sharper, simpler. What we’d had, whatever it was, is frayed now, splintered and complicated. But it wasn’t gone.

I dropped her wrist gently, fingers brushing her palm. “You don’t have to say it.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she said, but it wasn’t cruel.

It was honest.

She turned to look out over the city again, gold lashes catching the moonlight. “We’re both gonna die, you know.”

“Maybe.”

“It doesn’t matter if we care. It won’t save us.”

“No,” I said, after a beat. “But it changes something, now.”

Her mouth twisted into something like a smirk. “What, one of us has to die with feelings now? Great.”

I laughed. I didn’t mean to. It just came out, bitter and strange and real.

She looked at me again, and I finally saw her—not the fire and fury, not the mask she wore on the training floor. Just Clove. Exhausted. Reckless. Brave in ways I’d never understood.

“You’re more dangerous than anyone in that arena,” I said.

She arched her brow. “Because I’m good with knives?”

“Because you scare me. And I don’t scare easily.”

Her lips parted, like she might say something. But she didn’t. Just stepped closer, leaned into my side like gravity pulled her there.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Her head rested lightly against my shoulder.

No kiss. No grand confessions. Just the quiet fact of her weight against me, and the war inside us settling into something quieter. Sadder. Stronger.

“I didn’t do it for you,” she whispered again, more to herself than to me.

“I know,” I said.

And for the first time, I meant it.

We stayed like that until the Capitol lights dimmed. Until the wind turned colder and the night forgot to end.

We didn’t need to speak again. Not yet.

The door to my room shut with a mechanical hiss. Too smooth. Too quiet. It was the only quiet thing in this entire place.

I stood there for a moment, just inside, hands still clenched at my sides. The Capitol gave us luxury rooms like trophies in a glass case, wide marble floors, sleek lights that could mimic sunrise, pillows so soft they swallowed you whole. But it wasn’t a room. It was a cage, and I could still feel the rooftop on my skin.

The press of her head on my shoulder. The weight of everything she didn’t say.

I paced.

One end of the room to the other. Again. Again. I couldn’t sit. Couldn’t lie down. The heat in my chest wouldn’t burn out.

She didn’t do it for me.

She volunteered, threw her life into the fire, and it had nothing to do with me. And yet. And yet she held my hand in the chariot. Sat beside me on the train like gravity kept dragging us together. Let her mask crack for one second on the roof and leaned in like she meant it.

It was driving me insane.

I slammed my fist into the wall, felt the throb split up my arm. Not enough to bleed. The Capitol wouldn’t allow it. But it helped.

I hated how badly I wanted it to be me she did it for.

Because if it wasn’t, if all the time we trained together, all the bruises and breathless laughs and silent looks, if none of it meant what I thought it did, then what the hell do I do with all of this?

I sat on the edge of the bed. Gold sheets. Gold floor. Gold everywhere, but nothing felt warm. I buried my face in my hands. The rooftop wind still clung to my hair. Her voice echoed.

"You scare me."

What a joke. I wasn’t scared of dying. Not really.

I was scared of losing her without ever really having her.

I kicked off the gold-plated boots. Yanked the belt loose and let it clatter to the floor. It felt like peeling off someone else’s skin. That version of me, the one dressed in armor and paraded through the streets like some war god, he wasn’t real.

This was real. This rage. This ache. This desperate want I didn’t know how to hold without crushing it.

I lay back. Stared at the ceiling.

Tried not to imagine her alone in her room. Tried not to imagine her crying. Or not crying. I didn’t know which was worse.

She didn’t do it for me.

But she was still here.

And if I couldn’t be her reason for stepping into the flames, then I’d sure as hell be the reason she survived them.

Chapter Text

The next morning came too fast.

The Capitol light dimmed to mimic early dawn, but the room stayed too bright, too gold. I dressed slowly, like dragging myself through sand. Armor off, jumpsuit on—something plain, training-standard. I didn’t bother with breakfast right away. Just stood at the window a while, watching the hovercrafts crawl across the skyline.

My fist still aches from last night. I didn’t care.

Eventually, I made my way down to the dining hall. The table was already half full. Glimmer and Marvel, two tributes from District 1, and their mentors sat at the table were there, already laughing at something, loud and careless. Brutus, half-asleep. Enobaria snapping at an avox who’d spilled something. Then the mentors from District 1 only adding to the fire. 

And Clove. She sat at the far end of the table. Alone.

Not facing me, not turned away either, just there. Jaw tight. Spoon in hand, stirring something she wasn’t eating. Her hair was up today, twisted into something clean and sharp, but the shadows under her eyes gave her away. She hadn’t slept either.

I took the seat furthest from her. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t even look. Except I did. Once. Quick. Quiet. Over the rim of my water glass.

She was already looking. Just for a second. Then her eyes flicked back down, unreadable. Her shoulders tensed, just barely.

The air between us wasn’t cold, not exactly. It was worse, It was aware.

Every scrape of cutlery felt too loud. Every footstep of an avox echoing through the room like a gunshot. Someone said something about the other tributes’ training scores. I didn’t answer. Marvel cracked a joke. I didn’t laugh. Clove stood first. Didn’t glance my way again. Just dropped her napkin, smooth and precise, and walked out. Her boots didn’t make a sound. I sat there a few more minutes, unmoving. I didn’t know what I wanted. To chase her? To forget her? To rewind everything and start again?

Instead, I reached for the untouched bread on my plate and broke it in half without eating it. The golden crumbs scattered like ash. Let the Capitol watch. Let them eat up our perfect silence. They’d never understand the war that was already happening between us.

Chapter Text

The training center was a cathedral of blood sports. High ceilings, echoing floors, stations polished and gleaming like weapons themselves. Everywhere you looked, tributes moved… some with desperation, some with swagger, some pretending not to be terrified.

We weren’t like them.

Clove was already there when I arrived. Knife in hand. Of course. Her stance was perfect. Shoulders low, balanced, like she could snap someone's spine just by shifting her weight. But her face was flat. Blank. Focused in a way that didn’t feel real. She didn’t look up when I walked in. But she knew I was there. I felt it.

I moved to the hand-to-hand combat station. Let the trainer nod at me like I was something sacred. I didn’t say a word. Just started working. Every hit, every strike, sharp and clean, but with more force than necessary. More than I used to use.

She wasn’t watching me. But I could feel her watching me. Across the room, Clove flipped a knife, fast as breath. It thudded into the dummy’s heart. Bullseye. Again. Again. I threw my partner to the mat too hard. Heard them groan.

Didn’t apologize.

The air between us was thick, like storm clouds pressed into skin. Not anger. Not really. Just pressure. The kind that builds under something waiting to break. Other tributes noticed. I saw one of the District 3 kids glance between us, whisper something. Saw Glimmer follow my gaze to Clove, then nudge Marvel. They thought it was drama. A lover’s spat. A spectacle. Let them. They didn’t know what it meant to train side by side your entire life only to realize you didn’t know where the other ended and you began. Didn’t know what it meant to grieve someone who was still standing across the room.

