Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She remembers the morning of the reaping perfectly. It's one of those moments that carves itself into your mind, because you don't know it's the last time your life will breathe any semblance of normalcy.

It was an ordinary morning, except they got to sleep in late. She showered and put on a light yellow dress with small wooden buttons fastened just above her chest. Once dressed, she noticed her sister, Taelis, behind her, also wearing a light orange dress and gazing out the window.

"It's a lovely day" Taelis remarked.

"Lovely?" Tanasmee asked, confused, as she peered outside. It was true. A sunny day, rare in a district so often covered in fog, but it seemed determined to offer a ray of sun on that day of tragedy. Still lovely wasn’t the word she’d use—it wasn’t quite right. But her sister had a way of saying things with a certain flair, framing them in a better light. She was always better at that than her even if their father said they both had in in them “How inconvenient for the sun to come out," she just added in a mumbled and approached Taelis to adjust the buttoned sleeves of her dress. "How did you sleep?"

"Can't complain. My body seems to have accepted that after today, this constant tension will finally be gone." 

Breakfast was normal. They sat with their father in heavy silence. Not man of many words on the contrary to his daughters, maybe that is one of the few things they have gotten from their mother whom used to talk all the time, such a precious voice  that no wonder why it never went quiet until one day it did. That was a rough time, a wound that would never heal, but their father has always been there. He works as a line supervisor, coordinating other workers. Not a factory manager or owner of a clandestine boutique, but among the factory laborers, it is one of the best positions one can hope for. They worked too, Taelis and her, just less shifts than any other typical children at the factory, still after the summer they were planning to increase them since school was over for them.

They went out because it was still early. They headed north, to the part of District 8 where young people gathered. where groups naturally formed, kids gathering with the ones they shared school benches or factory shifts with. They gathered there not because of a coincidence but because it was one of the few places where despite the constant fog that clung to the district like a second skin, the air always felt clearer there. Maybe it wasn’t, not really, but the mind believed what it needed to.

That morning, there were more people than usual. Maybe because it was the last stretch of time that still belonged to them. Maybe because it was easier to breathe when surrounded by others who were just as scared.

Tanasmee strolled among them like she belonged to everyone and no one, inhaling the weight in the air as if she could carry a little of it for each of them.

“If this were a play, I’d need to make my entrance with a sad song,” she whispered to Taelis, narrowing her eyes like she was about to belt out a tragic ballad.

“Please don’t” Taelis muttered, though a smile was already tugging at her lips.

“Why not? What if it’s the last time I ever do it?”

“Tana…”

“I’m joking,” she added quickly, her voice dropping softer. “It’s not the last. It won’t be the last.”

And then, with the kind of mischief that always arrived just before she did something dramatic, Tanasmee climbed onto a chunk of broken concrete. She turned to face the crowd and, with exaggerated flair, pressed both hands over her chest.

“Dear citizens!” she declared, loud enough for nearby groups to hear, “Tonight's big performance is in honor of anyone who may or may not have a VIP ticket with their name on it to get into the Capitol.”

“Get down, you maniac!” someone shouted but with a laugh.

“You look shorter up there!” another called out. It was Calden, her friend since they were little. He lived in a house just near hers, and they used to walk to work together, though he usually covered more shifts. Sometimes she’d invite him over for a meal, and he’d share the most fascinating things he’d read in books—something rare but he had inherited a couple and treated them like relics, rereading them over and over, analyzing from different angles. From those pages, he came up with the most unexpected ideas—some clever, others... well, sometimes she just wished he’d stop talking, because those thoughts were definitely not well-received. But his company had always been pleasant. It was his final year too. She wondered what plans he had for the rest of the day, once the reaping was over.

“That’s because you’re looking at me with love!” she shouted back, bowing so deeply her hair brushed her knees.

And just like that, the tension broke—cracked open like a window letting in air. As it always did when Tanasmee was around.

Everyone knew what day it was. But when she laughed, when she performed, even just for a second, it didn’t feel like the end of the world.

She has always had that gift. 

District 8 was harsh and noisy, but Tanasmee used to hum or  sing while working—sewing, stitching, spinning. Not out of joy, but to soothe herself. It helped lift others' spirits, too. To make the hours pass. To try to make the unbearable almost livable,  sometimes others joined in, it really helped, they all sounded better together and not even the sound of the fabric could shut their voices down. 

Little kids from the district used to sneak into her work station just to listen to her while they patched fabric or waited for their parents. She’d sing for them like they were her only audience. Like she was something soft and warm they could carry home in their pockets. She doesn't know exactly when she started singing, but it must have been after her mother died because her father, broken by the loss, used to call her 'the little thread radio', saying he couldn't bear the silence.

Taelis watched her now, arms crossed, a blend of frustration and fierce affection in her face—the kind only sisters can wear well.

“You’ve definitely got something broken in your head,” she muttered.

Tanasmee hopped down, twirling mid-air before landing on her feet.

“If that’s true,” she said, grinning, “then you cracked it when you started talking to yourself.”

“I was talking to mom.”

“I was too. Then you opened your mouth and answered back.”

Taelis shoved her lightly, and Tanasmee let out a laugh, one of those pure ones and looking back she really misses that moment. But in that moment it slipped away. Tanasmee glanced at the watch on her wrist. Time had passed.

They had to go back.

The crowd began to thin as groups peeled off to return home. Some walked with stiff hands. Others kept theirs buried in their pockets so no one would see the tremble.

Tanasmee didn’t hide hers. She reached for Taelis instead. She held her sister’s hand, tight. And though she didn’t sing aloud, she began to hum—a quiet thread of one of their mother’s songs. One of the simple ones, the kind that spoke of sunrises and smokestacks, and invisible threads that tied people together across long distances. Taelis looked at her from the side. She didn’t say a word. But she didn’t let go either.

And Tanasmee squeezed her hand a little tighter as they turned the final corner and saw the square at the end of the street.

When they arrived they started to comb their hair. That was usually the moment when without wanting to all the inevitable thoughts came to Tanasmee and wondered if after it, as Taelis had said earlier they might actually find the peace that had been stolen from them for so many years. She glanced sideways at Taelis, they both had the same chances—their names were in the bowl the same number of times: seven

As she gathered her dark hair into a ponytail, meticulously tucking away every stray strand, Taelis hummed a tune that she never got to forget, and suggested they go to comfort some families after the reaping and she agreed. There was something comforting about making plans, even if they were for after an awful ceremony that would shatter some families. 

They left home when the clock struck the hour. The sun pressed down on their eyelids, it was beating down fiercely, they kicked up dust with each step. Some homes were already empty, everyone was making their way silently toward the square. Every year the same: grave faces, formal clothes, and slow steps as if delaying the walk might delay the reaping too.  

In the girls' line, to get to their line, they passed through the youngest girls, they looked ready to cry while the older ones feigned composure. At least she had her sister beside her, and offered her a small encouraging smile. On her other side stood her classmate Sylva, wearing a new blue dress that fit her so perfectly that she could even assume it was made specifically for her.

"Beautiful dress" Tanasmee complimented.

"Thank you, it's an early birthday gift," Sylva explained. "What do you think she'll wear this year?"

By she she meant Plaucidia Dovecote, their capitol escort. They had this little game where they tried to guess what ridiculous outfit Plaucidia would show up in. Last year, Sylva had won by guessing that she'd wear a hat with some animal and in fact it turned to be a small bird in a tiny cage perched on her head, that kept causing Plaucidia problems throughout her speech. Tanasmee doubted they would ever see that bird again. 

"Let's hope nothing alive this time," she muttered at the memory.

Sylva laughed twirling her hair as she threw out ideas for what the woman might wear this year. Her bet was on something with feathers.

Tanasmee scanned the line of boys, her eyes searching for him—and in that moment, their gazes met Calden and stuck his tongue out at her, which she returned. Then she turned her head at Taelis who was already looking at her, Tanasmee smiled at her and that made her sister smile too. It was the last time she saw her smile so widely at her.

“Sometimes I think you were born for this,” Taelis said “To help the rest of us hold on a little longer.”

“Im not sure about that but I hope it also applies to me too” she replied, slinging an arm around her shoulders and giving them a squeeze before letting go.

"By the way," Sylva added, "any plans later? My mom is making lamb stew to... balance out the day. You're welcome to join." 

Just as Tanasmee was about to respond, brisk footsteps echoed despite the distance. Plaucidia mounted the stage with her mechanical smile and theatrical voice.

"Looks like no feathers," Sylva whispered.

The same old speech followed. The same words glorifying sacrifice. The same story justifying horror. 

Then came the moment. The moment Plaucidia Dovecote approached the bowl. That's when the trembling started, when tears threatened to fall, when paralysis crept through all the district's children.

She clutched the sides of her dress tightly as she waited—just like everyone else—ready at any second to hear a death sentence or breathe a sigh of relief. It didn't hit her until that moment how bad things could turn out. 

"Tanasmee Breamlace."

She held her breath, frozen, feeling all eyes settle on her. She heard those sighs of relief, especially in her row and she couldn't blame them because they were the very same sighs she herself had let out for years. Plaucidia called her name again, and Tanasmee forced herself to move, but she couldn't, not until she felt the touch of her sister beside her, who grabbed her arm tightly, clinging to her as if that could stop her from being taken.

She sensed the Peacekeepers approaching, ready to escort her, and started to pull herself free from her sister. Plaucidia with those neon-blue eyebrows and satin gloves grabbed the microphone and repeated her name, and Tanasmee began to walk. Her sister's cries faded into the background as her mind failed to fully process what was happening—she simply acted on autopilot, the way she'd seen children do every year, each walking toward the stage in their own way.

As she climbed the steps, she felt like she was in someone else's skin, as if it wasn't really happening to her. But once she stood in front of the massive crowd, she knew it was happening. To her.

The world didn’t stop.

