Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight / Headlock

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"You four are perfect, my sweets!" Hephaia sobbed, tears streaming freely down her face.

It was almost time to leave for the auditorium, yet Hephaia still hadn't stopped crying as she stared at the four tributes she had dressed for the interviews.

The outfits were beautiful, Evelia could admit that much, but this level of emotion felt deeply concerning.

There was truly something wrong with this woman.

Hephaia pressed both hands dramatically against her chest, shaking her head as though the sight of them was simply too much for her to endure.

"My beautiful fishes," she whimpered.

Evelia exchanged a quick glance with Haldin, whose expression suggested he was trying very hard not to laugh.

Evelia herself looked down at her own outfit again.

She wore a white lace dress with bell sleeves that stopped just above her knees. A white headband held back her long blonde hair, though a few strands still framed her face and rested against her shoulders. Around her waist sat a lagoon-blue belt matching the colour of her boots, the shade bright against the pale fabric.

Beside her, Delta looked almost unreal.

Her lagoon-blue milkmaid dress fell elegantly around her frame, the white stitching subtle enough to soften the colour without dulling it. Her curls had been pinned carefully into a polished bun, exposing the white hoops hanging from her ears, while white ballerina flats completed the outfit.

She looked like a princess.

The boys, meanwhile, wore outfits similar in style but opposite in colour, like reflections of each other.

Both Haldin and Griffin wore fitted suits with flared trousers.

Haldin's trousers and vest were lagoon blue, vivid against the white shirt beneath, the fabric embroidered subtly with wave patterns that shifted whenever he moved. His boots matched the shirt, pale against the darker colours, and oversized blue sunglasses rested lazily on his nose like he had been born wearing them.

Griffin's outfit inverted the palette entirely.

His flared trousers and vest were white, while his shirt and boots carried the deep lagoon-blue tones instead, making the colour of his eyes stand out even more beneath his own sunglasses. The wave embroidery caught faintly along the sleeves whenever the light hit him.

Together, between the sunglasses and light dresses, they looked painfully District Four.

Hephaia finally seemed to notice she was crying and immediately tried to fix it by crying harder.

"No, no, I'm fine," she sniffed loudly, swiping at her face with the back of her hand. "Guys, I said I'm fine! Stop worrying about me!"

Delta mouthed a silent what the hell to Evelia.

Hephaia, completely unbothered by the collective confusion, clapped her hands once and spun towards a tray sitting nearby.

"Jewellery!" she announced.

She strode over and began grabbing pieces with alarming speed.

A small necklace was fastened at Evelia's throat, the pendant settling just above her collarbone, and thin matching earrings followed.

For Delta, Hephaia chose pearl accents — bracelets, a necklace, and a small decorative piece pinned into her bun that shimmered faintly whenever she turned.

Then she moved to the boys.

Haldin's collar was adjusted with far too much intensity, as though a single crease might ruin his entire existence. Griffin's sunglasses were fixed, then fixed again, then tilted slightly differently a third time.

Hephaia stepped back at last, clasping her hands together, eyes shining again.

"Why do you have to die?" she sighed dreamily. "At least three of you, I mean. You would have been perfect models for my new collection!"

Silence hit the room so suddenly it almost felt staged.

Delta's head snapped towards Hephaia. Haldin froze mid-adjustment of his cuff. Griffin slowly lowered his hands from his sunglasses like he wasn't entirely sure he had heard correctly. Evelia opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

"What?" Delta said flatly after a beat.

Hephaia blinked at them, still glowing with that misplaced, sentimental warmth, as though she had simply complimented their outfits instead of casually referencing their deaths. The moment hung there until movement finally returned to the corridor as Mags and Zephyria appeared at the door.

"It's time," Mags said simply.

And just like that, the room shifted.

The next minute, they were being ushered out, down the corridors, and into the van waiting outside.

Evelia sat in her seat as the city passed beyond the window, focusing on the thought she had been repeating all day like a mantra. Sweet. Naive. Harmless. A girl who liked attention but had just enough skill to surprise them when it mattered, a girl who had scored a twelve.

A beautiful mystery.

That was tonight's role.

When they arrived, they were taken through a side entrance and into a backstage waiting area called the greenroom, though nothing about it was green. The walls were painted white, too bright under the Capitol lighting, almost clinical in its polish.

It was already crowded. Mentors, escorts, stylists, all orbiting their tributes like planets. Every district had been dressed for display in their respective colour, each one sharper than the last.

Even District One had escalated beyond reason.

Their snot-green ensembles (tailored gowns, structured suits, flowing trains, and exaggerated plumed coattails) took up nearly twice the space of anyone else, as if excess itself was a competition.

"Ridiculous," Hephaia spat immediately. "They're not at a wedding. There is no need for that much fabric. Their stylist is an imbecile."

"Let's grab a drink, Hephy," Zephyria said smoothly, already looping an arm through hers and steering her away before she could escalate further. "Come on."

Evelia spotted Haymitch near the buffet, deep in conversation with Beetee.

She found herself watching them without meaning to, her attention snagging there immediately. Beetee noticed first. Once the conversation ended, he met her eyes from across the room and gave the smallest nod towards the buffet table.

"I'm thirsty. I'll go grab something," Evelia told the others.

Haldin scoffed instantly.

"Just say you want to go talk to Haymitch," he replied.

"Shut up, Haldin."

"No, you shut up."

Evelia ignored him entirely and crossed the room towards the buffet.

The table looked like something out of a fever dream. Candy high-heeled shoes sat beside silver platters of caviar served in seashells, while miniature pigs sculpted from ham salad stared blankly across the display. Capitol people truly had too much free time.

Evelia decided she might as well enjoy herself and picked up a glass of white wine along with a small serving of caviar.

It tasted like heaven.

A few seconds later, Beetee appeared beside her.. He picked up a large pair of silver tweezers and began meticulously selecting tiny vegetables from an arrangement shaped like flowers.

"Those work better than your fingers?" Evelia asked quietly.

"Trying not to draw attention to myself," Beetee replied just as softly. "That's why I'm speaking to you and Haymitch separately."

Evelia glanced around instinctively. Several Peacekeepers already had their eyes on them.

Two had even begun drifting subtly closer before a sudden commotion exploded near the entrance.

A man stumbled dramatically into the room holding a cage full of reptiles above his head.

"The party animals are here!" he shouted.

Evelia blinked.

"Who the hell is that?" she asked, genuinely alarmed now. And here she had thought Hephaia was strange!

"Magno Stift," Beetee answered. "District Twelve's stylist."

Evelia immediately remembered Maysilee calling him an imbecile and a lunatic in the same breath while explaining that he apparently enjoyed licking frogs.

"Beetee, I was thinking," Evelia started, reaching for a small toast layered with jam. "How exactly am I supposed to find Haymitch and Ampert in the arena? I'm assuming it'll be huge this year since there's twice as many of us."

Beetee smiled faintly.

"Always one step ahead, aren't you? I was going to explain. You and Haymitch need to head north. Ampert will do the same once he retrieves the explosive. Your best chance at locating a mutt portal is tracking returning mutts after an attack. Once the three of you regroup, take one down to Sub-A. That's where the tank is."

Evelia listened carefully, forcing herself to remain relaxed despite the pressure building in her chest.

"We replaced the black cord in Ampert's token with fuse," Beetee continued. "The blasting cap is hidden inside the weave."

Replaced Ampert's token.

Evelia's thoughts snapped instantly back to Griffin's oyster pearl necklace, to the strange feeling she'd had that morning when she noticed it looked slightly different after the Peacekeepers inspected it.

"You did that to Griffin's token too, didn't you?" she whispered. "Replaced it. I knew it looked different."

"I did," Beetee admitted. "District Nine's tokens as well."

"The sunflowers?"

"Yes. They've been coated in shellac. Wet them and rub them between your palms. Friction dissolves the coating and makes the explosive malleable."

Evelia stared at him.

"Does Nine know the plan?"

"They do not. Ampert will scavenge one from them."

"How come Griffin knows, then?"

For the first time since joining her, Beetee looked genuinely caught off guard.

"He told you?"

"No," Evelia answered. "He implied it."

Beetee looked at her for a second longer before dropping his gaze back to the vegetables. He moved them absently with the tweezers for a few moments before letting the tool fall onto the plate altogether. Taking off his glasses, he cleaned them slowly against the fabric of his electric-blue shirt.