At one point, Clove moved to the throwing station. Knives, spears, even axes. She could use anything. And she did. Precision so violent it felt like art. She never missed. I finally allowed myself to look. Just once. She didn’t return it. But her fingers hesitated on the hilt of the next blade.

A beat. A pause. Then she threw it so hard the head split the dummy’s skull in half. Later, the Gamemakers would write about how impressive it was. How brutal. Efficient. They wouldn’t know it was aimed at me. The dummy cracked open like a melon under the last throw. I didn’t flinch. I grinned . God, she was good .

That sick, sharp edge of her… that precision, that fury barely held in check… it lit something up in me like nothing else ever had. No one else could move like that. Not even me.

Everyone in the room took a step back from her like she might turn and carve them open next.

I stepped closer.

She didn’t look at me. Not directly. Just brushed past me, slow, deliberate, her shoulder catching mine. I felt it through my whole body.

Every second of training after that was wired with it. That thrum under the skin. That knowledge that she wasn’t mine, but she was still mine . We weren’t speaking, but her silence was loud. Every throw, every sparring match, every tight glance from across the room was talking .

We were dancing around something ancient. Primal. I knew what it looked like when she wanted to kill someone. And this wasn’t that. This was different. This was her blood answering mine.

Later, I found her in the weapons bay. Alone. Sharpening a blade already sharp. I leaned against the doorframe. Watched.

“You’re showing off,” I said. She didn’t look up. “I’m winning.”

“That’s not the same thing.” 

“It is for me.”

She slid the knife across the whetstone again, slow. Controlled. Her fingers never shook. I stepped closer. “You never miss.”

“I know.”

Something flickered behind her eyes—satisfaction? Warning? I couldn’t tell. I reached for a blade off the rack. Turned it in my hand. “You’re scaring the others.”

“Good.”

I barked a laugh. “You’re scaring me.” She finally looked up. Our eyes locked. My heart kicked hard behind my ribs. “Good,” she said again. Quieter. This time not like a threat. And fuck me, I loved her for it. By the time training was halfway through, I’d stopped looking at her. Not because I wanted to. Because I had to. Whatever happened on that roof… it happened. It’s over. And if I let it stay in my head, it would burn through everything I’d built.

So I turned it off. Turned her off. The blood, the weight, the routine, that was all that mattered. This was what I’d been made for. Blades in my hands. Bones under my boots. No doubt. No questions. I trained like the Games had already started. They brought out the axes, I took two. They brought out a combat dummyI cracked its ribs in three strikes.

By the end of the day, I wasn’t winded. I wasn’t shaking. I was alive in a way I hadn’t been since the Academy. I hadn’t been this alive in years . Glint, the boy from Four, tried to spar me. Lasted forty seconds. Marvel tried after that. Didn’t last half that.

The trainers watched. So did the cameras. I knew what they wanted. The Capitol wanted blood and beauty and command. I gave it to them. I moved like I owned the place. Because I did.

I’d earned it. Every bruise. Every scar. Every cracked knuckle and tooth knocked out back home. I hadn’t climbed to the top to let something stupid, something soft, distract me. So I didn’t look at her. Not when she moved. Not when she breathed. Not even when I could feel her, just on the edge of my awareness. Like lightning crawling across the inside of my skull.I just kept swinging. And if I left the training center more wired than tired, if I stared at my ceiling until morning, fists clenched, jaw tight… well 

that was better than the alternative.

Chapter Text

I didn’t wait for her.

Didn’t scan the room when I walked in. Didn’t clock the swing of her braid or the sound of her footsteps behind me. I went straight for the weapons rack. Two short swords. Balanced. Clean. Deadly. Marvel joined me. Not invited, he just did. I let him, I don't mind his company. He was strong, fast, and useful. That was all I needed. We sparred for hours.

No jokes. No chatter. Just metal and muscle and bruises forming under skin that didn’t flinch. The trainers watched us whispering, scribbling notes. Capitol kids leaned on the balcony above, pointing, laughing, sipping sugar water through gold-strawed flutes like it was theater.

I didn’t care. I wasn’t here to make them smile. I was here to dominate. Marvel was a decent opponent. Fast, broad, cocky. But his footwork was sloppy. His balance leaned too much on brute strength. I let him think he had the upper hand before I floored him with a twist of my shoulder and the butt of my blade slamming into his ribs.

He grunted, laughed like it didn’t hurt. It did. I didn’t laugh back.

I trained until sweat soaked through my shirt and the world narrowed to the rhythm of motion swing, block, pivot, strike. The only time I looked up, I caught a flash of Clove on the other side of the room working the knife station.

I looked away immediately.

More of the same on training day three.

Marvel again. He kept coming back, maybe hoping to prove something. Or maybe he just liked the feeling of being near power. Didn’t matter.

In different circumstances he could've been a friend.

I beat him again. And again.

Today, I worked with the spears. Longer reach. More force. I liked the feel of it like the weapon wanted to leap forward on its own, and I was just the storm holding it back. There was something beautiful about control like that. Precision dressed in violence. The Capitol cameras followed me like they couldn’t look away. I didn’t perform for them, but I didn’t hide either. Let them see me burn. Let them see what District Two breeds in its darkest corners.

I saw her once. Clove.

She was throwing knives into a dummy shaped like a boy. Every single one landed in the throat or the eye. I didn’t stop what I was doing. Didn’t speak. Didn’t nod. Just watched for three seconds too long before I turned back to the spears and drove mine clean through the chest of the target dummy.

Marvel whistled. “Someone’s pissed.” I didn’t answer. He didn’t ask again.

By the time the session ended, my arms ached, my shirt was soaked, and I felt more alive than I had in days. She didn’t look at me once. Good. That’s how I needed it.

They make me wait.

Forty-two minutes. I counted.

Capitol efficiency, my ass. I sat there under that buzzing light with no clock, no windows, no sound but the soft hum of their illusion, everything too clean, too polished, like if they scrub the blood out long enough, it never happened.

It was a test. I knew that. Not to see if I’d crack, but to see if I’d notice the game behind the game. I didn’t pace. Didn’t tap my foot. Didn’t yawn or sigh or stretch. Just sat back in the chair, spine straight, and stared at the door until it opened.

Let them think I was calm. Let them think I was bored. Truth was, I’d never been sharper. The doors slid open with a hydraulic sigh. The attendant, shiny blue lips, hair like glass, didn’t say a word. Just nodded for me to enter.

I didn’t smile. I didn’t need to. I stepped into the gym like it was an arena. Because it was. Above me, the Gamemakers watched from their perch, thirteen of them, lounging with goblets in hand and that Capitol indifference carved into their surgically-smoothed faces. Some didn’t even glance up. Others blinked slowly, like they couldn’t believe I was real.