There was no pause from fate. Just a soft, collective exhale, as if everyone present let go of the breath they’d been holding without realizing it. A kind of resigned, broken, inevitable ah. And within that sigh, there was everything. Because Tanasmee was known. Not famous, but known. For singing while she mended uniforms. For her absurd jokes during late shifts. For those small things that, in a place so gray, make someone start to matter, quietly, gradually, until it’s too late to say so out loud. Some lowered their gazes.
Others held theirs firm. A few boys and girls she’d just been with earlier—factory mates, schoolmates—stood with their fists clenched.
A cluster of younger children, too small to fully grasp the moment, looked at each other in quiet confusion. And then there was Calden, who who had his jaw clenched and seemed to want to stand firm without any surprise or sorrow in his eyes. She couldn't blame him, it was just as well not to see that pitiful look on his face or anyone else's.

Those faces just the way they were in that exact moment imprinted in her mind because it would be the last time she would ever see them looking at her like that.

It was so sad how the world didn't stop only leaving her with the painful thought about how she had been so close. So close to escaping the games. It was her final year. After surviving six reaping days, they had finally caught her. 

"Now, for the male tribute."

Her unfortunate male counterpart stepped up onto the stage with a serious, firm expression. She didn't know him, but when they shook hands, she felt the familiar calluses of someone who works on the production line at the factories, like almost everyone in the district. They were given those precious minutes that passed like seconds to say goodbye to their families. Her father and sister, Taelis, were there waiting for her and from the moment she entered that room she didn't let go of her.

"Tanasmee" she said between sobs, repeating her name, maybe trying to convince herself that it was actually happening. The memory of the plans they were making for later seemed so far away. How odd the way one's life can change within minutes and for someone from the districts it can only go bad. 

They both knew that would be more of a death sentence than anything else. There was no need for hollow encouragement.  Being from an urban district, they weren't known for sending tributes with useful arena skills. It had taken almost two decades for them to have a victor, and that had been ages ago. Tanasmee didn't need to be a genius to know she would never really return. 

That competition was far beyond her abilities. 

The sisters clang to each other, when their father came in to held them both. Their remaining minutes together were spent in a silent in that desperate full of feelings hug.

"Tanasmee, please pay close attention during training. Try to learn as much as you can and stay alert. You are always so observant, you know that."

She only nodded to her father's words, afraid to speak because he was already on the verge of breaking with each sentence. She and Taelis locked eyes, and Tanasmee fears her sister will somehow feel it the moment her heart stops in the arena. Taelis took her hand and gave her something handmade—a cloth medal the size of a bottle cap, stitched from spirals of dark red and lavender, the lavender reminding her of one of her favorite dresses. On the back is a cracked mother-of-pearl button, and in the center, two hands are embroidered. Tanasmee liked to think it would help her remember that someone touched her with love before the Capitol laid their hands on her.

"Win them over. I know you can."

Time runs out because it has to. Calden didn’t come. But it was better that way. She didn’t want anyone else there. They had talked so many times about how their goodbyes would be and neither of them had wanted to see the other. Sometimes, the last memory is better left untouched—not seeing the terror on someone else’s face.

 After being hounded by cameras to the point of exhaustion, they finally boarded the train and as they left the cameras behind, she reflected on how she'd always enjoyed attention but she never imagined it would come like this, under these circumstances. In the train they saw again Plaucidia and since she called out their names Tanasmee couldn't  help but feel it personal, instinctively keeping her distance. But next to Pluacidia stood their mentor, waiting with the same kind of look others had given them on stage. 

"Hello, Tanasmee. Hello, Haden. I'm so sorry this happened to you," said Cecelia.

Tanasmee was glad she had someone like Cecelia to be their mentor. She knows her, everyone does. Cecelia was still young, late twenties but she was a sensible and wise person. Tanasmee had sung for her children a couple of times and knows how kind and maternal she is and even though she doesn't have mother a bit of maternal warmth could be what she needed in that moment and what would need trough that evil journey.

"We are going to work on your strategy, but I don't want you to ever think you don't stand a chance. That's what I believed, and I could've saved myself from a lot of things if I hadn't."

It had taken a long time for Cecelia to win back the trust of District 8 after becoming a victor so Tanasmee just knew she was being honest and tried to believed her. She really did.

She looked at her male counterpart, Haden Velstitch, properly for the first time. Broad-shouldered and tall fifteen years old. That made Tanasmee feel a little better because she thought he would have a better shot and would know how to handle himself. She had seen too many many twelve- or thirteen-year-olds barely alive cling to their older allies whom would beg them not to leave and then those kids die holding their hands. Those scenes always turned her stomach and she always used to hope not to end up in one of them. So knowing Haden looked like someone who might actually stand a chance gave her some comfort.

"Where's Woof?" asked Haden.

But Woof wouldn't be of much help, and they both knew it. Still, experience has its value, and they needed all the help they could have gotten. So she supported bringing the old man along.

When Woof arrived, he managed to say a few things, though it was hard to follow him—either because he has trouble focusing or because they were both still reeling from everything. They tried to stay composed, like warriors. But at dinner, Tanasmee saw Haden looking out the window, and heard soft sobs. She started crying too, unable to help herself, but felt fortunate to have someone beside her who understood. They cried together for hours unable to stop. 

She had heard his father, his room was next to hers, and in the silence of her own, everything from his carried over. She didn't want to bring up family, but maybe it helped. Haden sniffles and looks at her, a little less anxious.

"You have a twin sister, right? Do you hold on to her because she believes in you too?"

Taelis had never said it aloud, but Tanasmee knows that if she could, she would bet on her

"Of course. I always have her in mind," she replied "Those two kids with you were your brothers, right?

Haden nodded, and she caught a deeper wistfulness in his gaze. Her mind flashed to the two small children clinging to Haden's parents during his farewell. They relied on him to survive—still too young for factory work, those tiny hands useless for wages. All those double shifts... his family needed every scrap he could provide.

Her father would be fine because they have always been fine, as fine as someone in the districts could do and her twin was her own age, old enough to fend for herself, she knew she would be alright. So, if anyone needed to make it home, it was Haden

"I will be by your side during the parade, you are not alone in this one" she said.

"Then the two of us will have to try to stand out." he sentenced.

Then the doors opened. The first district went out. Tanasmee placed a hand on his shoulder and gave a squeeze to let him know everything would be okay.

She thought that maybe Haden was right. Maybe standing out wouldn't be such a bad thing.
They were a pair, and she wanted him to have better odds—so she put on her best face.

The music blared, thunderous as their chariot rolled forward. There were too many people, more than had ever laid eyes on her before. But Tanasmee was already used to more attention than any other child in her district, had grown used to stares. After all, she was the one who sang to entertain, to lift spirits.

So she stood tall, one hand gripping the edge, the other raised in greeting, fingers spread as if she could touch them all. There was something clumsy and chaotic in her silhouette, like an unfinished painting. But she stood proud, with a forced smile.

Beside her, Haden looked tense, like the weight of the carriage rested entirely on him. She turned to look at him and smiled to remind him they were a pair.

He tried, but didn't carry it well, still just the fact that he was still standing was more than enough for someone who was being forced to smile to a crowd full of awful strangers.

"Just breathe, Haden" she said softly, without turning around "No one dies from dressing like a piñata."

At least, not that she knew.

The carriage rolled through the crowd, pulled by jet-black horses that shone under the lights. Capitol citizens clappedenthusiastically—some screamed, some pointed, some laughed at the girl from District 8 as if she were part of a play.

If she had thought her outfit wouldn't be the most... peculiar, she was wrong.

She met every single one of their eyes, chin held high. And she was received gracefully every shout, every laugh, every flash. Because one thing she had always know even before getting to the Capitol was that attention is good. It always is. And that was her moment. Her chaos was her banner. And they couldn't take that away from her.

As the carriage reached the middle of the avenue, a gust of wind lifted the ruffle of her skirt, showing more than she intended. Some laughed, others made gestures she rather ignored, and others just applauded louder. Tanasmee calmly adjusted the fabric and laughed along because they were nearly at the end. 

The parade avenue stretched ahead, and District 8 advanced. Patched. Mismatched. But visible. Because although the other districts followed, more beautiful, more harmonious, with outfits that looked like a work of art...

That patched-up dress and the way she wore it would stay burned into the minds of everyone who saw it.

She saw President Snow's face broadcasted on the big screens, but she narrowed her eyes to look at him in real life from afar and even the distance didn't change how much of a strange experience it was. There he was, that ancient architect of their doom, the reason why that place was filled with future dead people, beaming at their latest crop of sacrificial lambs.

When his speech ended and the cameras cut they went back to their escort and stylists, all gleaming teeth and performative delight, suddenly the most attentive they have been since the reaping.

"Magnificent! Magnificent! Tanasmee, you were spectacular!" Plaucidia exclaimed, their stylists nodding in agreement, admiring her like a prized circus animal.

"Well done, both of you," Cecelia added, placing a hand on their shoulders. Woof, always beside her, offers a few strange but clearly positive words.

Then, among the buzzing conversation, she noticed someone staring at them. Many people were, actually. It was that time when everyone starts sizing each other up. But only one walks over and says:

"You might want to be more careful with your tribute's outfit. I doubt the skirt was meant to do that."

Everyone turned to see who spoke, and she finds herself face to face with a green-sea eyed, golden-skinned young man she recognizes instantly: Finnick Odair.

"Oh, Finnick, how are you?" Cecelia greeted him, clearly the intended person to answer the remark.

Finnick replied politely, but Tanasmee could tell he was still expecting an answer. She saw him there in real life for the first time—not on a screen. The young Victor from District 4 who won just a few years ago and is still the talk of all Panem. Now a mentor. She knew he would be there, but didn't expect him to approach them. Her stylists seemed to share her confusion because Cecelia replied:

"I'm a good friend of his mentor. Tell Mags I'll stop by later to say hi" 

"I will," Finnick replies.

"Aren't they magnificent?" Plaucidia cuts in, gesturing toward her tributes and stepping a little too close to the young man before he can say more.

Finnick looked at Haden and her with a brief but somehow drawn-out stare. So odd having someone she had always seen on television standing in front of her.