"I brought him in after he overheard your conversation with Plutarch that night and asked to join," Beetee said quietly. "He's clever. Skilled. He understood the plan immediately."

A pause.

"If anything, he improved parts of it."

Something heavy settled in Evelia's stomach.

"I just..." Beetee continued, his voice thinning slightly now. "A replacement may be necessary if Ampert fails to show."

And Griffin would be that replacement.

Evelia felt something inside her chest splinter at the thought. She nodded once, slowly, then stepped away from Beetee just as the approaching Peacekeepers finally reached them.

She didn't fully understand what any of it truly meant yet.

Was Griffin supposed to head north too? Would he help her destroy the arena alongside Haymitch and Ampert? Or would he stay hidden, waiting in the background unless Ampert's face appeared in the sky one night before the plan could be completed?

Evelia guessed she would have to wait and see.

For now, she forced herself to keep moving.

She crossed the greenroom towards Haymitch, who was standing with the tributes from Six. The moment Wellie noticed her, her entire face lit up.

"Evelia!" she gasped. "You're so pretty!"

Before Evelia could even respond, Wellie hurried over and immediately began inspecting her dress and jewellery with complete seriousness, complimenting the fabric, the lace, the colours.

Evelia laughed softly under her breath and rested a gentle hand around the little girl's shoulders.

"Thank you," she said warmly.

Then she looked up.

Her eyes met Haymitch's instantly and just as quickly, he looked away. A faint flush had spread across his cheeks, visible even beneath the bright backstage lights, and Evelia suddenly became very aware of the way he looked tonight.

His black three-piece suit fit him perfectly, sharp without feeling overly Capitol, and his blonde hair had been slicked back neatly for the interviews. He looked great, dressed like this.

To be fair, all of District Twelve looked incredible.

Lou Lou wore a fitted black lace dress tailored carefully to her small frame. Maysilee had been wrapped in an off-the-shoulder velvet gown with black lace gloves and a feathered boa. Wyatt looked polished in a classic tuxedo, cleaner and more composed than Evelia had ever seen him.

But Haymitch still stood apart from all of them.

Or maybe her judgement had become hopelessly biased somewhere along the way.

Either way, Evelia found herself having to physically drag her gaze away from him before someone noticed.

"What were you lot talking about?" Evelia asked, forcing casualness into her voice.

She kept her eyes carefully away from Haymitch as she spoke, refusing to think about how perfectly the dark suit fit him, or how the black fabric somehow made his grey eyes stand out even more beneath the backstage lights.

"Ampert says when we get into the arena, we're supposed to stick together as fast as possible," Wellie whispered. "He says maybe some of you bigger tributes can grab weapons first."

Evelia shifted awkwardly where she stood. Her fingers cracked softly against each other, a nervous habit she couldn't quite stop. How was she supposed to tell this little girl she couldn't stay with them?

"I'll give it a shot," Haymitch said before the silence stretched too long. "Listen, I'm going to act like a real jerk during my interview. It's something my team came up with."

His gaze lifted then, landing briefly on Evelia lingering.

"But I will never hurt you," he said quietly. "Or any of the Newcomers. That's a promise."

"We know that," Wellie answered immediately, her eyes full of absolute trust.

Something about it made Evelia's chest ache.

"Yeah," she added slowly. "And... I don't really know how to explain this properly, but you guys saw my score."

The group fell quieter.

"I got a twelve, and not because I impressed the Gamemakers." Her jaw tightened slightly. "I'll spare you the details, but the Capitol is already angry at me. Really angry. So I can't stay with you in the arena."

Wellie's expression fell almost instantly.

"They'll send things after me," Evelia continued carefully. "And I don't want any of you getting targeted because you're standing beside me. You have to tell the others, alright?"

"But they're targeting all of us," Wellie said softly. "We need you."

Evelia felt that one land harder than she expected.

"You'll have Delta, Haldin, and Griffin," she reassured her gently. "They'll protect you."

"But who'll protect you?" Wellie asked, worry tightening her small voice.

Evelia opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Before she could find anything to say, District Six's escort called for them, breaking the moment cleanly in half. Wellie and the others lingered just long enough to look at Evelia one last time before being guided away.

Haymitch didn't waste a second. He caught Evelia by the arm and pulled her a few steps away, into a corner of the greenroom where the noise of preparations softened into a dull blur.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked. "You're going on your own out there?"

Evelia swallowed, her fingers curling slightly at her side.

"Do I really have a choice, Haymitch?" she whispered back. "I scored a twelve, Haymitch. This is really bad."

Haymitch frowned immediately, the sharpness in his expression shifting into something more focused.

"How'd you score it anyway?" he asked quietly. "I s'pose you didn't get it the regular way, did you?"

Evelia bit the inside of her lip.

Of course she trusted him enough to tell him. That was not the problem.

The problem was Haymitch himself, or rather, the kind of person he was beneath all the sarcasm and attitude and carefully constructed sharp edges.

Because if there was one thing Evelia had realised about Haymitch Abernathy, it was that he protected people almost instinctively. Once he cared about someone (even a little) he carried them with him completely. He would fight for them without hesitation, even when it cost him. It seemed rooted so deeply in him that she doubted he even noticed himself doing it anymore.

And in a country like Panem, where cruelty had become ordinary, there was something almost shocking about someone capable of loving that fiercely.

It gave people hope whether they meant to feel it or not.

Evelia admired him for that more than she could properly explain, but it also scared her a little now, because she knew exactly how he might react if she told him what had happened in the gym.

"Evelia?" Haymitch said again, quieter this time, worry threading through his voice now. "What happened? You can tell me, you know."

"I know," she sighed.

She pulled away slightly, walking towards one of the chairs tucked near the wall before sitting down heavily.

For a second, she just stared at the floor.

"Long story short... my uncle got reaped years ago," she began. "He was a rebel. The Gamemakers killed him in his arena."

Haymitch stayed completely still beside her.

"During my evaluation, they started insulting him. Spitting on his memory." Her jaw tightened. "I got angry. And then they asked me to get undressed so they could evaluate my body too. Apparently it can be a weapon."

The disgust in her voice sharpened visibly on the last word.

"I refused," she continued. "Called them murderers, then I walked out. So yeah. Now they want me dead. Even more than they already did before."

For a moment, Haymitch said nothing.

Evelia could almost hear the gears turning in his mind, trying to piece it all together without letting any of it fracture him. She sighed softly, then lifted her gaze again, as if forcing herself to finish what she had started.

"That's why I'll take the angle of the stupid pretty girl in my interview," she added in a whisper. "Figured that might help me last longer than a day in the arena... so I can survive long enough to help you and Ampert with the plan."

Haymitch shook his head slowly.

Sadness washed over his features, unguarded and heavy. Evelia was grateful she didn't see pity in his eyes — only something worse in its own way. Something closer to helpless anger.

"You don't have to do this, Evelia," he said at last, lowering himself into the seat beside her.

His hand moved slightly (almost on instinct) as if he might take hers, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to simply close his fingers around her palm.

But a Peacekeeper walked past at that exact moment, so Haymitch stopped. He pulled his hand back before it could touch her.

Evelia kept her gaze steady, pretending she hadn't noticed.

But she had. And the absence of his hand lingered far more loudly than any contact would have.

She wished he hadn't stopped. She wished that he had taken her hand properly — like it meant something simple and certain instead of something dangerous — and never let go.

"I know it's not fair," Haymitch continued quietly, voice tight. "But these assholes... Evelia, we don't even know what they could do to you if you win. After everything they've already seen, after you put yourself out there like that—"

His jaw clenched.

"They're not rational. They're hungry, and they're powerful in ways we can't even touch. I understand why you're doing this, but there has to be a better way."

"Is there, though?" Evelia hissed back. "Haymitch, I called out Gamemakers. I can't rely on myself to survive anymore. They're going to try to take me out the second the Games begin. Only sponsors can even somewhat protect me."

"I can try and protect you."

"Haymitch, no, you will—"

"I heard what you told Wellie," he cut in, sharper now. "That you're scared people'll get hurt just by being near you."

Evelia went still.

Haymitch exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair before letting it fall to his sleeve, where he started fidgeting with the fabric like it gave him something to hold onto.

"Evelia," he continued, quieter now, "I scored a one because I also called out Gamemakers on Louella's death. I'm not exactly in their good books either, so I might as well distance myself from the Newcomers. We're both marked. So stop acting like you're alone in this."

His gaze flicked to hers, steady now, even if there was tension behind it.