Let them look. Weapons lined the walls, all gleaming under the sterile lights. Everything a tribute could want. Everything a killer could use. I didn’t go straight for anything.

I walked to the center. Let the silence stretch. Let the weight of their eyes press in. And then I moved. First the broadsword. Too heavy. I flipped it in my hand, tested the balance, dropped it. Let it hit the floor loud enough to jolt the quiet.

Next, dual short swords. Sleek. Balanced. Familiar. I struck fast. Sliced through the air, carving invisible lines into the space around me. One cut, then two. A pivot. A slash. A strike hard enough to send one of the practice dummies’ heads flying clean off its neck.

I didn’t stop. Didn’t breathe. I went harder.
Used the broken head as a decoy and kicked it across the room. Grabbed a javelin mid-motion and hurled it straight into the chest of another dummy twenty feet out. It split the target like a scream. Still not enough. I moved to the throwing knives next. Didn’t hesitate. One, two, three, each embedded in the heart of a mannequin before the first one had even stopped vibrating. I didn’t miss. I never miss.

When the knives were done, I reached for the war axe. Heavier. Cruder. A show weapon. The kind they give to the big tributes who don’t know how to fight, just how to flail. I made it look like it was forged for me. I heaved it over my shoulder and brought it down on the center dummy with enough force to splinter the wooden ribcage. Not once. Not twice. Five times.

Crack. Crack. Crack. CRACK.

The room echoed with the sound of violence. When the body dropped, I stood in the debris. Straw and splinters stuck to my boots. I didn’t clean them off. I looked up… finally.

Locked eyes with one of them. A woman with green jewels on her cheekbones and a look like she’d tasted something sour. I stared until she looked away. Then I smiled. Just barely. Let it twist the corner of my mouth like the promise of something worse.

Turned. Walked out. No bow. No words. Just the wreckage behind me.

Chapter Text

The four of us sat in the lounge of the District One-Two apartment. Velvet walls, silver inlays, enough space to make you feel small. A Capitol feast spread across the glass table, untouched. No one was eating. Glimmer twirled a strand of her hair around one polished finger. Marvel leaned back with his boots propped up like this was a game he’d already won. Clove sat across from me, one leg hooked over her knee, chin in her hand, the same stone-cut focus she always wore when things actually mattered.

Our mentors stood behind us, arms folded. Mine didn’t speak, just watched. Every moment in the Capitol was theater, but this? This was a war briefing. The screen flared to life with an almost ceremonial flicker. “The Gamemaker Scores,” said a voice too smooth, too clean for anything that came next. “Based on each tribute’s private performance, the following ratings will be used to determine sponsor interest and perceived strength. Please remember that these scores are not a prediction of survival, but a reflection of potential.”

Yeah. Sure.

District One. “Marvel: Nine.” He gave a lazy grin. “Didn’t even try,” he muttered, just loud enough for all of us to hear.

“Glimmer: Eight.” She beamed like someone had just crowned her.

District Two. “Clove: Ten.” I didn’t look at her, but I felt her straighten, just barely. No gloating. No flinch. Like she expected it. Like anything less would’ve been an insult.

Then—

“Cato: Ten.” My heart punched once, low and hard in my chest. Perfect.

I didn’t react. Couldn’t. I kept my face neutral, arms crossed. But something electric threaded through my veins. Ten. Ten.

That wasn’t praise. That was a challenge. I glanced at Clove. She met my eyes before I could look away. There was no smile. No nod. Just that tiny shift in her expression. The corner of her mouth twitched like she’d swallowed something sharp and liked the taste.

A knife’s acknowledgment. Marvel let out a low whistle. “Two tens. Damn.” No one else spoke.

The screen kept rolling through the rest of the Districts, but it was just background noise now. We were the storm. The Gamemakers saw it. So did everyone else in this room.

The number hit the screen like a gunshot.

11.

No one spoke at first. The silence in our apartment was louder than the Capitol outside.

Marvel let out a laugh short, disbelieving. “Eleven? They gave her an eleven?”

Glimmer stood up from the couch, arms crossed tight. “That’s not possible. No one gets an eleven unless they kill the dummy or torch the damn room. She shot a few arrows. Big deal.”

“Apparently it was a big enough deal,” Clove said flatly, eyes locked on the screen. I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at the glowing number beside the girl’s name. Katniss Everdeen. District 12.

Twelve. That was the part that made it worse. “Either the Gamemakers are idiots,” Marvel said, “or this is their little pet project. Girl on fire. Great backstory. Now she’s some kind of warrior?”

“It’s politics,” Glimmer snapped. “They want her to look strong. So the audience stays invested. A sob story isn’t enough.”

“She’s not strong,” I muttered. “She’s lucky.”

Clove didn’t say anything. Still staring. I could see it in her jaw, the tension, the gears turning. We both knew this wasn’t just about one tribute getting a good score. It was a message. A challenge. A warning.

“What do you think she did in there?” Marvel asked.

I shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. “Doesn’t matter. It’s a show. They wanted to throw us off.”

“Well, it worked,” Glimmer muttered.

Clove finally turned away from the screen. “Good,” she said. That got our attention.

“Good?” Marvel raised a brow.

She looked at me when she spoke. “If they think she’s a threat, they’ll go after her. Not us.” 

I held her gaze for a beat. “And if she is a threat?”

Her mouth curved, not a smile, exactly. “Then I get to kill her first.”

The screen looped again. tributes and numbers and Katniss’s unreadable face. Eleven. Bright and arrogant. Like she already belonged to the Capitol.

I stood up.

“Let them crown her now,” I said. “It’ll make it more satisfying when she bleeds.”

Clove’s eyes gleamed. The others didn’t speak again.

We all watched the screen. But I wasn’t seeing her anymore. I was seeing the arena. And I was already planning how to tear her down. I Didn’t wait to be dismissed. Neither did Clove.

We didn’t walk out together. But our footsteps landed in rhythm, and neither of us looked back.

We didn’t speak. Just fell into step like we always did without thinking, without trying. The hallway outside our suite was too clean, too polished. It was the kind of place that didn’t let you shout or punch walls. But I could feel the rage crawling under my skin anyway.

“She didn’t earn that,” I said, voice low and tight.

Clove didn’t respond at first. We turned a corner, the echo of our footsteps sharp and hollow.

“She did something in that room,” she said finally. “Can’t fake that kind of number.”

“Yeah,” I snapped. “She played the victim. Put on a show. They love that here.”

Clove shrugged, but there was a flicker in her eyes I didn’t like. Something almost impressed. “She made them notice her.”

I stopped walking.

“You sound like you respect her.”

“I don’t,” she said quickly. “I respect the score.”

I laughed once—hard, bitter. “They gave it to her because they want her to win. They’re building her up so they can milk her death later. It’s strategy.”

“She still pulled it off.”