"Bold choice of wardrobe," is all he said turning to look at the stylists with a faint smirk, then turned to Cecelia. "Always a pleasure. I'll see you later."

Tanasmee watched him leave while her team chattered excitedly about him like any Capitol citizen would. She wondered where "later" is. Where mentors go while the tributes cry.

She saw Finnick rejoin his tributes.
His tributes. What a strange thing to say, considering how young he is but weirdly doesn't look because the passing of those few years seemed to have taken its toll on him. He is even a year younger than her, and already bears that burden.
She thought how it must be awful being a mentor to people older than you. Then again, being a mentor at all must be awful.

At least Finnick Odair didn't seem like a total show-off. Her first thought was that maybe he approached to scope out whether they were a threat to his tributes, but as Cecelia's friend it made sense.

That night at dinner, she reflected on how well the parade really went. Their team assured them it had gone well, they had drawn some attention, which was already a big achievement for a district like theirs. But it wouldn't be enough. What really mattered would come tomorrow, during training.

The good thing about training was that Haden was good with knives. He had an amazing precision, which made sense given how skilled his hands were from sewing and repairing all his life.

Tanasmee remained discouraged, trying to find meaning in training. When you know you don't stand much of a chance, what's left? Still, she waved between sitting idle and doing something, so she spent her time in the ropes section. She knows knots and has an easier time understanding nets, bindings—anything related to threads. No one else was in that section except for a tiny girl tribute from 6.
That's when Haden came over and sat beside her.

"You should make the most of the training time." she mumbled.

"I need a break... What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be capitalizing on the attention you got?"

Some tributes did glance at her when she walked in, but then again, everyone looked at everyone there, trying to find their next prey or hunter. It didn't matter.

"Maybe that's the problem, they are expecting something from me, and I have nothing to give," she replied "Might as well let them forget me."

Haden shook his head.

"I want you as my ally, Tanasmee. You're the only one who knows what home is like. The only one I can trust." His voice trembled and he glanced around to make sure no one noticed the glossiness in his eyes. "I know you don't trust yourself, but I need you to try."

Tanasmee felt her face contort. She had feared this—feared he would ask something like that. Because she didn't have much to offer she didn't want anyone depending on her, especially Haden, who actually stood a chance. He had held himself together admirably—he cried, sure, but who hadn't? So seeing him there, asking her to be his ally, near to burst into tears, she just knew it wouldn't end well for neither of them.

"I need someone by my side. I know I can stay standing if I'm with you... because I know I'll fall eventually," he paused, then whispered, "I don't want to be alone. I don't ever want to be alone."

She just knows she can't say no. No one deserves to be alone at the arena.

"Fine, we are allies."

He smiled, still teary-eyed, and gave her a handshake she returned.

From then on, that young boy had chosen her and she needed to become someone worth choosing. If she wanted to keep Haden accompanied for as long as possible, she would have keep his company alive: herself.

So she stayed at the station and laid her cards on the table: she is good with ropes, and while she is not the smartest in the room, she thinks she might even manage to make some improvised traps with strong enough fabric.

Maybe those traps would help. And besides, she is very resistant to heat and confinement from working long shifts in closed-off factories, so among everyone there, she thought she may be best equipped to handle stifling or claustrophobic environments. She crossed her fingers for an arena like that.

That was the only thing that held her together, the one thread she never let go of the entire time: to stay alive as long as she could. And when her time came, because she knew it would, she hoped it wouldn't find her afraid, but holding on to one wish: that he wouldn’t be left alone for too long.
Because that —more than death itself—was what scared her ally the most.

Chapter Text

The day of the interviews had arrived, and she already knew what her stylists would aim for: a dress just as peculiar as the one she wore in the parade because with the score of 6 she'd received from the Gamemakers, there wasn't much they could work with.

When they were done with her, Tanasmee looked at herself in the mirror and the first thing she noticed was the heavy makeup that made her look older and how the interview outfit was even more outrageous than the parade one, and she realized it was because her stylist assumed that, since it worked once, it would work again. Concordia wouldn't stop circling her, analyzing every detail with a mix of pride and desperation while everyone showered her with compliments for making her look so beautiful, as a member of her prep team fiddled with her hair.

It was a short, golden, asymmetrical dress that played with the aesthetic of a sewing mannequin. The corset was stiff, with visible stitching lines and painted pattern markings, exposing part of her stomach as if it were a test cut on fabric. The sweetheart neckline was finished with decorative golden jewelry.

The skirt was made of scraps of different "test" fabrics layered unevenly, some shorter, some slit to show her legs. Behind her hung a drooping bow made of lavender-dyed tulle.
Something she would maybe expect to see in a capitol citizen, but for an interview it was a definitely a bold choice. It screamed for a second look, and all she could do was wonder what Haden would be wearing.

Suddenly, Plaucidia stormed in, eyed her closely, and shoved Concordia out of the way.

"No, no, no! Where's the second transmitter?"

"What transmitter?" Tanasmee asked, trying not to move too much.

"The backup mic! The last interview we did without audio almost got me in trouble" explained Plaucidia and ignored Concordia to turn to a young assistant. "Go find it, now! Maybe we left it in the audio area, next to the mentors' lounge."

The assistant hesitated, so she shoved him and dragged him along.

"You're coming too," she said to Tanasmee. "If we don't find it, at least they can test another one on you."

And just like that, she was following Plaucidia down marble halls that gleamed like new and smelled faintly of mint. They turned a corner, then another, and Plaucidia scolded the young man at the door, who opened one that clearly wasn't meant for tributes.

"Are we... supposed to be here?" she whispered, taking in the golden walls and low velvet couches that clearly didn't belong to the training circuit or the interview set.

"Shortcut," Plaucidia said as her heels clicked sharply against the floor.

That's when she saw them. It was a room filled with familiar faces—familiar to all of Panem. Mentors, probably waiting while their tributes got ready.

And there, as they passed, she saw him.

Finnick Odair was leaning against a column, casually chewing the edge of a nail, radiating an effortless boredom. When he noticed the movement, he looked up—and saw her. Not Plaucidia. Her.

And his expression changed. Just a little.

"What's a tribute doing here?" he asked, eyes still on her before shifting to Plaucidia, who huffed.

"Oh please, darling Finnick. We're just looking for a transmitter... Nothing anyone here can help with. Step aside."

They kept walking, probably breaking several rules that Plaucidia couldn't care less about, after all she didn't even care about the people inside. Tanasmee followed as quickly as her outfit allowed, her heels clicking behind. The mentors all turned to watch, and who could blame them, she was the only one in a bizarre dress and a giant veil that could blind someone if they got too close from behind.

While Plaucidia made the assistant dig through forgotten bags—and ended up doing it herself out of "sheer uselessness"—Tanasmee stood off to the side, wondering where Cecelia was among all these eyes. At least they were from the districts. They didn't see her as a threat. Or a joke. Just... something they couldn't quite figure out. Something pitiable. Something they simply didn't care about anymore after years of seeing tributes after tributes end up with the same destiny.

For a moment, she thought about how, in a few days from then, all those faces and the perspective she had of them would just be blurry memories.

She started fiddling with the tulle of her dress, trying to keep it from riding up, trying to stay warm. And then, finally saw Cecelia approaching, Finnick behind her, probably the one who'd told her.

"What are you doing here?" her mentor asked. Tanasmee just tilted her head toward Plaucidia.

"I'll speak to her," Cecelia said. "Maybe they won't take it out on her, but they could take it out on you."

As Cecelia walked off to confront the woman, Tanasmee stood watching Finnick from the corner of her eye. On the lapel of his suit, just above the chest, was a small flower-shaped silver pin that matched his suit attached to a wire. She couldn't stop staring. With a pin like that, she could fix the skirt, keep it in place and avoid what happened at the parade.

Without realizing it, she stepped closer, eyes still locked on the pin, stopping just inches away.

"Something wrong?" Finnick asked, following her gaze to the spot on his outfit.

"That could work" she murmured, not looking at him.

"This?" he asked, pointing at it. She nodded. "You want it?"

Tanasmee nodded again. He seemed to think about it for a moment, glanced over his shoulder—probably at her escort and mentor—then took the pin in his hands, examined it as if trying to find something special about it, and finally handed it over. She accepted it eagerly, inspecting it up close and giving it a small approving nod.

"Thanks" she said, finally looking him in the eyes.

"It's nothing. Just don't bring it into the arena," Finnick warned. He clearly had no idea what she wanted it for. Maybe he thought she'd try to use it as a weapon somehow.

"I'll keep that in mind," she replied. Then, hearing the voices of her mentor and escort behind her, she knew it was time to go. "Thanks again for lending it to me."

"It's a gift. Really, it's nothing."

"No, I'll return it" she clarified.

Finnick wanted to tell her she wouldn't because she probably wouldn't come back, but saying that would be cruel. So he just nodded.

"Good luck tonight. You'll need it."

Plaucidia strode off, followed by Cecelia and then Tanasmee, who gave the mentor a small wave goodbye. He smiled at her with that magazine-cover charm and stepped aside to let them pass. But once their backs were turned, the smile faded. Like every year seeing all those blurry faces of the tributes that didn't make it, he thought it might be the last time he’d see her.

Goodbye, girl from Eight. Just another one fallen to this world. Maybe that's for the best.

She was already in the line, observing nothing extraordinary, just Career tributes showing off as usual, even tiny Juno from District 1, who carried herself with pride despite her size. 

They waited, mentally rehearsing their strategies. On his mentor's advice, Haden would mention his knife skills but avoid boasting—no need to paint a target on his back. Tanasmee, on the other hand, would probably get trivial, superficial questions, the kind she had rehearsed with Plaucidia. The woman had dug through her list of skills to find something Caesar might bite on, and ended up learning she could sing. Plaucidia had dismissed it without interest, but Cecelia convinced her it could work—not just selling strength, but empathy.

Plaucidia replied, "I suppose there's always someone who pities lambs," though she added "no offense." So if she added that then can you really blame her?