"We can have each other's backs," he added. "You don't have to go in there on your own, Eve. We're allies, remember?"

Evelia nodded slowly.

Truth be told, she knew she needed him as an ally.

Between everything she had already seen of him in the arena training, the way he thought, the way he understood her like no one else ever had before, there was no denying it anymore.

She needed Haymitch.

And, if she was being honest in a way that felt a little dangerous to admit even to herself, he needed her too. Especially since he'd mentioned wanting to go alone as well. He could be strong, and clever, and far more perceptive than people gave him credit for, but he didn't have the same experience she did thanks to the Academy.

And she couldn't stand the thought of him walking into that arena alone. It  made something twist uncomfortably in her chest, something she couldn't quite name.

She didn't know why it mattered so much. She just knew it did.

"Alright," she whispered. "But the second things go south, we split."

Haymitch opened his mouth like he was about to argue, already forming the protest, but Evelia cut him off with a small shake of her head.

"I'm serious, Haymitch. You're not dying under my watch."

That landed harder than she meant it to. He winced slightly, the expression flickering across his face, and for a few seconds he didn't answer. Then, slowly, he nodded.

His eyes didn't leave hers. They hadn't, not really, for a while now.

Evelia was suddenly very aware of that fact. Of the space between them. Of how close he was sitting. Of how easily she could count the faint shifts in his expression if she tried. She absolutely refused to think about the heat creeping up her neck.

"You're not dying under my watch either, Miss Vane," he said quietly.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Evelia's mind drifted back to the fountain,  that moment with Haymitch when he had told her he wished he'd met her under different circumstances. When none of them would be dead by next week. Now, with the Games starting tomorrow, that thought pressed heavier in her chest every time she tried to breathe around it. Reality was closing in, taking up more and more space, until there was hardly room for anything else.

They'd be dead soon.

She forced the thought down, like swallowing something sharp, and looked back at him.

A small smile pulled at her mouth anyway.

"Good," she said softly, like she had to convince herself more than him. "Then we're in agreement."

Haymitch huffed a laugh, but there was nothing light about it. It died almost as soon as it was born.

He pushed himself up from the chair and held out a hand. Evelia took it immediately.

The contact was brief but grounding, and he pulled her up with an ease that made it feel like she weighed less than she should have. For a second, she didn't let go.

"I like your dress, by the way," he murmured, low enough that it barely reached her. "Looks good."

Heat rushed up her neck instantly.

Evelia turned sharply away, suddenly very interested in anything that wasn't his face, but before she could find words or recover even a fraction of her composure, her attention snagged on the chaos unfolding across the room.

Magno stood there, glassy-eyed and unsteady, backed into a corner like he'd forgotten where the floor ended and the world began. Somehow, he had managed to clear space around himself, and in his hands was a six-foot snake he had just freed from a cage, lifting it and waving it through the air like it belonged there.

"Where are my tributes? I need to dress them!"

The room erupted.

People shrieked and scattered, chairs scraping violently across the floor. Peacekeepers snapped into formation, forming a tight huddle as they argued in low, urgent tones about how exactly to subdue him. One of them already had a taser drawn.

A red-haired woman nearby looked delighted, almost glowing with it, and shouted over the noise, "Take him down! Take him down!" Her laughter cut through the panic, with Zephyria beside her laughing just as hard, glass in hand.

But before the Peacekeepers could move in, before the tasers even fully came up, Lou Lou stepped forward. She lifted her hands slightly, palms open, eyes fixed on the snake.

"Mine."

Haldin, who had been talking with Wyatt only moments before, turned sharply towards her, eyes widening.

"Yo, Lou Lou, that thing's dangerous. I wouldn't touch it if I were you."

Lou Lou didn't even look at him.

She closed the distance anyway, letting Magno drape the snake around her shoulders. The tail slid around her neck and she barely reacted, only adjusting her stance as though it weighed nothing at all.

Then she turned her head slowly toward Haldin, and hissed at him before walking away, the snake settled over her shoulders like a crown, a deeply confused Wyatt trailing behind her.

Evelia looked at Haldin, then Zephyria, and finally Haymitch before she simply gave up.

The Capitol's ability to be deeply unsettling at all times would probably never stop destabilising her. At this point, she wasn't even sure the people here noticed how bizarre they all were anymore. Maybe growing up in the Capitol rewired something permanently.

Still, as long as Lou Lou was satisfied, Evelia supposed she could live with it.

Maysilee appeared beside them a moment later, raising an eyebrow. Her eyes flicked over Evelia once, before she nodded in approval.

"I really like your outfit," she declared, stepping closer. "White and blue's a pretty mix. Makes your tan stand out."

Before Evelia could answer, Maysilee was already fixing her hair. She slipped Evelia's headband off carefully, adjusted a few loose strands, then placed it back exactly where it belonged.

"I would've picked silver jewellery, though," she added thoughtfully. "But I'm assuming your stylist wanted everything matching your pin?"

"Honestly, I've stopped trying to understand how my stylist's brain works," Evelia sighed, glancing towards Hephaia.

Maysilee followed her gaze.

Across the room, Hephaia had both hands clasped around Caesar Flickerman's face as she kissed his cheek dramatically through tears, sobbing while wishing him luck as if he were marching off to war instead of preparing to interview children for entertainment.

Then, without missing a beat, she turned, grabbed a frog directly out of Magno's hands, and kissed it too.

Evelia gagged instantly and looked away.

"And we're the animals?" Maysilee spat, horrified. "The audacity they have. They're the ones dressing up like creatures and licking or kissing them every five seconds. Absolute imbeciles."

Griffin and Delta drifted over, clearly curious about whatever they had been talking about, quickly followed by Haldin, who nearly spilled an entire cup of carrots onto the floor trying to join the conversation.

Maysilee physically recoiled and Evelia bit the inside of her cheek hard to stop herself from laughing.

"Why are you carrying those around like a frightened rabbit?" Maysilee asked flatly.

Haldin looked down at the carrots in confusion, as though he had forgotten they were there in the first place.

"...Snack?" he offered weakly.

Wyatt was now holding the snake carefully by the head, keeping a firm grip to make sure it wouldn't strike at Lou Lou.

(Though honestly, Evelia doubted it would. The creature was far too still, too obedient. For a snake that size to remain so calm in a room full of shouting strangers and flashing lights, it was obvious Magno had trained it through violent methods. Poor thing.)

Its body hung heavily around Lou Lou's shoulders, scales dull beneath the Capitol lighting, tongue flicking out every few seconds like it was exhausted rather than alert.

Lou Lou gave Haldin a long, strange look, then her gaze dropped slowly to the bowl of carrots in his hands.

Haldin frowned.

"What?" he asked cautiously.

Lou Lou stared at the carrots without blinking.

Still frowning, Haldin eventually held the bowl out towards her. Lou Lou accepted it carefully, almost delicately, before plucking a single carrot from the pile and placing it into her mouth.

Everyone watched in silence as the little girl chewed slowly.

Then, after swallowing, she dragged her tongue briefly across her lips before immediately taking another carrot.

Haldin looked oddly pleased by this development.

"Well," he said after a moment, "at least somebody appreciates my carrots."

"Hungry," Lou Lou murmured.

Haldin immediately lowered the hand holding the bowl so she could take carrots whenever she wanted without even asking.

Wyatt gave him a genuinely grateful smile.

"I'm worried she'll just eat whatever she can get her hands on in the arena," he admitted quietly. "That's what she did in training."

"Hey, man, don't worry," Haymitch said. "You'll be there for her, won't you?"

Wyatt shrugged. . He clearly didn't look convinced by that idea, but he kept whatever thoughts he had trapped behind a tight expression and glanced back at Lou Lou instead, watching her carefully as she munched on another carrot beside the snake.

A second later, the television mounted at the far end of the greenroom crackled to life.

Conversation died almost instantly.

On-screen, an invisible hand swept across a dark backdrop and wrote an enormous curling fifty in gold while triumphant music swelled through the speakers.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a booming voice announced, "welcome to the Fiftieth Hunger Games Night of Interviews! And here's everybody's favourite host, Caesar Flickerman!"

Caesar descended from the ceiling perched atop a crescent moon while glittering stars shot behind him. The Capitol audience erupted.

His suit never really changed, but every year he dyed himself a new colour. Tonight it was a deep pine green; hair, eyelids, lips, all matching so perfectly it barely looked human anymore. His teeth gleamed unnaturally white beneath the stage lights, glowing almost as brightly as Hephaia's or Zephyria's.