“She still dies,” I said. “Sooner if I have anything to say about it.”

My fists clenched. I could already see it—her face plastered across Capitol screens, her name whispered like she was some myth. I didn’t care how many trees she could climb or how fast she could shoot. I’d snap her bow in half with my bare hands. I’d make her beg.

She wouldn’t die quietly. Not if I had anything to do with it.

“You think I’m overreacting?” I asked, eyes locked on Clove now.

She tilted her head slightly. “I think you’re pissed she stole your spotlight.”

“She didn’t steal anything. She distracted them.”

Clove gave a low hum. “Then take it back.”

“I plan to.”

We kept walking. Our shoulders brushed as we turned down another corridor, neither of us flinching. That was the thing with Clove she knew how to walk with fire. She didn’t shy from it.

“You got a ten,” she said. “So did I. That’s nothing to sneeze at.”

“It’s not enough.”

She glanced at me again. Something in her face was quieter now. Almost curious. “You really care what the Capitol thinks?”

“I care about winning.”

“They already know you’re dangerous.”

I shook my head. “I want them scared of me. I want her scared of me.”

Clove smiled at that. It wasn’t soft.

“I want to be the last thing she sees,” I added. “When it all burns down.”

Clove slowed a little. “You always talk like this is personal.”

“It is,” I said. “She walked in like she mattered. Like she belonged with us. She doesn’t.”

She was quiet for a second. “You’re not used to being outshined.”

I looked at her sharply.

“But neither am I,” she added, mouth curling just slightly. “So maybe we make her choke on that eleven.”

My chest tightened something hot and dark and electric. This was what we were. What we could be, when we weren’t getting in our own way.

“I’ll break her bow,” I muttered. “You break her pride.”

Clove nodded once. “Deal.”

“You looked surprised,” she said, finally. Her voice was low, almost amused.

“At what?” I kept my tone even, but I didn’t look at her.

She arched a brow. “Your ten.”

I scoffed. “You didn’t blink at yours.”

“Didn’t need to.”

That made me glance at her. Her hair was still pulled back from training, a few wisps clinging to her cheek. Her eyes looked darker in the half-light. Sharper.

“You expected it,” I said.

“So did you.” She tilted her head. “Even if you didn’t admit it.”

I didn’t answer right away. The buzz of the Capitol screens was a distant hum behind the walls.

“It’s not just a number,” I said after a beat. “They want us bloody. People like us don’t get tens unless they think we’ll give them a show.”

She leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “So let’s give them one.”

“Like you care.” I quipped almost too fast

She pushed off the wall and stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that I felt the heat of her, the weight of her presence pressing into the narrow space.

“I care,” she said quietly. “I care too much. That’s the problem.”

It felt like a confession. It landed like one.

There was steel in her voice. Not arrogance. Intention. Like she knew exactly what they wanted and was already two moves ahead.

And then she was gone, turning away, walking down the hall with that same clipped precision, like the conversation had been a knife she tossed over her shoulder.

But I didn’t move. Just stood there, listening to her footsteps fade.

I still had the ten.

She still had hers.

And we were both still bleeding from everything we weren’t saying.

Chapter Text

Later that day the sitting room was all velvet and angles, Capitol gold on every surface, even the furniture. One wall was a floor-to-ceiling screen playing old interviews, tributes grinning, crying, laughing like the Games were just another show. I sat stiff-backed on the couch while Glimmer and Marvel argued over wording for their "charming but dangerous" pitches.

Clove was perched on the opposite armrest, arms crossed, staring at the screen like it had personally offended her.

Our mentor paced in front of us, throwing phrases like weapons.

“Big. Bold. You need to control the room before Caesar even speaks. Clove, they already see you as lethal—lean into it. But give them something else too. A flash of wit. A hook.”

She didn’t respond.

“Cato, they’ll want confidence from you. Cocky, but not arrogant. Charismatic. You’re the star gladiator. Sell it.”

I rolled my jaw. “So… smile while I talk about killing.”

“That’s the idea.”

Glimmer smirked from the corner, twirling a strand of hair. “Just flirt a little. The Capitol eats that up.”

Clove’s eyes cut to her. “Not all of us were trained to bat our lashes for survival.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Glimmer muttered.

I straightened before I could stop myself, but Clove already stood. “Let’s run it,” she said, sharp. “You want the Capitol to love me? Fine. Let’s show them what they’re in for.”

The mentor exhaled, relieved. “Start with the name. The smile. Keep it under control.”

Clove moved to the center of the room, standing under the overhead spotlight like it was the stage itself. She waited, still and unreadable, until the mentor snapped her fingers. “Go.”

“I’m Clove,” she said flatly. A beat passed. “District Two.”

“Again. But this time give them something. You want sponsors or not?”

Her jaw ticked. She tried again. “I’m Clove. From District Two.” She added a tight smile. It looked like it hurt. “And I’m very good with knives.”

A flicker of amusement passed through the room.

Marvel gave a low whistle. “Damn. Say it like that and half the Capitol will be begging you to stab them.”

Clove shot him a look. But it worked. There was something in her now. Something contained. She straightened her spine, added just a hair more charm. Not fake sweetness, never that, but a kind of vicious poise. The Capitol wouldn’t know what hit them.

The mentor turned to me. “Your turn, starboy.”

I stood and took my place under the light.

The posture came easy. Broad shoulders. Slight smirk. The Capitol's golden soldier.

“I’m Cato,” I said. “District Two.” Pause. “They said the Games were a challenge. I like challenges. And I love the games.”

Marvel grinned like he’d been waiting for it. Glimmer gave a slow clap.

“Now give it more teeth,” the mentor said. “You two are our weapons. You want the Capitol to bet on you? Make them scared not to.”

Clove came to stand beside me again, arms folded. I glanced at her. “We doing this together or not?”

She met my eyes. “For the cameras? Sure.”

We did a practice round side by side, each hitting our lines, letting the mentor adjust tone and timing and posture until it was polished and powerful. I could feel her beside me like a live wire, the air between us humming with heat that wasn’t just stage tension. I smirked and preened just like I was taught. I charmed as if the entire world were watching, and accepted wit with grace. 

When it was over, Clove moved past me. Barely brushed my arm. Didn’t look back.

But her voice came low and quiet as she passed.

“You looked like you meant it.”

“So did you.”

The screen in the corner played last year’s victor blowing a kiss into the crowd.

Neither of us were planning on blowing anything.

We were preparing for war.

I sat in the chair, let them pull and pin and polish. Let them fuss over every stray hair and every wrinkle in the tailored shimmer-slick suit that gleamed silver-blue in the lights. It fit like armor flawless, cold, expensive. I looked at myself in the mirror and almost didn’t recognize the boy who came off the train. This version of me? He was a Capitol dream.

I smiled. And it wasn’t fake.

The Capitol was watching. And I wanted them to see me.

Not just a killer. Not just District Two’s weapon. I wanted them to see a Victor.