Tribute after tribute passed. She memorized every detail. This year's Career pack seemed lethally sharp—except Juno, who lacked both physique and any boast-worthy intellect, all talk and no substance. But that kind of confidence often carried far in the arena. The rest peddled their usual impressive feats: the boy from 1 a total show-off, the girl from District 2, Xhantippe, had amazing sword skills and was pretty charming, the audience seemed to lover her determination, skills and beauty. All combined made her the perfect tribute to sponsor.

But the real threat, the one who unsettled her and surely every other tribute was the boy from District 4: Nereo. Towering and eloquent, a rarity among Careers who usually relied on arrogance over wit. Nereo spoke intelligently: how to forage in the harshest conditions, how to kill without dirtying his hands. He held the room captive and might've talked longer if not for time constraints. Definitely the night's standout. Nereo was definitely someone to take into account.

Tribute after tribute went by, and after the small boy from District 7, it was her turn. This would be the first real impression of who she "truly" was. What kind of person she was beyond the image. But how much can anyone know in a few minutes?

She was nervous. Her palms were sweaty, and a lump had lodged itself in her throat. She swallowed it as she stepped onto the stage, the pin holding her skirt in place but that didn't stop the chill from those unknown faces reaching her.

"And now we have... Tanasmee Breamlace, from District 8!" Caesar announced. She sat beside him and he jumped right in.

"Well, many of us loved your parade look, but for an interview, this is a bold choice... you almost look like a circus performer."

If you thought about it, being up on that stage wasn't so different from the makeshift ones she used to sing on back home. Framing it that way, everything might go more smoothly. Entertaining people was one of the few things she was good at. And if that meant entertaining that crowd, so be it.

"I think we both know the real time to wear your finest is the interview," she replied.

Caesar laughed immediately, perfectly warming up the crowd. A few audience members chuckled too, loosening the knot in her throat. This might actually work.

"You're absolutely right," Caesar grinned, pointing at her. "But you're not just about style, are you? A little birdie told me you've got some entertainment talents of your own. Care to share that with the audience?"

She swallowed. That was it.

"Well..." she glanced out at the audience, knowing the cameras would catch that human hesitation. "I like to sing. I've done it since I was little. At the factory, at home... anywhere the machines weren't drowning me out."

"How wonderful!" Caesar exclaimed. "And are you any good? With that outfit... should we be questioning District 8's taste?"

The crowd burst into laughter, and without missing a beat she replied:

"Maybe we should question my stylist's taste," she said, and more laughter followed. Then she added, trying not to sound cocky: "And she's from the Capitol, so you tell me."

Sorry, Concordia. A wave of amused murmurs rippled through the crowd. They found it funny because it felt like she was poking just the right amount of fun. It's always easier to laugh when you know you'll get the last word.

"Well, you're pulling it off very well, Tanasmee. So well I'm tempted to try it on myself. Maybe we all can look like circus performers" he joked, earning more laughs.

"But I'm good at it, I don't burst eardrums," she said, replying to his earlier question, which drew a chuckle from the man. Interacting with Caesar was surprisingly easy, she finally understood how he managed to make even the most tight-lipped person sound interesting for a few minutes. Though, to be fair, she had to give herself some credit too. Her comments came out on their own. Back home, she never shut up, and she thought that part of her would stay back in District 8, but apparently nerves brought it out here too—those funny, nervous remarks.

"You've got quite the spark," he said, touching her shoulder. "So, would you like to share something with us tonight?"

Tanasmee forced herself to nod, wearing a polite, carefully calculated smile. The knot in her chest returned, but this time it wasn't fear. It was the same kind of pressure she felt right before singing in the district hallways, when someone asked her to "sing something cheerful" after a hard day.

The stage went quiet. Caesar gestured to the crew, who dimmed the lights slightly and raised a soft spotlight on her. Plaucidia was probably on the verge of a meltdown backstage.

Then Tanasmee took a breath. Closed her eyes. And began to sing.

A sweet, simple melody, something you'd hum in a hammock or while sewing. Nothing grand, just a clear voice filling the room like it had been waiting to do so.

Come away little lass, come away to the water,
To the arms that are waiting only for you.
Come away little lass, come away to the water,
To the ones appointed to see it through.
We are calling to you.

It wasn't a song she sang for audiences. It was one she sang more for her sister and father. They loved hearing it. It was for those grayer-than-usual days, when all they wanted was to remember the woman who once had been there for them, their mother, who used to sing it to her daughters when they couldn't sleep or to her husband on his worst days.

She wanted to sing it one last time for her family, even if it was uncomfortable, offering something so personal to a crowd ready to watch her die without blinking. But she wanted it to be the last time she gave them the satisfaction of seeing her sing.

Come away little lamb, come away to the water,
Give yourself so we might live anew.
Come away little lamb, come away to the slaughter,
To the ones appointed to see it through.
We are coming for you.
We are coming for you.

It didn't last more than two minutes, but it was enough for those at home. She wouldn't need cameras or Capitol people to make her voice heard again. She wouldn't sing for them anymore.

The audience, so used to interviews filled with laughs and jokes, fell into an odd silence. As if they weren't sure whether to clap. As if what they had just witnessed was too fragile to break with noise.

And then Caesar, always tuned to the mood, said with a gentle smile:

"Tanasmee Breamlace of District 8. Thank you for reminding us that even in the darkest corners, someone can still find a song."

The lights returned to normal. Applause erupted, cheers rising to a full standing ovation.

And Tanasmee, heart pounding like a drum, stepped off the stage.

"Magnificent! I bet you brought some tears to a few eyes," said Plaucidia. She glanced to the side and saw one of the stylists' assistants sniffling. Capitol citizens couldn't seem to move each other anymore, so she understood their hunger for something real.

"You kidding? She made us look bad," Concordia chimed in. But she didn't look nearly as mad as Tanasmee had expected. Maybe the song had spared her too.

"You were incredible. I think you secured some sponsors," said Cecelia, giving her a supportive squeeze on the shoulder, while Woof raised a thumbs-up nearby. "Let's see how Haden does."

Haden stepped on stage just as she was stepping off. He wore a much more appropriate suit and handled himself well, steady as always—and the knives helped. If she had any hope of having earned sponsors (because Cecelia's "I think" was still a think), he surely had secured some.

Back at the apartment, they all had dinner together, no one missing at the table. She had grown used to the apartment's comfort—the turquoise walls, the refined decorations. For dinner, they had their favorite meals. Cecelia had asked them in advance. Haden had chosen mashed potatoes, and Tanasmee a lamb and vegetable stew, which she ate with genuine pleasure. She wasn't alone, her partner clearly enjoyed his dish too, smearing gravy all over his chin, making everyone laugh as he stared back at them in confusion.

Suddenly, she knew it was their last dinner together, and that filled her with deep unease. She tried to hold it back, though, because this was a moment worth savoring with those around her, even all of them. They had been there for her, even if by obligation, and in this strange new place that was the Capitol, that brought her stability.

They watched reruns of the interviews, receiving compliments from their team. But the song left her with a knotted stomach instead of the comfort she'd hoped for. Hearing herself sing didn't have the same effect as hearing others.

"I'd like to make a toast," said Woof, standing up with a glass in hand. She wasn't going to lie, she was surprised to hear him speak. "Another year. Maybe yesterday was better than tomorrow, but here we all are. Maybe the same number in body, but not in spirit or maybe it's the other way around."

It was rambling, but not disheartening. He sat down again—shortest toast ever—and they clinked glasses while she and Haden exchanged amused, puzzled looks. She thought about their mentor's words—and if you added a melody, it could almost be a song lyric. Something to sleep on instead of nightmares.

When their escort, stylists, and her prep team left, some going home, others to a nearby floor to head to the Games venue the next day, they gave a heartfelt goodbye. When she said goodbye to the two members of her prep team, whose names she hadn’t learn because she didn’t want to get more attached and form a vincule, she still realized she had clearly grown fond of them even with all their quirks just like they had grown fond on her and Haden. But still Tanasmee had some questions going trough her mind like: did they grow attached to every tribute every year? What was so special or personal in their sad faces? Didn't matter. This moment was for them, and that was enough. 

The last to say goodbye was Plaucidia.

"Another year as an escort," she sighed in front of them, adjusting her large, glowing spiked tiara. Then she turned to each of them. "But you two were good. I see manners here and not too many tears."

"Goodbye, Plaucidia," they both said, shaking her hand, which she held with surprising warmth.

"Girl, keep that spark. Boy, aim those knives well," were her final words before she left.

Then it was just the mentors and the tributes left in the apartment. Silence settled over them. Maybe they were mourning already. Cecelia broke it with a plate of freshly baked almond cookies for dessert. These cookies were typical in District 8 for their simplicity, usually saved for special occasions. Topped with almonds, they were delicious—and instead of moving to the table, they just ate them in the kitchen.

"These are amazing," said Haden, licking his lips.

"Did you make them?" Tanasmee asked.

"I always bake them for my kids on rainy days and they love them," she replied, pulling a jug of milk from the fridge. "They're even better with this."

They dipped the cookies in milk until they were soft and even tastier. Both kids ended up with white moustaches.

"Ha! You've got a milk moustache" said Tanasmee.

"So do you," Haden shot back, wiping his with his sleeve.

After the snack, they went to bed. Around midnight, she got up to use the bathroom—her second time throwing up, probably from the nerves twisting through her body. As she came out, she found Haden in the dark living room.

"You can't stop going either?" he asked. She shook her head. "Wanna go get more cookies?"

She nodded, even though she wasn't hungry and another bite would probably come back up. They went to the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers as quietly as they could—though the more they tried, the louder they were. Finally, they found the cookies and sat on the couch in front of the window. At first, she'd meant to watch the moon or the calm night sky, but all they could see were fireworks.

"I liked your interview," Haden said.

"I liked yours too."

"But your dress was really weird," he muttered. There was a pause as she stared at him, unsure how to respond—then she burst into laughter.

"It really was. I think they've got it out for me," she joked. "But it got us some attention."