It gave him the same uncanny look all Capitol people eventually seemed to develop, as though they had polished every trace of realness off themselves.

"Hello, Panem!" Caesar beamed. "Shall we get this party started?"

The audience roared in approval.

Evelia folded her arms tighter across herself as the interviews began.

Caesar quickly launched into a cheerful summary of the Games' history, beginning with the early years after the war; the stripped-down version Capitol schools probably preferred. Back then, tributes had simply been thrown into an old bombed-out sports arena with weapons and almost nothing else.

Then he moved onto the Tenth Games.

Those had changed everything, with the introduction of interviews, sponsors and mentors. Caesar brushed through it quickly, though, barely lingering before moving on, and Evelia frowned slightly at the screen.

It was strange.

Back in Four, Mollie had once pointed out how little anyone ever talked about the Tenth Hunger Games. History books skipped over details. Archives were incomplete. For something that had reshaped the Games so completely, people seemed oddly determined not to discuss it too much.

Then came the Twenty-Fifth Hunger Games — the first Quarter Quell.

That year, the districts had been forced to choose their own tributes instead of relying on reapings.

The idea made Evelia feel sick every time she heard it. She couldn't imagine standing there while neighbours, friends, entire communities decided who deserved to die most. Winning the Games and going back home, knowing your people had voted you to die?

Those Games had been hosted by Lucky Flickerman, Caesar's father, who apparently used commentary recorded by a woman named Gaul. According to Capitol history, she had created the phrase "May the odds be EVER in your favour."

For that first Quell, tributes had ridden through Capitol streets in themed costumes representing their districts. The Gamemakers had also built a brand-new arena specifically for the occasion instead of repurposing an existing location.

And, most importantly, the Cornucopia had appeared for the first time.

Caesar described it with delight, talking animatedly about the weapons and supplies piled inside while dramatic footage played across the screen. The opening gong. The bloodbath. The chaos.

Like he was discussing theatre.

For the past twenty-four years, he explained, the Capitol had unveiled an entirely new arena every summer. Deserts. Frozen wastelands. Jungles. The Nest of Mirrors from Wiress's Games.

The audience cheered louder with every mention, then Caesar grinned conspiratorially at the camera.

"And as for this year's Quarter Quell arena..." he teased. "I've heard rumours it puts every previous arena to shame. Can you imagine it?"

The crowd screamed.

"No," Caesar answered for them dramatically, "you cannot! Will it be fabulous? Yes, it will!"

Well.

Evelia certainly hoped her death would at least be fabulous if everyone seemed so determined to make a spectacle out of it.

When Caesar finally introduced Silka, the girl strode onto the stage dragging nearly fifteen feet of snot-green fabric behind her.

"Ugh," Maysilee said loudly. "Just like a snail."

A round of nervous laughter rippled through the greenroom. Even Evelia snorted quietly.

But the amusement faded quickly as she looked properly at Silka.

The dress was clearly designed to highlight everything physically intimidating about her — her height, the breadth of her shoulders, the muscle in her arms. She looked powerful before she had even opened her mouth.

And once she did, it only got worse.

Silka wasted no time bragging about her strength, her axe-handling skills, her training score of ten. Confidence rolled off her effortlessly. She didn't even bother bringing up her alliance with the Careers.

When Caesar mentioned it for her, Silka only shrugged.

"Sure," she said casually. "It helps having people around to clear the field."

Evelia's stomach twisted. By the time the interview ended, all the colour had drained from her face.

She truly hoped she would never cross paths with Silka in the arena. One swing of that axe and she'd be dead before she even hit the ground.

Silka was lethal, that much was obvious.

Then came Panache's turn.

The entire interview felt like some kind of fever dream.

He swaggered onto the stage like he already owned it, stopping no fewer than three times before even reaching Caesar just to pose and flex for the audience.

The Capitol crowd screamed with approval.

"Panache from District One!" Caesar announced grandly. "So, Panache, in addition to your obvious assets, why should our audience back you?"

"Because I'm the biggest, the beefiest, and the best!" Panache declared proudly before striking yet another pose.

Evelia laughed so suddenly she nearly choked on her own saliva.

Beside her, Haymitch snorted under his breath, glancing sideways at her with the beginning of a grin tugging at his mouth.

"My word," Caesar exclaimed on-screen, clutching dramatically at his chest. "It sounds like we should barbecue you!"

"That's right," Panache said confidently, leaning down to give Caesar a deeply patronising pat on the head. "I'm all meat, little man."

"Even your brain?" Caesar asked curiously.

The audience burst into scattered laughter, and Panache blinked as confusion crossed his face first before irritation quickly replaced it.

"Not my brain," he snapped. "Obviously it's... grey stuff."

Caesar nodded solemnly, perfectly straight-faced, like he was genuinely considering the statement.

The Capitol audience lost it. Laughter rolled through the theatre in waves, loud enough that even people in the greenroom started cracking up too.

"What does it matter?" Panache demanded after a second, visibly annoyed now.

"Matter?" Caesar repeated, scandalised. "I think brain matter... matters quite a bit!"

That earned another explosion of laughter.

Even Evelia laughed automatically at first, the joke catching her off guard.

Then she stopped. The sound died in her throat almost immediately as the realisation settled over her.

Caesar was mocking him.

Panache stood there smiling stiffly beneath the lights while thousands of Capitol citizens laughed at him instead of with him, and suddenly the whole thing felt uglier than funny.

As arrogant and obnoxious and cruel as Panache could be, he was still a tribute. Still a kid standing on a stage a day before being thrown into an arena to die.

And Caesar Flickerman (the man supposedly helping them earn sponsors, helping them survive) was humiliating him for entertainment.

Evelia's stomach twisted slightly. She didn't know why she was surprised.

Caesar was Capitol, after all.

Surely not everyone there was rotten. Somewhere beneath all the glitter and cruelty and painted smiles, there had to be normal people left. People who hated the Games. People who looked at the tributes and still saw children.

But Caesar Flickerman clearly wasn't one of them.

Panache's smile had turned visibly strained by the time the interview ended. Still, he waved to the audience when Caesar dismissed him, puffing his chest out one last time before disappearing backstage to roaring applause.

The second he vanished from the screen, the greenroom relaxed again in uneven bursts of conversation and nervous laughter.

"Oh, my word," Maysilee muttered, "if he survives the bloodbath, it'll only be because everyone's too distracted laughing at him to actually stab him."

"Or because he benches the other tributes," Griffin pointed out.

"That too," she admitted, playing with her stack of necklaces.

Caesar moved smoothly onto the next tribute, Carat, without missing a beat, his voice bright and effortless like he hadn't just publicly humiliated someone for sport.

The rest of the tributes from Districts One and Two seemed to clock the shift quickly and adjusted on instinct.

Their interviews became performances of control.They boasted harder about their weapons training, their strength, the supposed advantages of the Career pack. They made a point of unity, of efficiency, of how District Four being replaced with District Five wouldn't weaken them in the slightest.

There was an almost careful insistence in the way they spoke now, as though they were trying to stitch their image back together in real time.

Even so, something had already shifted. The damage lingered in the air.

Every time one of them boasted about strength or skill, Caesar tilted his head just slightly, giving a curious little side-eye, and the audience loved it.

Each glance from Caesar earned another ripple of laughter, like the crowd had been trained to respond to him without thinking. The Careers could feel that they were no longer simply being introduced, but played with, turned into something more entertaining than intimidating.

When Ampert's name was called, Evelia straightened almost without thinking.

He didn't waste time on himself. Instead, he laid out his theory about previous tributes being brainwashed, the disproportionate number of Career wins, the patterns hidden in plain sight that most people didn't bother to look for. He talked about numbers, about probability, about how even the system the Capitol treated as fixed could be disrupted.

Then he mentioned District Four joining the Newcomers.

The idea of a "Career district" aligning with underdogs landed like a quiet crack in glass.

Even Caesar seemed briefly entertained by it, leaning in slightly as Ampert spoke, clearly amused but also... attentive.

"Very interesting mind you've got there," Caesar had said brightly. "Got it from your dad, didn't you?"

Ampert didn't mention his strengths, not once. He didn't need to. The way he spoke made it obvious enough that he wasn't someone to underestimate.

When Ampert came back into the greenroom, Evelia threaded her way between Delta and Maysilee to reach him, ignoring the ripple of conversations still spilling through the space.