“Turn your head just a little! yes, like that,” The man in green with glitter all over his hair dazzled, adjusting the collar, beaming like I was a prize stallion. “You’re going to stun them.”

I knew. I wanted to. The cameras, the lights, the roar of the crowd I didn’t flinch from it. I fed on it.

This wasn’t the punishment it was for the others. This was what I’d trained for. What we all trained for. Clove passed behind me, headed toward her own prep team. I caught her in the mirror.

She didn’t look like herself at least not the version of herself the world knew. No sharp angles, no knives strapped to her thighs. Just soft pink satin and sheer puffy glitter sheets wrapping her body, and a skirt that flared like a Capitol confection. Her hair was braided in loops and knots, jeweled pins catching in the light. For a moment, I forgot to breathe.

She hated it, I could tell. Her mouth was a line, eyes steely. But she looked… 

Expensive.

And dangerous, even like that. Especially like that. Like a blade in a velvet box. Meant to stun. 

She caught me staring and raised a brow.

“What?” she said flatly, tugging her dress up higher on her shoulders.

“Nothing,” I said. But I was still staring. “You clean up.”

Her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But not quite not. “You look like you’re about to marry a Capitol socialite.”

“Only if she’s got sharp teeth,” I said and winked.

She rolled her eyes and turned toward her prep team, but I swore her ears were pink. I let the moment hang in the air, the way the Capitol’s perfume did sweet, heavy, impossible to ignore. Then I looked back at myself in the mirror. I was ready.

Let them come. Let them watch.

Tonight, I was everything they wanted me to be. And when the Games started?

They’d remember my name.

Chapter Text

They lined us up like trophies: Glimmer, Marvel, Clove, me.

I stood at the end, hands at my sides, posture perfect. We looked good deadly. That’s what they wanted. Glimmer glowed in white and pink sequins. Marvel looked like some preening peacock. Then there was Clove, in that puffy pink monster of a dress, sleeves sheer and skirt sculpted like frosted sugar. It should’ve made her look harmless.

It didn’t.

Her eyes could cut glass, and her hair was twisted into braids so tight they looked like ropes pulled taut. Gems lined them like war medals. She hated the look, but it worked. It made people look twice.

I reached out and gently touched one of the braids, fingers brushing the glinting stones.

“You’ll smudge it,” one of her stylists hissed, swooping in to adjust a strand I’d barely moved.

“Let him,” Clove said, voice flat. “He won’t mess it up.”

I smirked. “I like it. Makes you look like you could choke someone with your hair.”

“Maybe I will.”

The prep team buzzed around her, flustered, dabbing and brushing and patting. She didn’t even blink. Eyes forward. Listening.

Glimmer was onstage. Laughter rippled through the curtain.

“She’s good at this,” Clove muttered.

“She’s fake,” I said.

“She’s winning them over.”

“Yeah? Let her.” I turned to face her more fully, just for a second. “one of us will win the Games. That’s what matters.”

Marvel’s name was called next. Clove inhaled, shallow and slow. She was next.

“You good?” I asked In a breathy whisper close to her so we wouldn’t get snapped at by the attendants again.

She didn’t answer. Just tilted her chin up like a dare.

Then Ceasar said her name.

“From District Two. another volunteer, please welcome Clove!”

The applause hit hard. Capitol loved a killer with freckles.

Clove walked out. Not a skip, not a stutter. She owned that stage.

I watched from the shadows, heart thudding louder than the crowd.

Ceasar lit up as she sat. “Clove! You are the youngest volunteer this year. But from what I hear, you’re one of the fiercest.”

She blinked at him. “That’s true.”

Laughter. Ceasar tried to disarm her. “Tell me, is it true you volunteered?”

“Yes.”

“No hesitation?”

“None. Why would I hesitate?”

“You tell me.”

Clove’s smile was razor thin. “I’m here because I want to be. I’ve trained for this. I’m not scared.”

“And I’ve heard you’re quite facile with a knife.”

“I’m the best, really.” She leaned slightly forward, cool and calm. “I could kill you from clear across the stage.”

Ceasar raised his eyebrows in mock horror. “Well, I’ll try not to upset you then!”

Laughter again. The crowd loved her. Clove didn’t flinch.

“I’ve seen the footage,” he added. “You’re fast. Efficient. Lethal. Is it instinct or training?”

“Both. I don’t wait. I react.”

A beat.

“And your district partner, Cato? What’s he like?”

She paused for the first time.

“Cato’s strong,” she said. “Very strong. I’m proud to have him as my district partner. He doesn’t waste time. He knows what he wants and he takes it. He’s... focused. Determined. It makes people underestimate him, until it’s too late.”

That got a murmur from the crowd a gasp a whoop. Ceasar lit up again.

“Well, that’s a team to watch, isn’t it?”

She stood. The dress shifted with her like clouds of smoke. As she passed, our shoulders brushed. She didn’t look back.

“From District Two. our other volunteer! Cato!”

The lights snapped to me. Cheers roared like thunder. I smiled wide and strode out, owning every step.

Ceasar greeted me with an open grin and a firm handshake. “Cato! What a presence! You’ve got the crowd stirred already.”

I grinned back and winked to the audience receiving a few shouts and giggles in response. “I mean I think these are the greatest Games ever invented. And I… I just want to be here to win it. I think it’s awesome. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do since I was a kid. And honestly? I think anybody who doesn’t want to is an idiot.”

The audience howled. Ceasar laughed, hand over heart.

“Well! I wouldn’t go that far—”

“No, farther than that,” I said. “It’s the Hunger Games. No second place. You either want it or you die.”

“That’s... intense.”

I shrugged with a broad smile. “So’s life.”

He shifted tone, leaning in like he was getting personal Or telling a secret. “Tell me about your partner. Clove.”

I didn’t hesitate.

“Clove’s quick. Small, but quick. She’s not afraid like the others are. She’s sharp. She knows what she’s doing, and she doesn’t let anything get in the way.” I let my grin soften just a little. “She’s the best person to go into that arena with. I trust her.”

The crowd went quiet for a second, just listening. Then the buzzer sounded. My time was up. Then the crowd erupted.

I stood and nodded once, smiled at the audience, let the bright lights hit my face, then walked off.

She was waiting just beyond the curtain, like I knew she would be. One of her braids was slipping slightly from the pressure of the mic pack. I reached to fix it. Her hand caught mine, not to stop me, just to hold it in place for a second.

No words. None needed. Let the others sell themselves.

We leave the large building heading back towards the apartments we were staying in. No need to stay for the other interviews.

We’d already won the room. We thought.