"Yeah, let's see how much that actually helps in there," he mumbled. Tanasmee hoped it helped a lot. If she had picked herself up again, it was for him. A silence settled between them as they stared out the window.

"What are you thinking about?"

I'm thinking about my family and everything I'm about to lose.

"A lot of things," she said simply. "What about you?"

"If by this time tomorrow we'll still be alive and... how I have no idea what I'll do in there and that scares me," he said. It didn't take much thought; it was clear he'd been holding that in. "How everyone out there's going to see me..."

"The Games are just games. What happens outside, the consequences, that's the real fear," she whispered. "But I think we'll handle it as best we can."

Haden said nothing. He let the silence return. After a while, maybe reflecting on her words, he asked again:

"What are you thinking?"

It wasn't a question she wanted to answer, not if it meant making him more nervous. But what was the point in lying to each other?

"I keep wondering, will Taelis still be a twin, after I'm gone?" she finally said. That—such a trivial, silly thought—was what had been buzzing in her mind all night.

"We'll handle it together in there," her companion said. But he wasn't just a companion anymore. He was her ally. No, more than that. A word that existed before this cruel context:

Friend. Her friend.

They each went back to their rooms and tried to sleep. But her dreams were filled only with mutts, the mythical ones she'd seen in past editions, with their glimmering, deadly coats, tearing her and Haden apart. When dawn came, they woke up. She ate breakfast with the much more appetite than dinner, probably because her stomach was empty, and who knew when she'd eat again.

When it was time to say goodbye to their mentors, they reminded them of everything they'd taught them—especially Cecelia, who had probably avoided the subject during dinner to keep the mood light.

"Don't run into the bloodbath, but if you can grab a backpack do it," she repeated. "District 8 would be rooting for you even if you feel like the whole world in there isn't"

She gave each of them one last hug, a tight, heartfelt embrace. When she pulled away, her eyes were brimming with tears. Tanasmee thought about how being a mentor must be a kind of torture she'd never want to experience, especially with how quickly she grew attached to people.

"Goodbye, Cecelia."

"Goodbye, Haden. Goodbye, Tanasmee."

She boarded the hovercraft, and from that moment on, everything blurred into automatic mode. She hardly remembers the process—the tracker being implanted, her last glance at her friend, wearing a long-sleeved gray thermal shirt, reinforced canvas pants in the same color, and industrial boots which didn’t give much away of what was expecting her and entering the cold, sterile room where Concordia gave her a final sendoff, as kind as she could, or at least tried to... At least she was saying something.

"Despite your little comment, you wore my designs beautifully. I hope I get someone just like you next year," she said as Tanasmee stepped into the tube.
Wouldn't it be nice if there wasn't a someone next year?.

In that moment, just before going up, she remembered the pin Finnick had lent her, it was still in the pocket of her previous clothes. So she quickly headed toward them and rummaged through the pocket until she found the silver flower-shaped pin. She made her way to her stylist, who looked at her, puzzled.

“Could you give this to Finnick Odair? I told him I’d return it,” she said to Concordia, extending the pin toward her.

Concordia looked at her skeptically for a moment, but eventually took it and just finished with a calm, "May the odds be ever in your favor Tanasmee Breamlace"

The tube began to rise slowly—unlike her heart, which felt like it might burst at any second from anxiety. Until now, she had avoided thinking too deeply about what kind of arena she might face, but reality had finally hit her like a brick wall. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, blinking fast, bracing for that blinding light that usually greeted tributes the moment they surfaced into the arena.

But it never came.

No blinding light.

Only darkness.

In front of her stood a ghostly, abandoned city locked in a state of eternal dusk. The clouds above were gray, the air thick and hot, saturated with a constant vapor that seeped from rusted grates in the ground and from massive, broken pipes that snaked across the arena like sleeping serpents. The fog was so dense it masked the sky even though it was daytime. She wasn't sure if this place was meant to resemble a city destroyed by war or by chemical catastrophe, but everything around her seemed frozen in a state of chaos.

Before her, only the wreckage of old riots remained—overturned cars, makeshift barricades, torn-down posters, shattered storefronts, and crumbling concrete structures that might offer some cover. All of it made the Cornucopia stand out even more than usual. Bags. Weapons. Tanasmee's eyes went straight to the bags.

Even though her mentor had told her to steer clear of the bloodbath zone.

She was still debating whether to go for one because in an arena like that, food was clearly going to be nearly impossible to find, when she felt something warm brushing against her skin.

Then it hit her.

The vapor didn't just cloud visibility, it burned on contact. And in some areas, it was so thick you couldn't breathe properly.

This wasn't just any arena.

It was hostile. A place that seemed to breathe on its own and didn't want anyone to survive it for long.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Sixty-Eighth Hunger Games begin!"

Chapter Text

The moment the gong rang, chaos erupted.

Tanasmee moved right away, running directly to Haden who took longer to move but when he did went directly to the Cornucopia to grab one of the biggest backpacks, she saw how a big tribute from 10 was also going for that backpack. Without thinking, she leapt forward and before he could grab it she grabbed his arm.

"Come on," she said, voice tight. In that moment they both saw how that tribute from 10 grabbed the backpack and a massive spear.

He followed her without giving second thoughts to that backpack and, gripped her hand back, and they bolted—not away from the Cornucopia, but toward a mid-sized backpack that lay close to the edge of the central chaos. Not too deep, not too far. Just reachable.

Others had the same idea.

A boy darted toward the same backpack, colliding with Tanasmee shoulder-first. The impact sent her sprawling. Haden yanked her back up just in time when Juno from 1 had hurled a knife that embedded itself in the ground where her head had just been, seeing that she failed Juno threw a knife directly to the head of that tribute from 10 and yelled at her allies to grab the supplies.

Adrenaline roared in Tanasmee's ears. She rolled toward the backpack, snatched it with one hand while Haden fended off another tribute using a piece of piping he'd grabbed off the ground. Another tribute, stronger and determined appeared raising an axe.

"Down!" Haden screamed.

She dropped flat on instinct as the axe whooshed over her. Haden tackled the attacker sideways, knocking him into a low concrete wall, and Tanasmee didn't wait she grabbed the backpack straps with both hands and shouted, "Now! Run!"

They didn't stop running. Not when they heard someone scream just behind them and all the following screams and sound of weapons agains the skin. Not when the haze thickened and their lungs started to burn. They just ran—dodging jagged debris, jumping over fissures in the ground that hissed up clouds of toxic steam.

They didn't stop until they found a gap beneath what looked like the wreckage of a collapsed factory floor. A slanted slab of metal leaned against a massive pipe like a fallen tent. It wasn't safe but nothing in that arena was.

Inside, it was cramped, dark, and reeking of rust and old chemicals, but the steam hadn't reached there yet.

They collapsed in the shadows, gasping.

"Are you okay?" Tanasmee rasped, eyes wild. His cheek was bleeding from where something had grazed him. Her chest heaved. "Any harm?"

"I don't think so," he whispered. His arms were trembling uncontrollably "You?"

"I’m fine" hough she looked close to throwing up. "I don't like the air, it feels like it's... alive. It burns"

Haden swallowed hard and dared to peek outside the crevice. The world was thick with smoke. The sky above was the color of dirty water. He could just barely make out the silhouette of the Cornucopia—distant now, but still visible in the endless gray.

Screams had faded into silence. Only the faint hiss of steam and the echo of metal shifting in the distance remained.

At least they had made it out of the bloodbath. 

The bag held five protein bars, ten apples, the same amount of packs of crackers, a flashlight, and a canteen full of water.

Barely anything. But it was something.

She didn't cry. She wanted to. Instead, she pressed her forehead against the cold metal wall and listened to the world breathe around them.

She turned to Haden. "We need to move before nightfall. It's going to get worse."

"How much worse can it get?"

Tanasmee looked out into the city of ghosts, the endless steam, the poisoned air.

"Do you think this place it's gonna see the sun? Because I don't think we will ever see it again"

At that moment, the first of ten cannons rang out. First ten deaths.

That marked the usual number of bloodbath casualties. That day, they stayed hidden until the sky grew darker than it already was and the silence around them felt almost unnatural. Only then did they decide to move.

They walked fast but silently, trying to put as much distance between them and the Cornucopia as they could. Everything was quiet. No other tributes in sight as they moved. Eventually, they found a spot where the warped metal gave way to narrow gaps between two industrial containers. They chose the latter, slipping through a crack just wide enough for them. The smoke, though still choking, thinned out slightly in there. They let themselves cough, knowing they were less likely to be heard now.

They drank water—only a little, though their bodies begged for more—and split a packet of crackers.

"I feel sorry for whoever didn't grab any food," Haden said.

"Looks like whoever didn't is gonna die first... this place doesn't care about the three-day rule."

She remembered how much her eyes burned, and how when the first night fell, everything got worse. Darker. Quieter. Except for the hissing of the steam and the dripping of some fluid no one wanted to identify.

They settled in as best they could, taking turns using the backpack as a pillow—the lumpy concrete was unbearable. When they were trying to sleep—maybe Haden already had—Tanasmee was still struggling to keep her eyes shut when a scream rang out.

It shook their bones.

It wasn't the scream of someone startled or in pain. It was the scream of death. The kind of scream you learn to recognize here. The sound of a person realizing they are seconds from the end, howling into the void.

"That didn't sound far" Haden murmured.

They stayed quiet for the next few minutes, terrified that someone, or something, might pull them out and end it for them, too. Tanasmee wondered if it had been a mutt or another tribute. Later, they'd learn it was the latter.

Just then, the anthem played, and the faces of the fallen appeared.

The pair from District 3, one from 5, the pair from 6, the small boy from 7, the boy from 10, the girl from 11, and finally, the girl from 12—the owner of that final scream.

When the anthem ended, a heavy silence fell between them. For the first time, they tasted what they could become at any moment. Tanasmee fell asleep only briefly, haunted by the image of her face appearing in the sky. Forgotten forever.

The next morning, they ate some apples and a little bit of water. Not a sustainable breakfast—eventually, they'd have to move.