He looked smaller up close, somehow, now that he was no longer under the stage lights.

Evelia didn't hesitate before congratulating him, assuring him he had been perfect.

Ampert asked how he had done, and she gave him a steady, certain nod in response, before running a hand through his hair.

Relief eased into his posture almost immediately as he laughed, the tension in his shoulders loosening.

She lifted her hand, and he met it without hesitation, high fiving her, then hugged her quickly before joining Beetee.

"Haldin Silverfall, you're up," a Gamemaker said as Evelia walked back towards the group.

Haldin almost dropped the empty bowl in his hands.

Wyatt reacted instantly, reaching out and taking it from him before it hit the floor.

For a second, Haldin just stood there like his brain had stopped processing anything beyond those words, then he blinked hard.

"Right," he said.

Delta gave him a light shove on the shoulder. "You'll be fine. Just don't talk about carrots."

"Or bacon," Griffin added.

"Or nothing at all, for that matter," Evelia finished.

Haldin glanced between them, completely baffled. "What are you even talking about? I have to speak or—"

He stopped mid-sentence, catching Evelia's smirk, then sighed. "Oh, you're messing with me."

"Yep."

"Fuck you. I'm out."

And with that, he followed the Gamemaker out onto the stage just as Caesar Flickerman announced his name with far too much enthusiasm.

The sound of it  (that sudden, amplified shout of his own name) made Haldin visibly jump. He pressed a hand to his chest for half a second, as if checking his heart was still where it belonged, then recovered quickly.

He straightened his sunglasses, slid them properly into place, and stepped forward.

By the time he reached Caesar, he was already shaking his hand like he belonged there. He dropped into the chair with an ease that didn't quite match the way he'd flinched a moment earlier.

The interview went... well.

Better than well, actually.

Haldin followed Mags' thread cleanly, answered without overthinking, and managed to get laughs more than once without trying too hard. There was a natural rhythm to him that the audience seemed to like immediately.

And when he mentioned his skill with a trident, the reaction shifted. People didn't see him as an idiot.

Then Caesar tilted his head, that familiar theatrical curiosity lighting up his face.

"Why don't you take your glasses off, Haldin," he said smoothly. "So we can see your pretty face?"

For a split second, Evelia's stomach dropped at the question, but Haldin didn't hesitate.

He leaned forward slightly, expression completely unreadable behind the sunglasses, and said:

"Why don't you shave your moustache, Caesar?"

The room went silent for half a heartbeat.

Then it exploded.

Laughter rolled through the audience. Even people in the greenroom cracked up despite themselves.

Caesar blinked once, then laughed too, delighted, as if he'd just been handed a gift instead of challenged.

And just like that, Haldin had the Capitol exactly where he wanted it.

Delta was called next.

She didn't react outwardly when her name was announced, but something in her posture shifted almost imperceptibly, like she'd stepped from one version of herself into another.

She walked onto the stage with steady grace, crossing the distance without hesitation, and shook Caesar's hand gently before taking her seat.

Careers were expected to present themselves a certain way, like sharp or consistent, for instance. But Delta didn't lean into that image at all.

She showed herself as a trustworthy tribute. That was her angle. Her thread.

A word that didn't really belong in the Career vocabulary, at least not in the way the Capitol liked to imagine them. Careers were supposed to be predators, united only by convenience until the moment they turned on each other. That was the story the audience expected.

Delta didn't seem interested in that story.

She explained her alliance with the Newcomers without hesitation. She made it clear she wasn't here for betrayal games or empty posturing. She was here to protect her people as far as she could, and with a bow in her hands, she intended to do exactly that.

"You mean the Newcomers are safe with you?" Caesar asked, leaning in slightly, curiosity bright in his tone.

"Yes," Delta said simply. "That's exactly what I mean. "I know me and my district mates joining the Newcomers comes across as surprising, even suspicious, but they trust us. Trust is sacred in Four. We actually respect one another back home."

Although she came off as intimidating, the Capitol clearly enjoyed Delta's interview. She had managed to sell herself as both trustworthy and skilled, a combination that, in this world, always landed well.

Careers were expected to be cold, efficient, and unified only by convenience until betrayal inevitably followed. Delta didn't play into that expectation at all.

Instead, she presented something cleaner, and the audience liked that.

It felt controlled. Reliable. Easy to root for in the way the Capitol liked rooting for anything: as long as it still ended in violence they could watch.

When Griffin's turn came, Evelia caught him by the arm almost instinctively.

The movement surprised even her.

Maybe she was afraid he'd say too much on stage. Maybe part of her still feared someone would accidentally expose Beetee's plan beneath all the lights and pressure and Capitol manipulation. Even after everything, even after Griffin had proven himself trustworthy again and again, the fear still lived somewhere inside her.

Griffin glanced down at her hand before looking back at her face.

"It's alright," he whispered softly. "Your secret's safe with me."

Guilt twisted immediately in Evelia's stomach. She loosened her grip at once, biting the inside of her lower lip as Griffin carefully pulled himself free, gentle about it in a way that somehow made it worse.

Earlier, she had overheard him talking quietly with Haldin near the back of the greenroom. Griffin had admitted he was worried about how his interview might affect Wyatt's. They were both supposed to lean into the same strength (intelligence) and even if they approached it differently, Griffin still feared overshadowing him.

Especially with Wyatt going later.

Especially with Wyatt being from Twelve.

Evelia understood the fear; the Capitol only liked certain kinds of smart. Too much intelligence from the wrong tribute could make an audience uncomfortable very quickly.

Griffin hesitated near the entrance to the stage, waiting for Caesar to announce him.

"Don't erase yourself up there," Evelia whispered finally. "Or they'll eat you alive. Prove yourself."

Something flickered across Griffin's face then — nerves, maybe, mixed with gratitude.

Then Caesar shouted his name to the audience, and Griffin stepped onto the stage.

At first, the audience didn't quite know what to make of Griffin. But when Caesar started asking about his interests, something in him shifted.

Griffin came alive.

History poured out of him with startling ease, as though he'd been waiting for someone to ask the right question all along. He spoke about past arenas like someone analysing a system.

No wonder Beetee grew fund of him.

Haldin linked arena designs to moments in Panem's history, tracing patterns in Gamemaker choices, the way environments were never just environments. They were messages.

Fear, he explained, wasn't random. It was curated.

The audience quieted as he spoke.

Even Caesar seemed briefly thrown by how easily Griffin pulled people in once he stopped holding himself back. There was something about his rhythm that made it impossible not to listen.

At one point, Griffin said something that shifted the room further.

He was almost certain he knew what this year's Quarter Quell arena would look like. He didn't explain how, only that he wouldn't spoil tomorrow morning's announcement, but he had an idea. A global one, he said carefully.

Caesar's smile widened.

"Well, Griffin," he said, leaning forward. "I hear you when you say you cannot reveal what you suspect might be the arena's theme, but... how can we trust you in telling the truth? You could be bluffing, for all I know."

Griffin didn't flinch.

"You're right," he said evenly. "Maybe I'm a lying prick. But if you listened to what Delta said, you'd know District Four people don't usually lie."

The audience laughed and clapped as Caesar rolled his eyes theatrically, though Evelia caught underneath what seemed to be a flicker of irritation, quickly masked.

"Could you perhaps tease us a bit, then?" Caesar pressed. "With a word to describe the arena?"

Griffin barely paused.

"Colourful," he said. "Very colourful."

A ripple of laughter moved through the audience, softer this time, more amused than anything else. Caesar clapped his hands together, snapping back into cheer.

"Well, young man," he said brightly, "if you're right, you can expect plenty of sponsors in that colourful arena. Right, folks?"

The crowd roared in agreement, applause breaking across the theatre in waves.

"Evelia Vane, get ready," a Gamemaker said.

Evelia recognised him instantly from her evaluation, and her body went still for a fraction of a second, like something inside her had locked up on instinct,  before she could stop it. Then she forced herself to move again and nodded once.

But before she could take another step, Haymitch caught her hand. It was quick, almost careless, like he hadn't even thought about it properly before doing it, then squeezed. Evelia's breath caught slightly.

For a second, she didn't move. She just stood there with his hand around hers, the noise of the greenroom blurring at the edges like it had pulled away from her, leaving only that point of contact, hot and real and unbearable in its simplicity.