Chapter Text

We were all sitting in the dimly lit apartment, the soft buzz of the Capitol’s ridiculous decorations in the background. The interviews had started, and I could feel the tension in the room, thick enough to choke on. We’d wrapped up our interviews where we’d shown the Capitol what they wanted to see. Glimmer was flawless, Clove was sharp, and Marvel had his charm. We were untouchable. We knew we were the stars. Our mentors advised us to watch the recap 

We’d been watching the interviews on the holo-screen, our faces sharp and calculating, learning every single tributes angle. Before Peeta-fucking-Mellark opened his mouth.when Peeta took the stage. He didn’t even look like he belonged with us. His soft, earnest eyes. His shy smile. And that damn confession, a fucking love confession. Love for Katniss. Like it was some grand sacrifice. Like the Capitol was supposed to feel sorry for him.

“ What the hell was that? ” I spat, my voice low, but full of venom. I could feel the rage bubbling up in my chest. I hadn’t trained my whole life for this. I hadn’t volunteered to become a tribute for some boy to come in and turn the Capitol’s eyes on his little pity party.

Glimmer slammed her hand down on the table, the sharp sound echoing through the room. Her fingers curled into a fist, her face red with anger. “Are you kidding me? They’re eating it up. They’re fawning over him like he’s the fucking hero. He’s supposed to be a tribute , not some lovesick puppy.” She spat the words like they left a bad taste in her mouth.

Clove didn’t say anything at first. But I could see the way her jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing in on the screen as Peeta babbled on about Katniss, as if their “connection” was the reason he’d die for her. Like he was some martyr. I could feel the heat radiating off her too, a simmering fury under the surface. It wasn’t just me. We were all pissed.

Marvel let out a frustrated growl. “He’s stealing the damn spotlight. Look at them. Look at the audience they’re loving it .” His voice was a mixture of disgust and disbelief. “We should’ve been the ones to take their attention. Not him. Not Katniss .”

I gripped the armrest of my chair so tight my knuckles went white. They’d overshadowed us. The Capitol had gotten caught up in their little love story, in their drama. But this wasn’t a love story. This was a game . And we were playing for blood.

I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. “I won’t let that little bitch, either of them , fuck this up. They’ve already stolen our spotlight. They think they’re cute, they think they’ve got everyone wrapped around their little fingers. Well, I’m not going to sit back and let this slip away. Peeta and Katniss are the biggest threat we have now.” I could feel the plan formulating in my mind. My pulse quickened. This wasn’t just about revenge anymore. This was about taking control.

I looked at Glimmer first. She was furious, eyes flashing. But I knew she was smart. She was just as bloodthirsty as me.

“We need to make sure that Katniss doesn’t survive,” I said, my voice sharp. “We can’t let her outshine us. If she’s the one pulling on Peeta’s strings, making him act like a goddamn fool.”

Clove didn’t hesitate. She already knew where I was going. “We don’t just kill her,” she said, her voice cold, her eyes calculating. “We make sure Peeta helps us do it. We make him the reason we end her. He’s already in love with her, it won’t be hard to push him.”

Marvel’s face twisted with a grin. “If Peeta’s already got some fucked-up obsession with her. If we push the right buttons, he’ll do anything to protect her, even if it means killing her himself.”

I could feel the satisfaction of the plan sinking in, how simple it seemed, and how perfect it would be. The Capitol loved drama. The Capitol loved a story of love, betrayal, and sacrifice. And if we played this right, we could make Peeta think it was his idea all along.

“We get Peeta on our side,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “We make him believe it’s his choice. He’s going to think he’s saving Katniss by doing it. He’ll kill her for us. And when she’s gone, we’ll be the ones who control the Games.”

Glimmer’s smile was dark, twisted. “I like it. We use him. We make him believe he’s doing it for love, and he’ll crumble under the weight of it.”

I turned to Clove, my eyes hard. “You’re in?”

She nodded without a word, but the gleam in her eyes said everything. “Of course,” she grins at me, wicked. 

The pieces were falling into place. This wasn’t about us competing in the arena anymore. This was about us winning . And to win, we needed Peeta to break. To crack. And once he did, Katniss wouldn’t be far behind.

I leaned back, feeling the anger surge inside me, a powerful, white-hot thing that made me feel alive. “Tomorrow, we go into that arena. But before we do, we make sure that they know who’s really in charge. This will be our show.”

I wasn’t looking for her.

I just couldn’t sleep.

The city was a blur of light and steel through the windows of the Training Center, and no matter how long I stared at the ceiling, it didn’t change the fact that by this time tomorrow, half of us would already be dead. I needed air. Silence. Something real.

So I went up.

The rooftop was quiet, the wind colder than I expected. The hum of the Capitol below was distant, like background noise in a dream. I stepped onto the stone, hands in my pockets, ready to pace or scream or maybe just sit.

Then I saw her.

Clove was curled near the edge of the roof, her back to me. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, chin resting on them, arms wrapped tight. For a second I thought about turning around and leaving her to it. But I didn’t.

“You always beat me up here?” I asked.

She startled, just a little, but didn’t turn around. “Only when I want it more.”

I snorted under my breath and walked over. The wind tugged at her loose hair—it wasn’t braided or twisted, just down and wild, like she’d pulled it apart in frustration. The Capitol nightwear they’d given us made her look too soft. Too breakable.

I hated it.

“You cold?” I asked.

She didn’t answer. I dropped down beside her anyway, crossing my arms against the wind. For a moment, neither of us said anything.

Then, softly: “You think they’ll throw us in a jungle? Or a desert?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’ll win in both.”

Clove gave a quiet, sharp laugh. “Of course you will.”

She sounded tired. Not weak. Just worn down in a way I recognized too well.

I glanced over. “You think I won’t fight for it?”

She looked at me finally, eyes dark in the half-light. “No. I think you will. I think we both will. I just don’t think the Capitol cares how good we are.”

I leaned back on my hands, staring at the skyline.

“They gave that girl an eleven,” I said. “The one from Twelve.”

“Katniss,” Clove muttered. She made the name sound like a bruise, “and Peeta.”

“They want them to be special. A story. You can see it in how they talk about her and lover boy.”

“And in how they talk about us ” Clove said, bitter.

“Let them.” I cracked my knuckles. “When the Games start, love stories don’t matter.”

She didn’t argue. Just looked down at her knees.

I stared at her for a second. She was small, yeah. But not fragile. Not really. There was something fire-forged in her spine that wouldn’t let her bend too far without breaking whatever tried to push her.

I liked that about her.

“You’re not going to die in there,” I said suddenly.

She blinked at me. “That a threat?”

“It’s a fact.”

Her lips tugged upward, but it wasn’t a smile. More like a challenge. “Same to you.”

“I mean it.” I shifted closer, enough that our arms brushed. “We’re not like them. We were made for this. Raised for it.”

“I know,” she said. Her voice was quiet now. “It’s just… different. Being here. Being this close.”

I nodded. I didn’t say it, but I felt it too.

We sat there in the wind, watching lights flicker across the Capitol like fireflies on something dead. It didn’t feel like a city. It felt like a stage.