Her memory of the second day was hazy. Not much happened in such a foggy, broken-down place. They were constantly suffocating, but luckily, the thick hot smoke barely reached the cramped corner where they were hiding.

"Quite the arena" Haden muttered after a coughing fit, taking a bite of his apple.

"It's not so different from home" she replied, sipping from her water ration.

Ironically, after wishing for an arena suited to her experience, they'd ended up in one eerily similar to the forbidden zones of the factories back in District 8. At least they were faring better than the others. Tributes from 4, used to cool ocean breezes, or from 9, with clean air and open fields, would be struggling here.

"This isn't home, and your people know that better than anyone. They really went too far with this. I don't even know what they were aiming for."

With so much time to think, Tanasmee had begun to understand the Capitol's intentions more clearly. This arena was a message. A clear depiction of what the Districts would become without Capitol control. It was a slap in the face, telling them: look, this is exactly what your homes would be if you dumb slaves ever decided to rebel. Law, order, blah blah blah.

"But they do know exactly what they're doing" she muttered. There were cameras everywhere. "At this rate, the Games will end quickly."

"They left food at least, so I doubt they'll end that quick," he replied, tossing aside the apple core and clutching his stomach. "I'm still hungry."

"They only left it so last year wouldn't repeat itself."

"You mean the cannibal?"

Tanasmee nodded as she handed him another apple. She was still hungry too. She had never felt her stomach demand more so desperately, but they couldn't afford to use up what little they had.

"Do you think what he did was wrong?" Haden asked. She couldn't tell if the question was serious, but everything in that place came with a certain weight. "You know... most people remember him as one of the worst tributes, but Titus didn't have a choice. You can't control what you do in here."

"I wouldn't hurt you. Or eat you," was all she said. It wasn't smart to linger on that topic, but her friend had other ideas.

"I know, but... why is it our fault? Why is it wrong to look out for yourself when they leave you no other option?"

Tanasmee sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She tried to choose her words carefully, but in a place of constant stress, thinking carefully wasn't something everyone could afford. And maybe Haden had a point.

"They have their own moral compasses. You can't guess what they'll think of everything we do... all you can do is guess right," she finally said. "So guess wisely about what you're going to do, because nobody wants a victor like that. Just look what happened to him."

The conversation ended there. Haden didn't ask anything else. It seemed both of them got the message. That same second night, two more tributes died. Their faces, like all the others, would stay burned into their memories forever. Later, she'd learn they'd been killed by the Careers, in a fight they never stood a chance in.

The following morning —or what they felt was morning— after a breakfast of apples and half a protein bar each, they left their hiding spot to find another and stretch their legs. It was only their second proper look at the arena since day one, and there was nothing around but rubble and their container–homes.

"Ready?" she asked, giving him a small smile meant to cheer him up — and herself, too.

"Ready."

They walked for hours.

The silence was thick, almost physical. It was only broken by the sound of their footsteps on corroded metal, or tired sighs that didn't dare become words. Every so often, Tanasmee glanced over her shoulder — just in case. But no one followed them. Or at least, no one close enough to be seen through the fog.

The rusted structures surrounding them looked like skeletons of a dead civilization, barely held together by dangling wires and bent beams ready to collapse at any second. Steam hissed from the cracks in the ground, scorching their skin. More than once, they had to change direction because the air burned too much to breathe. There was no vegetation. Just a few blackened mushrooms growing in damp corners — maybe edible, maybe not. Dying of starvation was easy for anyone who hadn't grabbed supplies.

"Wait," Haden said, stopping next to what looked like a sunken metal shell — maybe an old industrial elevator. Now it was just a hollow box, just big enough for the two of them. So they climbed in.

There wasn't much room. No light, no comfort, barely any space. But sitting together in the dark,  gave them a brief moment of peace. However brief. However false. They drank some water, more than they should have, less than they needed.

Tanasmee leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes for a moment. That was when it hit her.

"I thought this would be easier," she admitted. Her voice was a whisper, like the metal would betray her if she spoke any louder. "I don't know... I always pictured myself in the Games, trying to survive as long as possible. But nothing prepares you for this."

Haden didn't answer right away. He was rubbing his hands, restless. His nails were caked with dirt. The skin on his fingertips peeled from the heat.

"I don't know if we're surviving," he said at last. "We're just... existing in whatever space there is between fear and exhaustion."

The words hung in the air. They were precise. Painful. So, to ease the mood, she sighed and said:

"Okay, this is officially the grossest thing I've ever sat on" grimacing as she settled into a filthy, soot-covered corner.

"Don't be such a snob, princess of the trash" Haden replied, dropping down beside her with an exaggerated groan. At least his eyes were no longer filled with hopelessness. "Can you imagine if all of this was just a dream and we woke up in our beds back in 8?"

"In mine or yours with the rats?" she joked.

"Yours, obviously. My rats are very territorial."

Tanasmee laughed. Really laughed, and that sound was softer than anything she'd felt in days. She nudged him playfully, and for a moment, they didn't feel like two kids stuck in hell.

Haden turned to look at her and smiled too, content.

"You should laugh more. It's scary, but in a pretty way," he said, looking at her with something warm in his eyes.

If he had seen how much she used to laugh at home... she would've liked to be friends there. It was almost cruel, as much as it was comforting, that all of that was recorded forever on camera.

"You should talk less. Every time you do, I get another wrinkle."

"Oh, right. Because you are the very picture of freshness. Look at that war face," he said, poking her cheek with a dirty finger. "Straight out of a Capitol magazine."

Tanasmee stifled a laugh, swatted his hand away with mock outrage, but then her expression softened. She looked at him more closely. His face, though filthy, held something familiar. Steady. Dirty and exhausted, but there.

He still felt like home.

They stayed there for hours under the crushing heat and when it was time for dinner the heat made the food just stuck to their dry throats 

"Well, if I die here, at least they won't roast us like chickens," she commented with a grimace, fanning herself with one hand.

"Do you always have to say stuff like that?" he asked with a half-smile. He didn't seem annoyed, just genuinely curious.

"Sorry, I say dumb things when I'm nervous. To calm myself down. They're not always well-timed," she explained. "But hey, it works, right?"

"What will you do if I die?" he asked out of nowhere. Clinging on to the death subject since she had brought it up. He seemed curious — about action and effect. "What makes you so sure you will die?"

"The odds" she said casually, but she still answered his question. You had to be careful with these things. "You're strong, you’re not going to die."

"I don't intend to," he whispered firmly, and for a moment, however brief, it felt real. "But you won't have a choice if something happens to me." He gave a faint, bittersweet smile. "But... thanks for not eating me."

She let out a broken, quiet laugh. So did he. They looked at each other a moment longer, in silence. And in that pause, beneath all the fear and exhaustion, Tanasmee knew she was screwed. She'd crossed the line without realizing. Because now he wasn't just an ally or a new friend in this nightmare. He was a bond. One that would hurt to lose.

"Well, if you die before I do..." she mused aloud. "I promise I won't let anyone speak ill of you."

"What?"

"Yeah. Even if you go cannibal or go crazy and start talking to steam clouds like they're your imaginary friends. I'll say you were a misunderstood visionary" she joked, trying to lift the sadness from his mind. Haden only rolled his eyes.

"And what if I win?" he pressed, locking eyes with her.

She went quiet for a few seconds. Then gave a small smile.

"Then... just don't forget me. That's all I ask."

But she meant it in a good way. Like a friend who was there for him at the worst moment, reminding him someone had once cared. At that,

"You don't even have to ask. Of course I'll remember. You're a good memory, Tanasmee Breamlace”

"Even if you get famous and live in a huge house with all the Capitol people kissing your ass? Even if you have to put up with me visiting you in your dreams every couple nights, whispering at you while you try to sleep?" she said, making ghostly gestures and a spooky "boo."

"I'll remember," Haden said suddenly, with such seriousness it caught her off guard. "I'll remember you whether I win, or lose, or die. Even if a hundred years pass and no one knows your name, I will."

She carries those words now. She lives by them.

They fell silent, facing each other. Only the hiss of steam and the dull thump of their hearts filled the air. Tanasmee reached out her hand; he laced his fingers with hers. Just like she used to do with her sister.

They didn't let go.

"Can we promise something?" she asked softly.

"Anything."

"Let's promise... that if one of us survives, we won't forget what this felt like."

Haden nodded.

"I promise."

They smiled.

Haden looked at her, and for the first time since they'd arrived, his eyes weren't clouded by rage or exhaustion but by something gentler. More human.

"Would you sing something, Tanasmee?"

"I used to sing to cheer people up" she whispered more to herself. "But I think it was more to cheer myself up. And my family."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but I grew to love it. I will sing for you."

Since her name had been pulled from the reaping bowl, Tanasmee had forgotten that singing was her peace and the joy she wanted to give others. And when she saw Haden's face relax, she remembered. She remembered herself. That she had made it this far. And she wasn't going to let the Hunger Games take that from her. She wouldn't let anyone take it.

She took a deep breath. Her voice came out soft at first, almost shy. But steady. It didn't shake. Not this time.

Run, run, run away

Buy yourself another day...

It didn't sound like home, not like when she sang among the looms with her sister. Her voice was rougher, more broken. But that didn't make it less true. If anything, it made it more real. Every verse was an attempt to push back the pain. As if the melody could stitch them back together.

A cold wind's whispering secrets in your ear

So low only you can hear.

Haden closed his eyes. His breathing calmed, as if he'd finally found a pause. As if her words were a temporary shelter.

Run, run, run and hide

Somewhere no one else can find...

Somewhere far from them, a camera broadcast the scene. The Capitol watched. Listened. One of those rich men with sad eyes and a golden glass felt something crack inside.

She didn't know it, of course. But in that moment, her voice bought her a pass to another life.

Tall trees bend and lean pointing where to go

Where you will still be all alone.

She didn't know if it was the heat, the confinement, or the fear piling up that made her skin prickle. Or maybe it was the way Haden looked at her—like the song was a promise of something bigger than the two of them. Like there was still beauty left in the arena.