Then, slowly, she tightened her grip back, and squeezed once as well to answer him, careful not to make it look like anything more than it was. They exchanged a smile and as she let go and walked to the stage, she could feel Maysilee's smirk behind her.

"And now, the last tribute from District Four, folks..." Caesar screamed in his mic. "Evelia Vane!"

Evelia took a deep breath in and walked the three steps up leading to the stage, focused on not stumbling on them/

Everything was so shiny up there, and colourful, like Griffin had predicted for the arena. The lights were so bright, they felt like they were transpercing Evelia's skull, pressing behind her eyes until everything throbbed with colour and heat. On the back of the stage was a huge screen with what seemed to be an eye made of colourful lozenges, watching without blinking. Now that she thought of it, Evelia had noticed this eye several times in the Capitol, always there in the background. Even in Four, too, on propaganda posters with a writing saying "Panem is Watching!"

Before she realised, Caesar took her hand and gently kissed the back of it. Instinctively, Evelia grimaced in disgust and rubbed her hand on her dress as if to clean it, before remembering her thread was being a dumb and flirty girl.

Shit.

Without thinking, she forced herself to laugh as if flattered, the sound coming out lighter than she felt, raising her hand to her mouth to throw a kiss at Caesar, then one for the crowd. She then took the seat next to him, and gave her most beautiful smile, hoping it didn't look too edgy.

"Look at you," Caesar said as he clapped his hands together. "You look like an angel!"

Evelia glanced at the mic he was already holding out toward her, angled in invitation so she could speak. She knew it was powerful enough to catch her voice from where she was sitting, but she decided to play dumb anyway and leaned all the way forward until it almost touched her mouth before speaking, close enough that she could feel the faint static of it against her breath.

"Well, I'm glad you think so," she answered as the crowd erupted in laughter.

"Oh, Evelia, you don't have to get so close to the mic for us to hear you!" Caesar laughed. Evelia acted embarrassed, letting her shoulders dip slightly, but Caesar immediately reassured her. "It's alright, I know most people aren't used to speaking into those! It's alright."

Well, she was glad he hadn't humiliated her the way he had with Panache. The thought flickered through her quickly before she smoothed it over. She forced a giggle to slip past her lips as she winked at the crowd.

"So many questions, so little time..." Caesar sighed, leaning back theatrically. "Evelia, you... You scored a twelve. A twelve! The highest score!"

"I did," Evelia laughed.

In the front row, she spotted a man watching her legs with an intensity that felt almost clinical. She ignored the instinct that flared up in her chest that told her to shift, to cover herself, to disappear into something safer. She didn't. She needed his money. That was the simple, ugly truth of it.

"Well, folks, we all know here that Evelia's uncle had been a tribute years ago," Caesar said, leaning into the moment like it belonged to him. "And that he scored an eleven. Is there a link, Evelia? Did it help you?"

Evelia blinked once. "How?" she said, voice even. "He's kind of dead, isn't he?"

The crowd laughed again. Evelia wondered if they'd just laugh every time she opened her mouth for the next two minutes, no matter what came out.

"Well—yes, Evelia, yes. Of course," Caesar said, wiping at the corners of his eyes as if the humour had genuinely moved him. "What I mean is his legacy! His training legacy!"

"Oh," Evelia said softly. "Right."

Caesar just patted her shoulder before moving on. He was speaking about a rebel, after all. Snow wouldn't want him to dwell too much on him.

"Well! There you have it, folks. Talent runs in the family! Your mother must be very proud. Do you have anything to tell her?"

Evelia felt her jaw tighten before she could stop it, a small, controlled reaction she buried immediately under her expression. He hadn't asked about the families for the other tributes. Her uncle was her father's brother; there was no line there, no natural bridge to her mother, nothing that made sense unless you were trying to build one on purpose.

Why was he asking about her?

It had to be deliberate. It had to be a carefully placed hook. He knew she was the reason Evelia got reaped, and he was testing. Perhaps Faustina Gripper herself had told him to mention her.

Whatever the point of this question was, Evelia wouldn't give it to them. She refused to hand it over, to let them turn something personal into spectacle. They weren't going to use her distress for their entertainment.

That was a personal issue, and she wouldn't let Snow make it public just to humiliate her.

(Oh, poor little Evelia Vane, who got reaped because of her hating mother, and was now cursed to die in agony under the president's watch!)

Never would she let them think that way of her. Never. Not even for a second.

"I hope she's handling the restaurant well without my help," Evelia answered instead, letting a small, almost careless smile curve her mouth. "I know it can be hard."

Caesar brightened instantly. "A restaurant! Of course! That's right, your family's business... hard work, long hours, very Capitol-friendly values there!" He beamed at her. "You're a working girl at heart, Evelia Vane! I'd bet all my hair dye that all the boys who like you back home are in that very restaurant watching you, regretting not confessing their feelings to you!"

A whistle cut through the crowd, sharp and playful. Evelia felt her cheeks heat immediately, a flush she couldn't fully control, and she hated that it betrayed her so easily. She wished she could just disappear from the stage, dissolve into the lights or the sound or the ridiculous glittering backdrop, but she remained impassive anyway, forcing her expression into something neutral and presentable, as the eye behind her kept watching her.

"Maybe," she simply answered.

Of course, there was no boy. No one was attracted to her in Four. But the Capitol didn't need truth; it needed something it could hold onto. If she wanted to sell herself, she had to lie.

"I sure hope they'd give you a warm welcome if you win!" someone in the crowd yelled. A man's voice, loud enough to cut through the noise and land directly in her chest.

Evelia froze. She couldn't even form an answer. Not a clever one, not a careful one, not anything at all.

Disgust washed over her first, followed by something heavier that settled too deep to name properly. Not fear exactly, but something closer to terror that had nowhere to go.

What was wrong with these people?

Haymitch was right. If she won those Games, what would await her wouldn't be celebration. It would be something no sixteen-year-old (or no one at all, for that matter) should have to survive.

Even Caesar seemed to be taken aback. He blinked once, then twice, like he was recalibrating the tone of the entire room. His mouth opened as if to form a statement — whether to smooth things over, defend Evelia, or push the moment even further into spectacle, even he didn't seem sure.

But then the bell rang, signalling the end of the interview.

Caesar forced a laugh at the last second, clapping his hands one more time. He helped Evelia stand, still smiling for the audience, and guided her gently back into position at the centre of the stage, giving her just enough space to face the crowd alone again as the lights held on her.

"Well! A lethal beautiful girl with charm and humour and talent... what more could we ask for, folks? Tell us about a fallen angel! District Four, you've done it again! That was Evelia Vane, folks!"

Most of the audience got to their feet, applause swelling like a tide that didn't need meaning to keep rising. Evelia smiled anyway and managed a wink, blowing kisses out into the crowd.

When she got off the stage and back to the green room, Plutarch Heavensbee was there waiting for her before she even had time to reach her friends.

"A word, Miss Vane?" he said, offering an arm she knew she wasn't allowed to refuse.

She looked at Mags instinctively. Mags's expression tightened with worry for half a second before she forced it smooth again, shaping it into something reassuring so Evelia wouldn't panic in front of everyone. Evelia nodded once, then took Plutarch's arm.

Outside, two Peacekeepers were waiting.

"What's going on?" Evelia asked immediately.

Her mind jumped ahead of her body, filling in blanks it hadn't been given permission to understand. Were they going to kill her right now? Replace her? Had the interview gone too far, said something she didn't even realise was dangerous? Did Snow decide she was inconvenient entertainment instead of useful entertainment?

Before she could ask anything else, they were guiding her into a van. Plutarch got in with her, closing the door behind him. Evelia stared at him, eyes wide and unguarded for once.

"The hell is happening?" she asked again. "Where are we going?"

Plutarch ran a hand through his blonde hair as he sighed. He looked uncomfortable, almost human, but Evelia couldn't decide whether that was real or just another layer of performance designed to keep her calm. Either way, he didn't answer.

The van stopped quickly.

Evelia stepped out into front of an imposing white marble building. It stretched the length of the block, a single structure accessed by a huge pair of wooden doors inlaid with a pattern of golden stars. It was beautiful in the way things were beautiful when they were not meant to be questioned.

It didn't inspire trust at all.

What was it supposed to be? A jail? Something worse?

Two men in violet uniforms stood in silent attendance at the entrance. Plutarch gave them a small signal and the doors opened without a sound.