“Do you ever think about after?” Clove asked suddenly.

“After what?”

She tilted her head. “After the Games.”

I didn’t answer right away.

“Yeah,” I said. “Sometimes.”

“And?”

“And I win.”

She smirked. “That’s it?”

I shrugged. “What else is there?”

Clove went quiet again. Then, slowly, she leaned her head onto my shoulder.

It caught me off guard. Not the weight of it, but the fact that it happened at all. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a second.

It was the only time I’d ever felt something gentle from her.

“You know,” she murmured, “we’re not going to have many more nights like this.”

“I know.”

“So maybe we just—” Her voice caught. “Maybe we just let this one be quiet.”

I could’ve made a joke. Could’ve turned it cold or cocky or sharp, the way we always did. But I didn’t. I turned my head and pressed a light kiss to her hair. It wasn’t romantic. Not really. Just real. Her hand found mine, fingers threading through slowly, like we had time. Like tomorrow wasn’t coming.

And for a minute, I let myself believe it.

Chapter Text

I couldn’t sleep. I knew I wouldn’t. The anticipation gnawed at me, kept me restless, making the hours drag on in a way that felt endless. But it didn’t matter. I was ready. I was always ready. 

I couldn’t stop thinking about the arena, about what awaited me tomorrow. The Capitol was buzzing with excitement, and I could feel it, too. I was going to show them all what I was made of. I wasn’t just going to survive. I was going to win.

I rolled out of bed, not bothering with any hesitation. The room felt cold, but I didn’t care. I threw on my boots, already thinking ahead. I had to get up. Had to get moving. I couldn’t afford to let the nerves get to me. Not now.

The mirror in the bathroom reflected my excitement back at me, sharp and bright in my eyes. This was it. The moment I’d been working toward my entire life. I splashed some water on my face, the cold doing nothing to dampen my fire. I ran my hands through my hair and gave myself a quick once-over. 

I was ready.

The prep team barged in shortly after. I didn’t even flinch. I was used to this by now. They had their instructions, and I had mine: look perfect, stay sharp, be the best. They dressed me without so much as a word, and I didn’t protest. I didn’t have time to waste. They threw me into the rust rain jacket, tight across my shoulders, with an orange shirt underneath, green jogger pants, and brown boots. Every piece was exactly what I needed. Practical, tough, and sharp. 

When they were done, I took one last glance in the mirror. A grin tugged at the corner of my mouth. There was no question, I looked incredible. The jacket sat perfectly, the pants fit just right. I looked the part. I was ready for this.

“Perfect. You're all set,” one of the stylists said, stepping back with satisfaction.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I turned away from the mirror, already thinking about the next step. Tomorrow. The arena. Winning. That was all that mattered. 

I walked toward the door, my excitement bubbling beneath the surface. I couldn’t wait for what came next. The Capitol was going to watch me. They were going to see what I was made of.

Nothing, not even the memory of her, could hold me back now. It has to be today, it was all about me. And I couldn’t wait.

The hum of the hovercraft is all I can hear as I step inside, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve been in worse. The cold metal walls, the sterile air, the cramped space it all feels familiar, like a setup I’ve rehearsed a thousand times. The Games have always been the goal, and now, standing on the edge of everything I’ve trained for, I can feel the energy surging through me. This is what I was made for.

I slide into my seat, already knowing where I’ll be. They’re always predictable, make us all line up like cattle, seat us apart, keep us in check. But I don’t care. Not today. The Capitol can do what they want. I’m ready. I’ve been ready for this since I was a kid.

The door opens with a cold rush of wind, and I don’t even flinch. The peacekeepers march in with their usual stiffness. There’s no need to pay attention to them. They’re just part of the show. My eyes flick to the other tributes, but they don’t matter right now. It’s all about the Games.

Across from me, I can see Clove, though. She’s sitting on the other side of the aisle, a little farther away than I would like, but I’m not about to complain. The Capitol loves its distance, its separation, keeping us as separate players for their big game for the reaction. Fine by me. I don’t need her to be close right now. Not when I’ve got the Games in front of me.

The tracker. I watch as one of the peacekeepers approaches, his hand reaching for the device. I roll my sleeve up without hesitation. My heart beats steady, my body calm. This isn’t new. This is just another part of the routine, another step in the process. A few seconds of pain, then it’s done. They’ve got their mark on me, but I don’t care. I’m going to give them something to really track. The Games are mine to win. The needle sinks into my skin, and for a moment, there’s just a quick flash of discomfort, nothing more. I’ve felt worse. I grit my teeth, my eyes focused on the far wall, already thinking ahead to tomorrow. This is it. The moment I’ve been preparing for. No one else can compete with me. Not with the way I’ve trained. Not with the way I’ve been made for this. I’m built to win.

I glance across the room at Clove again. She’s calm. Cool. Ready. But I know what she’s thinking, same as me. We both know how this works. And we’re both here to win. Not for the Capitol. Not for anyone else. For ourselves. For the thrill of the fight.

I lean back in my seat, eyes on the window now. The landscape below fades into nothing, but it’s not the view I care about. It’s the arena. It’s the blood. The sweat. That’s what’s waiting for me. 

Clove’s still across the aisle, focused, just like me. There’s a part of me that wants to reach across and say something, anything, but I know better. I know what’s coming. She knows, too. This is business now. Later today, we will step into the ring, and nothing else will matter.

The hovercraft hums steadily beneath us, the engines starting to whirr down as we begin to approach the arena. I don’t even notice the other tributes now. The Games are close, and all my focus is on that moment. The first kill, the first fight, the first victory.

The moment the hovercraft touches down, I can feel it. The shift. The finality. It’s time. I rise from my seat, and for a second, I glance at Clove across the aisle. She meets my eyes, and I can see the same fire in her gaze. The same determination. I smile at her, a real smile. I’ve trained for it. I’ve wanted this since I was a kid. She smiles back, she's feeling the same as me.

When the peacekeepers signal, I follow their lead. We’re stepping off now. under  the arena. Before the chaos. But none of it scares me. Not even for a second.  This is it. The Games are finally here. And I’m ready. 

We file into separate rooms down a long arched hallway. A large room all metal and white tile. Only my stylist is with me. He slides my rust colored jacket over my shoulders without a word. An automated voice tells us to follow her instructions. After a few minutes I'm instructed to step into a glass plated tube with a platform on the bottom. After a long beat I feel it beginning to rise. I hear nothing but my own blood in my ears. 

I'm ready. 

Chapter Text

Stepping onto the circular metal platform, the door seals around me like I am being locked inside a test tube. I have never cared about small spaces, but suddenly it feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. The platform starts to rise, slow at first, then faster, pulled upward into darkness. The higher I go, the less light reaches down after me, until the whole space sinks into black. It lasts only a moment. The ceiling opens and sunlight floods in, bright and hot. Warm air rushes over my skin as the platform lifts fully into the arena.