Don't you fret, my dear

It'll all be over soon

I'll be waiting here for you...

Run fast as you can

No one has to understand...

Haden's gaze met hers.

It was such a small, silent gesture... but it etched itself into her like fire. Because in the Games, sincere gestures were the most dangerous of all. Useless afterward.

Don't you fret, my dear

It'll all be over soon...

I'll be waiting here for you.

The silence that followed was deep. Sacred. Not born from fear, but from the beauty that remained.

"Thank you," he said hoarsely, eyes filled with tears. But the arena doesn't forgive, or maybe someone else doesn't. Because suddenly, a different whistle cut through the air.

Sharp. Prolonged. Not steam. Not normal.

They turned at the same time. A shrill beep cut through the air from the invisible sky above them and then, as if the world split open, it started to rain.

But it wasn't rain.

The first drops sizzled on contact with metal, leaving black scorch marks and smoke. The acid fell in thin streams, and when it touched the ground, it boiled. A thick, gleaming liquid with a stench so strong it burned the nose.

"Cover yourself!" Haden shouted, pushing her against the wall while he turned to block the entrance with a loose sheet of metal.

Too late.

A drop hit his forearm and made him scream. A raw sound that shook Tanasmee to her core. His skin blistered instantly.

She threw herself toward him, pushed him down, tore off one of her sleeves and wrapped it around his arm. The liquid still sizzled, leaving marks on the fabric, and the metal around them had already begun to melt disturbingly.

"We have to get out of here!" she shouted, but then the floor trembled beneath their feet.

At that moment, the metal above them began to give way with a long, deep groan. Knowing it was going to collapse, she tried to grab his arm, but the sheet-metal platform he was standing on gave out, separating them in an explosion of sparks and heat.

And without much time to think, the platform she was on also gave way, slamming down and leaving her dazed for a few seconds. But she snapped back to reality as soon as she heard the droplets crashing violently against the new ceiling, one that would likely give way soon and collapse over them. She forced herself to get up, but she couldn't, every movement hurt. She pried her eyes open, squinting hard to focus her vision, and saw her ally standing next to her, so she extended a hand for help.

For a moment, it didn't come,

but then it did. She gripped his hand and pulled herself up.

"Come on." 

They got out as fast as their battered bodies allowed, stumbling down the stairs. She limped slightly and he held his lower back. The adrenaline dulled the pain somewhat, but it was still there. They were urgently looking for shelter—anything. But the structure began to groan, acid eating through the roof with inhuman speed. The sound was terrifying: a constant hiss of dissolving metal.

"There!" she shouted, pointing to a half-buried maintenance tunnel under a scaffold.

They ran for it, she in front, dodging puddles that were already bubbling, burning through the concrete like lava.

She leapt over a fallen pipe and turned to check if Haden was still behind her...

But he wasn't.

The floor behind her had collapsed with a roar. A giant beam had fallen between them, separating them.

"Haden!"

She saw him on the other side, shouting her name through the haze. The acid forced him to cover his head, but she saw his face twist in pain as droplets landed on his hands.

Tanasmee searched for a way around the structure.

But there was none. Everything was collapsing. Everything was burning. Screams. Smoke. Melting steel.

"Listen!" Haden shouted, his voice hoarse and his eyes burning. "I'll find you later! I promise!"

She stood there for a second longer, wanting to do something, anything. It was a horrible feeling, being helpless. She would always wonder how things might've been if she had fallen with him.

But she would never know. What she did know, right then, was that the acid had broken through the second ceiling and splashed down dangerously close—almost hitting her leg.

She had to run. She knew it. There was no choice. Her legs moved on their own, running through melting shadows and deadly droplets falling like blades. The drops were still getting through, and the first one hit.

A drop grazed her neck.

She hadn't seen it coming. It was a sting, a spark. Then, fire.

"Ah!" she cried out sharply, stumbling to the side and clutching her neck. "Shit, shit...!"

Her skin was burning. A sharp pain, like something was eating its way in from the inside. Instinctively, she tried to wipe it off with her jacket sleeve—but only managed to spread the liquid further down, toward her collarbone. The burning multiplied. She had never felt pain like that in her life. A strangled whimper escaped her.

Driven by pain, she picked up her pace, but another drop landed on her forearm, bringing the same searing sensation and the sound of her own flesh sizzling.

Then the sound of a cannon came. She forced herself to run faster, even though all she wanted was to curl up on the floor and scream. But the desperation not to feel that pain again was enough motivation. She dove into a tunnel, coughing, crying, the metallic taste thick in her throat. She collapsed to her knees at the bottom, surrounded by damp darkness and grime, listening as the world outside kept melting.

She coughed. Coughed so hard it hurt her chest. Her neck throbbed, and with every pulse, the skin felt more swollen, tighter.

When she finally managed to tear off her jacket to stop the acid from seeping deeper, the fabric already had a dark, almost smoking hole. She didn't need to look to know the flesh underneath was raw, red and pale like fresh meat in a slaughterhouse.

And for the first time since the games began, Tanasmee cried.

She didn't know if it was for him, for herself, for how much she missed her family, or for the pain. Or maybe all things together. All she knew was that she was alone. Alone in a rotting world of steam and chemicals, where the sky burned and bonds broke without warning.

The rain lasted only a few minutes. Everything happened in just a few minutes, enough to turn the arena into a pool of liquid hell.

Enough that she didn't know if he'd made it out. And she knew even less when, in that moment, another cannon echoed through the arena, making her heart pound.

The rain stopped. The Capitol had gotten its show.

And now, she was alone.

A couple of hours passed, she didn't know how many, but it couldn't have been long, since the anthem hadn't played with the faces of the fallen tributes yet, when between the searing pain in her neck, forearm and her stomach growling with hunger, Tanasmee was forced to get up.

They had left the supply backpack back at the previous shelter, before the rain. So she made her way there through the tunnels, muscles tight and jaw clenched to stop from screaming. Every movement reminded her that part of her neck had been literally burned by acid rain. Her makeshift bandage wasn't doing much anymore.

When she reached what was left of their last shelter—where you could still see a patch of dark sky—she heard a soft clinking sound.

A small silver parachute was descending gently from a hole in the ceiling.

She froze for a few seconds, wary, almost not believing it. She stepped closer and caught it with both trembling hands.

Inside was a specialized medical cream, unlike anything she had ever seen, and a high-end bandage that shimmered faintly blue. Alongside it, a small handwritten note.

'Don't let yourself fall just yet.'

It was exactly what she needed. Cecelia had been right. She had gotten a sponsor after all. Someone who wanted her alive.

The pain began to fade, and after carefully wrapping her neck, she stood up, breathing with difficulty.

Then she rummaged around, looking for the backpack—but found nothing. That's when she heard footsteps joining her own.

Hoping it wasn't anyone of the people who she thought, she spun around quickly to see.

A tribute. From District 7. Thorne Woodvine. She'd seen her standing out during training: very short hair, prominent dark circles under her eyes, and an expression of pure determination. She held a metal crowbar with the precision of an axe and scanned the area with tense shoulders. The tribute was hungry, had her backpack, was afraid—and had seen her.

Tanasmee raised her hands.

"Hey, hey, hey, I'm unarmed, okay? I've got nothing. No backpack, no food" she said, her voice trembling, though she forced a half-smile to look friendly "Literally all I have is gauze. Not really the kind of thing worth killing someone over... or is it?"

Thorne didn't answer. There were a few long, eternal seconds when she hoped maybe the girl was just as scared and cowardly as she was and would walk away. But instead, she charged at her.

Tanasmee ran, her feet slipping on rubble and patches of oil.

They entered a side tunnel, one of the more unstable ones, where steam hissed through the vents. Thorne shouted as she chased after her, stumbling but not stopping.

"Okay! I hate this just as much as you do! We can hate it together if you want!" Tanasmee yelled, dodging fallen beams.

But Thorne wasn't in the mood for negotiations or listening. She was in survival mode.

Tanasmee barely managed to dodge a direct hit to her back, but the crowbar slammed into her leg, making her twist in pain and fall backwards with a hard thud.

She scrambled on the floor, crawling backward as Thorne came at her again.

"It'll be quick. I promise" the tribute said, stepping closer, and the crowbar came down with force again, but this time Tanasmee caught it with both hands. The metal burned her palms, but she held on.

With a furious growl, Thorne pushed forward, yanking the crowbar. Tanasmee let go just in time to avoid getting her fingers crushed, rolling to the side.

They ran again, this time down a narrower hallway, where every breath felt like smoke and every step could mean a fall.

At the end, a makeshift bridge of rusted scaffolding connected to another level. It didn't look stable.

Tanasmee crossed it at full speed.

The metal screeched beneath her, but held. On the other side, she turned, panting, just as Thorne started climbing onto the bridge, crowbar in hand, still running.

"Hey! No! This thing's not built for both!"

But there was no pause. The tribute kept coming, and Tanasmee knew: she wasn't going to stop. It was her or her. Or both.

The structure groaned with a long, ugly sound.

Tanasmee stepped closer to the edge. Instinct. Reflex.

She reached out a hand.

Thorne halted just in time... but a section of the scaffolding gave way beneath her foot. She screamed as she slipped, left half-hanging, clinging to a bar with one hand.

Tanasmee crouched quickly and offered her the other hand, pure instinct—if you see someone about to fall, your first instinct is to help them.

"Grab on."

Thorne looked up at her, eyes full of rage and fear. Tanasmee could see blood dripping from her scraped elbow, from her check, from her forehead. Thorne had been trough a lot. She held her weight, but barely. The metal bent.

And in the middle of it all... she hesitated.

Only for a second.

She could hear the sound of cameras shifting in the distance. The Capitol saw everything. And something inside her thought what she didn't want to think.

It was the kind of thought you never say out loud. And even if her first instinct had been to help, that wasn't real life. The same rules didn't apply, not there. Just like Haden had said.

"Grab me!" Thorne shouted, voice cracking. "Don't be like the others. I just want to go home."

The bar creaked.