"Where are we?" Evelia asked again as she followed him inside, her voice echoing slightly in the long corridor. Her eyes travelled up the walls to the lofty ceiling over the entryway. No poodles or oranges here. Just marble and enormous urns filled with bunches of flowers the size of bushes.

"It seems like our president would like to say a word or two to you about your... performances."

Evelia felt her heart drop so suddenly it was like something inside her had been cut loose.

She had gone over the Capitol's limits, and now she was going to pay the price.

Perhaps Snow would be the one to shoot an arrow at the target he had been drawing around her all along.

Evelia moved in silence, her footsteps tapping softly against the sterile, polished floors, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the vastness of the corridor. The halls stretched endlessly around her, and each step seemed to pull her deeper into something she could no longer walk away from, and to stop her thoughts from spiralling somewhere dangerous, she started counting.

One. Two. Three. Four.

By the time she reached fifty, she realised she was not truly counting at all. She was trying to steady her heartbeat. Trying to force her breathing into something controlled while fear tightened slowly inside her chest.

"This way," Plutarch said.

His voice cut cleanly through the silence.

They stepped onto a thick carpet that gave beneath her feet with the softness of moss, muting every trace of movement. It felt wrong somehow, walking through a place so quiet it seemed designed to erase the existence of the people inside it. Evelia cracked her fingers one by one and forced herself to look around instead of inward.

She wondered how many people had walked these corridors over the years. Who they had been. Why they had been summoned here.

To be executed?

To threaten the President?

To negotiate?

To beg?

Plutarch led her through a long arched hallway lined with enormous portraits in gilded frames. Men and women stared down at her in elaborate, old-fashioned clothing, their expressions composed with the sort of effortless superiority only Capitol families seemed capable of wearing naturally. Each held something meant to represent them — a scale, a silver goblet crusted with rubies, a harp with golden strings.

Plutarch gestured lazily towards them.

"Meet the Heavensbees."

Evelia glanced briefly at the nearest portrait before looking back ahead. Then she continued walking without waiting for him to guide her further.

She kept her face carefully neutral, though her thoughts had begun moving far too quickly.

Plutarch came from one of the wealthiest families in Panem, those portraits proved it. Perhaps the wealthiest. He had been raised here, educated here, shaped by the same Capitol machinery that produced people who applauded children slaughtering one another every year.

And yet somehow it had failed on him.

Or perhaps it had not failed at all. Perhaps it had simply sharpened something already inside him.

Because, from what Evelia had observed, Plutarch did not think like the others. He spoke carefully, but there was always something restless beneath his words, something calculating. He wanted the arena destroyed. He wanted rebellion. He wanted tributes already standing half a step from death to become symbols powerful enough to shake Panem apart.

But he would never be the one inside the arena himself. He would never be the one to do the dirty work.

That part curdled something inside her.

There was something deeply ugly about asking children to carry out a war grown adults were too afraid to fight openly. Dressing it up as bravery did not change what it truly was. Using tributes as weapons while standing safely outside the bloodshed felt cowardly no matter how noble the cause might be.

Still, the Games would end if people like him succeeded, and that mattered.

Did the outcome make the methods acceptable?

Evelia did not think so. Sacrificing young lives for a greater cause still meant sacrificing young lives. In her mind, that alone should have made the line clear.

But she could already tell Plutarch did not see the line in the same place she did.

Eventually, they reached a large room that resembled a library. Evelia glanced at the books, wondering whether they were original copies or carefully rewritten versions shaped to match the Capitol's narratives. The covers looked old enough, yes, but that meant nothing here.

She glanced at Plutarch, who was studying her with a curious focus. She could tell he was just as intrigued by her as she was by him, which made her wish that there were no cameras in the room so she could press him with all the questions building behind her teeth. But that wasn't possible, so she shifted her attention instead to a small table set near the centre.

Two bottles stood there.

One contained an almost gold liquor that caught the lamplight and seemed to hold it, glowing as though it were lit from within. As if it didn't just reflect light, but kept it.

The other bottle held an orange liquid, fresher in colour, bright enough to feel almost out of place in the room. Evelia found herself drawn to it without entirely understanding why, as though its colour alone suggested something less dangerous than the rest of this place.

"What are those?" she asked.

Plutarch chuckled as he opened a cabinet and took out two elegant glasses. Evelia's mother would have been jealous of those.

"Alcohol," he said. "The first one is called Nectar. You're not allowed to drink it. It's reserved for the President, for special occasions, such as important dinners."

He handed her a glass, which she accepted, then reached for the second bottle. He tilted his head slightly, asking without words if she wanted some, and she nodded once.

"This one is called Hemlock. Comes from a poisonous plant, actually."

"What?" Evelia asked.

"Yes, but don't you worry. It's been distilled enough so all the poison is gone. Here, try it."

Evelia took a careful sip after Plutarch had taken one first, and immediately grimaced. It was strong and sharp and sour, and although there was a faint sweetness underneath it, something almost floral and unsettling, she didn't like it at all.

Plutarch watched her reaction with faint amusement. He took another sip from his own glass, unbothered by the burn, then leaned back slightly against the table.

"It grows on you," he said mildly. "Most things do, with time. Whether you want them to or not."

Evelia frowned.

"I doubt that."

She set the glass down on the table and looked back at him. Whatever careful language he wrapped his meaning in, whatever distance he tried to build between intention and truth, it wouldn't work on her.

"I thought the President wanted to speak to me," she said flatly.

The quicker she saw that monster, the quicker it would be over. Over how, though, she had no idea. If anything happened to her, Griffin could replace her for Beetee's plan, so her death wouldn't be much of an issue.

Plutarch shook his head as he straightened from the table. He crossed to a closed door and glanced at Evelia, exhaling softly before knocking three times.

The sound echoed.

Eventually, Plutarch turned his head again to look at her.

"You can go in."

Evelia's throat tightened as she stared at the door, her heart hammering hard enough to feel almost external. Swallowing once, she reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the handle. With one last shaky breath, she pushed it open and stepped inside, forcing her gaze to stay lifted, just like Maysilee always did. Nose in the air. Like fear was something beneath her, not something inside her.

The office was cramped and swallowed in shadow, lit only by a single flickering candle that bent the darkness into shifting shapes. President Snow sat hunched over an ancient-looking parchment, his quill scratching steadily across it. Deep lines carved into his brow. Sweat clung to his forehead, visible even in the low light, and Evelia noticed how pale he looked beneath it all — almost ill.

There were no windows.

It struck her immediately. A sealed room, cut off from the outside entirely. She remembered her father talking about bombs thrown through glass during the Dark Days, and for a brief, almost detached moment, she wondered if this was the reason. Still, it felt less like protection and more like suffocation.

As she stepped fully inside, Snow's cold eyes lifted to meet hers. Something unreadable shifted in them, and a shiver ran through her before she had time to stop it.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Evelia asked.

"Yes, Miss Vane," Snow said.

He gestured to the empty chair opposite him, sliding the parchment neatly into a drawer as though it had never existed.

"Please, sit."

Evelia hesitated for only a moment before lowering herself into the chair. Her body felt too aware of itself, every muscle held tight as if the air had weight and intention. Candlelight trembled across Snow's face, breaking his features into something sharper.

She folded her hands in her lap, forcing stillness, though her fingers betrayed her anyway.

He smelled like roses and vomit, an awful, cloying mix that made her stomach turn.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Snow simply studied her as he lifted a small glass that contained what looked like milk, took a slow sip, and set it down again with care.

"How are you feeling, Miss Vane?" His voice was soft, almost warm, but it carried a thinness underneath it that made her nerves tighten instantly.

Evelia held his gaze for a fraction too long before answering, as if she were weighing whether honesty would cost her something in a room like this.

"I'm fine," she said at last.

Snow's expression didn't change, but something in the stillness around him tightened, as though he had been waiting for that exact shape of answer. He shook his head once.

He took a handkerchief and began patting at his forehead, his movements more unsteady now that she was looking closely. Evelia noticed the faint tremor in his hand, the way his control seemed to slip in small, humiliating increments. He was not well. Not at all.

And for a brief, dangerous second, her thoughts shifted.

She could end this right now.

Her gaze flicked across the room, searching for anything sharp or solid, anything that could be turned into an ending instead of a conversation. An ending to Snow's life. But the office offered nothing. No ornaments, no tools, no edges that mattered. Everything had been removed or designed not to matter.

Snow followed the direction of her eyes and let out a laugh.