I force myself to take everything in at once. The ring of tributes was already panicking. The Cornucopia’s golden mouth spilling knives and blades across the sand. A thick forest stretches out to one side. A wide open field expands on the other. The forest offers cover. The field offers opportunity. Both are useful.

My gaze sweeps the circle of tributes. Fear is carved into almost every face. The sight charges something electric and fierce in my chest, and a sharp grin spreads across my face before I can stop it.

Marvel stands a few platforms down. He grins at me like a mirror.

I do not see Clove. She is either blocked by the curve of the Cornucopia or she is on the opposite side of the ring. It does not matter. Not now. The only sound I can hear is the pounding of blood in my ears. The only thing I feel is my heartbeat slamming against my ribs.

The countdown evaporates fast.

At twenty seconds, I map my approach. A cleaver and a hunting knife lie just inside the Cornucopia’s lip. They will not be my final weapons, but they will be more than enough to open the Games with force. This is the best chance to show Panem what I am capable of. This is the moment to reveal the victor I am meant to be.

Five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One.

The gong cracks across the arena. I move before the echo fades.

Peeta and Rue sprint toward the forest. Foxface darts the opposite way. Katniss circles the pedestals like she cannot decide where to run. That kind of hesitation kills.

I reach the radius of supplies in full stride. A District Six boy crosses into my path, thinking he will make it to the Cornucopia before me. He will not. I slam into him with full force. He crashes to the ground and I drop on top of him. My fists rise and fall. Bone cracks under my knuckles. His breath stutters once and then he goes still.

One down. I rip the cleaver from the ground. It fits my grip perfectly. The arena turns into flashes of violence.

Marvel slams the District Eight boy to the ground and drives a kukri into him.
The District Ten boy tries to escape. I caught him with a downward swing of the cleaver. He drops instantly and does not rise again. Screams ricochet through the metal mouth of the Cornucopia. Packs are ripped away. Blades clash. Blood sprays.

The District Four girl charges me with a sword. She swings and I duck. A baton lies at my feet and I grab it without thinking. I crack it across her wrist and her sword flies. One shove sends her backward over a crate. I leave her there. Someone else will take care of her. I cross the battlefield with precise steps. Every thought is sharpened into instinct.

The District Nine boy lunges toward Katniss with an axe raised over his head. He freezes for a split second before collapsing. A knife sticks out of the center of his back. Clove’s throw. I do not look for her. There is no need. The District Nine girl rushes past. I bring my sword down cleanly. She falls and lies still.

Three more fell. The arena fills with the stench of blood and fear.

At the back of the Cornucopia, the District Six boy tries to choke the District Five boy against a crate. Their struggle is sloppy and wild. Glimmer moves too close to them and I do not trust her aim or her footing. I step in. One push sends the District Six boy sprawling. He scrambles on the ground, but I strike twice across his stomach. He folds with a wet gasp and I end it cleanly and head into the cornucopia spotting my preferred weapon. To the back is a large display of crossing swords. I grab them and slip the smaller ones and the cleaver and baton I picked up earlier into a backpack I ripped from one of the bodies near the opening. 

The field grows quiet as more bodies drop. Thresh cuts down the District Seven boy with a single strike. Marvel pierces the District Seven girl as she crawls across the grass. Glimmer finishes the District Five boy after he bleeds out on the crates. Foxface and Rue disappear into the safety of the forest. Katniss runs. Peeta follows.

I glance across the arena. Tributes lie scattered everywhere. Blood soaks into the ground. The strongest remain standing. My chest rises and falls with fierce satisfaction. This is the arena I trained for. This is the moment I was shaped for. The final scream fades. The last tribute falls silent. The bloodbath is over. And I am still standing. 

The arena feels unnaturally quiet once the final scream dies. Only my breathing fills the space around me. Heavy. Controlled. Alive. I wipe the flat of my blade on the sand, watching the red smear disappear into the dirt. My hands tremble slightly, not from fear but from the intensity of the kill rush.

I scan the Cornucopia. Bodies everywhere. Broken weapons. Abandoned packs. It looks exactly the way it should. It looks like victory.

Marvel climbs over a crate and lands beside me. He is grinning so wide it almost looks painful. His hands are still stained red from the District Eight tribute he dropped. “That was clean,” he says. His voice is breathless but proud. I nod. No point in pretending otherwise. We performed like Careers should. 

Glimmer arrives next, dragging a pack that is almost too heavy for her. She drops it at her feet and shoves her hair back. Blood streaks across her cheek. Her eyes look brighter than before, hungry and wild. “Six kills between all of us already,” she says. “Not bad for the first three minutes.” I do not have the patience for her counting. The only number I care about is the one that says how many are left for me to take.

Footsteps echo. Light. Controlled. Sharp. Clove. She steps over a fallen tribute with careful precision, eyes sweeping the ground for anything useful. Two knives are already sheathed at her belt. Her vest is fitted and secure. Her breathing is steady. She does not look shaken at all.

She stops next to me without asking permission. She never has.

Marvel tosses her a canteen he picked up. She catches it one handed without even glancing at him. Her focus is already back on the field, counting exits and threats. Typical. “We should move,” she says. “Others will circle back for supplies.” She is right, but for a moment I consider hoarding them for ourselves, picking off those stupid enough to try and get supplies from us.

I step to the entrance of the Cornucopia and look out over the dirt paths stretching into the trees. The field is empty except for a distant shape disappearing into the woods. Probably Katniss. She got lucky. For now.

Marvel slings a sleeping bag over his shoulder. Glimmer hefts two packs. Clove retrieves another knife from the body I dropped. She turns it over, tests the weight with a flick of her wrist, and smiles faintly before storing it in her belt. She looks dangerous like this. Focused. Sharp. Completely in her element. I like this version of her. I always have.

Marvel speaks up. “We make camp near the lake, right? That was the plan.” “Good sight lines,” Glimmer agrees. “And water.” Clove glances at me. She does not need to speak. Her eyes ask what matters most. Where do I want the hunt to start?

I look over my team. Marvel, eager and already building stories for the Capitol viewers. Glimmer, glittering and lethal when she is not overwhelmed. Clove, small and deadly with eyes that never stop tracking. We are the strongest group in the arena. Everyone knows it. “We move to the lake,” I say. “Then we track the ones who ran. The forest cannot hide them forever.”

Marvel nods at once. Glimmer falls beside him.

Clove stays still for a moment longer. Her gaze lingers on the pile of bodies. Not fear. No hesitation. Calculation. She is remembering what she saw, what she threw, which skills she still wants to show the Capitol. She finally looks at me again. “Save some for me,” she says with a cocked grin. I feel something sharp twist in my chest, hot and familiar. It feels like a promise.

“We will get plenty,” I answered.

We gather supplies. The arena stretches out before us. The sky is bright, clear, and wide open. This is the part I have been waiting for.

The real hunt begins.