"Oh, the Vane family... such a rebel lot," he said. "You won't kill me, Evelia. I know you have enough courage to believe you can, but you cannot. Your father and uncle believed the same thing, and look where it got them?"

Evelia felt her stomach turn, but forced herself to remain still. He spoke of her father's fate as if he knew it, as if it were something he could place neatly on a shelf and revisit whenever it suited him.

Did he know what happened to him?

Was her father here, somewhere in this building, whether he was held, hidden, stripped of speech and name until he was just another Avox in a corridor she would never recognise? She had seen enough of them here.

"Tell me, Evelia," Snow continued. "What do you know about the Twenty-Third Games?"

"Well, not much, considering I wasn't born," she scoffed. "The arena was set in a ruined city that used to be the capital of this country before. Washington D.C., right?"

"Exactly," Snow said. "And during those very Games, we introduced many mutts... our Gamemakers have had plenty of inspiration since then, all thanks to Dr. Gaul. Though I've never been very fond of her, her mind had a way of making arenas... rather special. And deaths too."

The words slid through the room with unsettling ease.

Like her uncle's death. Dismembered.

Evelia's jaw tightened so sharply it almost hurt.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I have been observing patterns in you, Evelia," he said calmly. "Irregularities, I like to call them. Small things at first, rather easy to dismiss. But they accumulate. Your family has always had a... tendency. Rebellion doesn't always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it manifests as repetition. As habit."

"Your father," he went on, "was particularly creative in that regard."

Her pulse hitched.

"He liked small disruptions," Snow said. "Nothing overt. Nothing that would justify immediate punishment. But enough to be noticed by the right people."

The candle flickered between them, its flame bending as though it, too, were listening.

"Reaping urns," Snow added almost conversationally. "Names replaced, slips altered... not enough to change outcomes en masse, but enough to create... uncertainty."

Evelia's breath caught before she could stop it.

"And your uncle," he said, "has been less subtle. More theatrical. Both, however, rooted in the same impulse. They wanted to disrupt the system and test its limits. See what bends."

His eyes sharpened slightly.

"There is a pattern in your family," Snow said softly. "And patterns are rarely accidental. And, as I've mentioned, you've been using this pattern. Back in your District, I heard you've been burning posters or ruining cars. Or, more recently, that little stunt you pulled with District Twelve during the chariot parade, or your private evaluation."

Evelia studied him.

He wasn't trying to scare her directly. Not in the crude way people usually did. It was slower than that, something more precise. He was laying out fragments and leaving her to assemble the shape herself, forcing her mind to do the work of fear. And so far, he hadn't told her anything she didn't already know.

"Well, I'll be dead in a few days, so don't worry yourself too much about me," she quipped.

Snow smiled faintly as he nodded.

"Yes, you will be dead soon. But... what makes me think you won't repeat that behaviour in the arena?"

The words landed differently this time.

Damn it. Did he know about the plan?

"Better to be safe than sorry, Evelia," he went on. "I'm sure you understand I have to take my precautions. One is never too safe."

He then lifted his gaze to the door, and cleared his throat before speaking.

"Bring him in," he said.

The door opened before Evelia's brain fully registered the order.

Two Peacekeepers entered first, followed by something her mind tried to reject before it could fully form.

It failed.

Because the shape was human.

Because it was familiar.

Because it was her father.

But not her father in any way that belonged to memory.

He was being held upright more than he was standing, his body bound so tightly it seemed to have been reduced, compressed into something smaller than it should have been. His frame was shockingly thin; bone sharp beneath skin that had lost its colour entirely, drained into a sick, greyish pallor that made him look almost unfinished. One eye was gone completely, the socket hollow and dark and wrong, the surrounding skin bruised and sunken as if it had been forced inward over time. The other eye struggled to focus, drifting without landing, like it couldn't decide where reality was supposed to be anymore.

His nose had been broken and never properly set, leaving his face skewed, collapsed slightly to one side in a way that made even breathing look painful.

And still... he was looking for her.

Evelia's body reacted before thought did.

"No," she said, but it came out fractured.

Her chair scraped violently as she half-stood, and immediately a Peacekeeper shifted. The barrel met her before she had even decided to move further.

Snow remained seated.

Evelia's father's head lifted slightly at her voice.

That small movement hit her harder than anything else.

Because it meant he heard her, it meant there was still someone inside there trying to respond. Her papa was still alive, for fuck's sake! She had to find a way to save him.

A broke sound left him then but it was directed at her. It was recognition. It had to be.

Something in Evelia snapped forward instinctively.

"Stop—" she started, but the Peacekeeper's grip tightened instantly, forcing her back into the chair.

Snow's voice cut through the moment, calm enough to feel wrong.

"There are no better examples than visual ones," he said mildly, almost conversationally. "Words tend to be... negotiable. People argue with them. They reinterpret them."

His gaze flicked briefly to Evelia's face.

"This," he added, "is not negotiable. You cannot reinterpret what happens before your eyes."

Evelia couldn't process all of it. It came in fragments — her father's breathing; the smell of the room; the pressure of the gun still fixed on her; the fact that Snow was speaking as if this were instruction, not cruelty.

Her father made another sound, weaker this time, like an animal in a slaughter house.

"No," Evelia whispered again. "Just take me, please. Leave him alone and kill me!"

Snow ignored her and continued.

"This is your punishment," he said. "Not for what you have done, but for what you are. For what you continue to be capable of becoming."

Her father shifted again, a faint, involuntary movement as the Peacekeeper behind him adjusted their grip without hesitation.

The room felt suddenly too small for what was happening inside it.

Snow lifted a hand slightly, as if correcting timing.

The sound didn't feel real at first, more like something her mind refused to file correctly, something that belonged in another room, another life. Then the blood followed, spilling down the side of his skull as his neck slackened, his body going heavy.

They had just shot her father in the head.

Evelia's body started to tremble, but she couldn't bring herself to move. Not forward, not back. Not even to breathe properly. Everything inside her had gone still in the worst possible way, as if shock had reached in and pressed its hand over her entire nervous system.

She didn't protest when they cleared the body.

She couldn't tell where her father ended and the floor began, only that there was a gap where something had been, and now it was gone.

Somewhere behind her, Snow spoke again.

"I hope this example will make you understand my point, Evelia. Vanes can turn as much as they want to find the right direction, but snow will always land on top of it to freeze it forever," he added. "This is a battle you cannot win, Miss Vane."

The door opened again, and Plutarch stepped inside.

He looked at her, and there was something in his face that almost resembled regret. But it didn't reach her. Nothing reached her. Not him, not the room, not the fact that the world was still moving as if it hadn't just cracked open.

Snow had just shot her father in front of her.

"You may leave now, Miss Vane."

Evelia turned on her heels slowly, finally looking at him again.

The hatred came late, spreading through her chest until it felt like it might replace her heartbeat entirely. She wanted to lunge at him, to tear into him, to make him feel even a fraction of what she was feeling, to ruin him the way he had just erased her father.

But he was still there, sitting right in front of her, alive and smiling at her.

"And may the odds be ever in your favour."

—

and like this, we're done with the first act!!! now let's move onto the Games!!!!

little nerdie breakdown because why not;

-the part "Still, the Games would end if people like him succeeded. That mattered. Did the outcome make the methods acceptable? Evelia did not think so. Sacrificing young lives for a greater cause still meant sacrificing young lives. In her mind, that alone should have made the line clear. But she could already tell Plutarch did not see the line in the same place she did."

this came up to me after rereading my philosophy lessons, believe it or not. this is a demonstration of the utilitarianism vs absolutism debate. basically, utilitarianism is believing that if the outcome is good enough, the method is justified whereas absolutism is thinking that wrong actions remain wrong, no matter the the outcome. to me, plutarch is SUCH a great example of Utilitarianism, it physically pains me. I need a book about this man.

-the drinks!

the bottle reserved to Snow (the nectar) is straight from greek mythology. it's a drink reserved to the gods. if a mortal drinks it, they die instantly. it's a way for the gods to separate themselves from the mortals, to show their superiority.

-and the other bottle, with the Hemlock drink, is inspired by Socrates, as he's been sentenced to drink its poison! I'm not a huge fan of his, but I do like his mindset of questioning everything. I only apply it to politics because they LOVE to lie to us and to use social media to get us in their pockets!!! educate yourselves before voting for someone PRETTY PLEASE!!!! and fuck the right wing too btw Im tired of this shit idk. be woke be an educated leftie

anyway, thank you all for reading!! I love you all xx