And before she could make a real decision, before she could pull hard and save her—the metal did what metal does.

Thorne Woodvine fell.

"No, no, no!" Tanasmee screamed, pounding the scaffolding with her fists, like she could somehow undo what had just happened.

There was no final scream. Just a thud. Then silence.

She stood there for a moment, shaking. She backed away slowly from the edge, breathing deeply, as if that would keep her from throwing up. The cannon fired seconds later.

It was a brutal moment. But what made it worse was having to climb down and touch her lifeless body, her eyes blank and unfocused, and take her backpack.

There was something so cruel about taking from someone so helpless.

That was the hungriest, guiltiest, loneliest meal she had ever had.

The anthem began to play just as she finished the last apple and looked up at the sky to see the faces of the fallen tributes from day three. 

It was going to be a long night. The first night where Tanasmee Breamlace was no longer the same and would never be the same again.

"Don't let it be him. Don't let it be him."

Chapter Text

The male tribute from 2... the female tribute from 4. Her heart finally released the breath it had been holding.

It wasn't Haden. At least it wasn't Haden. Just as a bit of clarity returned to her mind, it was interrupted by the image of Thorne, his face lit up against that dark sky, so full of life, so full of judgment. It had been a long night. A very long night.

On the morning of the fourth day, no one had died, but she set out in search of a new hiding spot. She found one behind some rubble and beams, covered by a giant sign that provided just enough shelter. Another gift arrived—she hoped it would be water, since she was almost out. But when she opened it, it was pomegranate juice. An interesting choice, but honestly, she needed sugar in her life. She also understood that out there, people were probably betting on her now, after seeing how strongly she clung to survival. A lighter way to describe how she carried Thorne's lifeless eyes in her memory.

Her forearm had improved a lot thanks to the cream, it had healed, but she applied another layer just in case. Her neck still stung, and when she removed the bandage, the wound looked fresher than the other. The contact had probably been worse. That one would scar for life.

The day passed without incident, and she made a mental note: if her calculations were right, there were only eight tributes left, including her. The odds were rising, of dying soon, and of surviving. Honestly, she hadn't imagined getting this far without her friend. Her plan had always been not to leave him alone, at least not until her death separated them. Now, she wasn't dead and he was alone.

That night, as she drank the rest of the cherry juice with two protein bars for dinner, it felt almost luxurious. The first time she appreciated even the bare minimum just because it came from the Capitol. That was their real power: making you feel like you deserve the minimum and should be grateful for that.

"How romantic. Dinner for one in a rusty container that smells like death and metal. Capitol luxury," she muttered with a sarcastic sideways smile.

The spot she had chosen seemed safe. Not too exposed, but with enough gaps to escape. She lay down on a pile of dusty tarps she had dragged in from the back, using her backpack as a pillow. She didn't plan on sleeping much. She didn't trust the calm.

Calm lies.

And it didn't take long.

It was after midnight. The sticky heat intensified. The air felt heavier. Something shifted. Something small.

She heard it first.

A dry rustle—like leaves rubbing together. But there were no trees. Just rubble, beams, and the occasional metal structure eaten away by rust.

Then, a cannon fired. Just one. No face yet.

Tanasmee sat up instantly, eyes wide in the dark.

Then she saw it.

Something moved between the beams. Something was crawling and it didn't sound like it had legs. It was... slick.

The creature dropped heavily from above.

"What...?!" she shouted, rolling away. In the distance, she heard a scream. Someone else was close.

And then she understood.

The creature slithered through the wreckage, translucent and glistening, like a cross between a slug, a jellyfish, and something that didn't belong in this world. It had small tentacles that searched for surfaces.

A tribute—Xhantippe from 2—ran out from the ruins, desperately trying to shake it off. The mutt had latched onto her shoulder. The sound of sizzling flesh filled the air. She screamed with the kind of despair no one could fake. She tried to rip it off, and a large patch of skin came with it.

Tanasmee gagged.

But Xhantippe didn't care about the pain. Another of the things had clung to her leg, and she fought to tear it off until she collapsed to her knees, convulsing. The mutt had poisoned her and tearing at her own skin hadn't saved her.

The cannon fired seconds later.

Tanasmee crawled to the farthest wall of her hiding spot, pressing her back to the metal as she scanned the area. Nothing. Silence.

But she knew she wasn't alone.
Not just because a mutant slug was hunting her but because she knew not just any tribute had just dies but the type that usually moved in packs. That meant the others couldn't be far.

She wiped sweat from her face. She had to move and as she gathered her things in a hurry, she heard a soft, wet sound behind one of the beams. She froze.

A tentacle brushed along the edge of the metal, testing. Crawling, disgustingly. The first sound it made was like a sigh. Not a human sigh. A wet one—like a soaked cloth dragging across glass. She held her breath. Very slowly, she began to back away, guiding herself with the dimmest light possible. At some point, she clenched her fist and didn't look back. Just ran, boots loud against the ground, not caring anymore.

She feared the mutt more than the tributes, especially after seeing it peel the skin off Xhantippe.

The mutt slithered behind her with a speed no boneless creature should have.

"Why are you so fast?! You don't even have legs!" she yelled, dodging rusted pipes and oil stains.

She looked over her shoulder, it was just a few meters behind. A tentacle stretched out and grazed the sole of her left boot. She turned sharply and slid across the cracked floor, scraping herself up, slipping through a low gap. The mutt slammed into the wall behind her, stuck for a moment, then continued oozing forward.

She emerged on the other side, gasping just as something brushed her leg. A tentacle. It clung to her pants for a second.

And in that instant, she knew: if she stayed, it would rip the skin clean off.

She let out a strangled cry and, without thinking, threw herself to the ground, spinning to grab the first thing she could an old beam fragment. She yanked it loose and, with more strength than she knew she had, smashed it into the mutt.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

The sound was horrid, like smashing a live jellyfish against a burning radiator.

The mutt screeched. It didn't have a mouth, but it screeched. And it recoiled, slithering backward, slower now. Confused. Horrified by  the things they could make and unleash.

Tanasmee pulled herself away, gasping for air. The mutt still moved, but it was sluggish. Disoriented. She looked up, at nothing in particular, it didn't matter where. The cameras were always there.

"Are you entertained?"

She stood slowly, using the wall for support. Her leg bled where the tentacle had grazed it, but it didn't seem to have made full contact.

"Good. Still got a leg. Half of one, anyway. That's a win."

The mutt didn't follow. It had left or maybe it had just hidden again, after accomplishing his mission and entertaining the Capitol. But she wasn't about to wait and find out so she ran. With a  bleeding leg not allowing her to properly run but just with that frantic urgency of someone who knew every second spent there could be her last. She squeezed into a ventilation shaft that barely fit her curled up. She pressed herself into the tight space, eyes wide, fingers gripping the old brooch from home.

She didn't sleep.

But she didn't die, either.

And in the arena—a place that takes so much and gives so little—that was already a win.

Up in the sky, she watched Xhantippe's face appear. And the boy from District 12.

After that physically painful and draining night, the fifth day's morning was marked by the sound of a parachute that forced her to move. Her leg still hurt, though less so after she'd applied the remaining acid rain cream to soothe the pain. She stretched with difficulty to retrieve the parachute, and inside was more pomegranate juice and a pair of shiny red apples replacing the ones they had already eaten..

She had them for breakfast along with her last protein bar and found herself wondering how her friend was doing. With everything going on, it was hard to think about others. But his face hadn't lit up the sky, and that counted for something. She did the math and realized the odds were not in her favor. It was her, Haden, one other tribute she couldn't quite recall, the pair from District 1, and Nereo from 4.

"Great, three Careers."

The day dragged on, and she even found herself thinking that the Games were moving faster than usual this year. Maybe that explained the sponsors. But... why was Cecelia so insistent on sending her pomegranate juice? Was she trying to tell her something? Or... was someone else behind it, doing it on purpose?

As she wandered through these absurd blood-loss-fueled thoughts, she heard a shriek. Not human.

"Knew it was weird nothing had happened yet."

It was a rodent-like screech. Too sharp. But it faded, lowering in volume, probably moving away.

She slept for a while, reassured that it was far off. She'd had enough of mutts. Not even the sound of a cannon woke her, what did was the clank of metal and boots sticking slightly to the floor nearby. She crawled forward to peek and saw the hunched silhouette of a man. He wasn't red-haired like Nereo, or blond like the District 1 tribute.

It was him. Haden.

Not on a hovercraft, not on a screen, right there in front of her.

She got up as quickly as her leg allowed and limped toward him.

The thing about the arena is that it sharpens your senses. That feeling never leaves. So the second she moved, he turned. A large knife in his right hand. He looked like a dirty, half-erased version of who he was once. His arm was drenched in blood, hard to tell where the wound even began. His hands were raw, burned by the acid rain, and his jaw had a severe wound like something with crooked teeth had taken a bite. Oh, Haden Velstitch what have you been trough?

He looked at her too, like he couldn't quite believe she was real. Like she might be an illusion after too many bad turns. His eyes looked even clearer than she remembered. Or maybe it was just that now they were empty. No rage, no fear, no hope.

And for a few endless seconds, neither said a word.

"Well," she finally muttered and swallowed to be able to let something out  "Either you're a mirage, or you look like absolute shit."

He gave a dry huff of a laugh. Then coughed.

"You still talk too much."

"And you're still rude. That's a relief."

She stepped in and wrapped her arms around him in a hug that ignored every wound on either of them.

"You're still alive," he said, like he couldn't quite believe it. It took him a moment to return the hug, but he did, slowly. When he pulled back, he stared at her.

She didn't look much better either; her clothes were bloodstained from various wounds, torn at the seams and across her makeshift bandages, including the one she had made for him.

"I guess so," she replied. She swallowed, trying to sound light, but the knot in her stomach didn't let her. "Not for lack of trying from others, though. One of the mutts tried to give me a slug kiss on the leg last night. Not romantic."

Haden looked down at her leg.

"You're bleeding."

"Well, you're not exactly brimming with life either. It's been rough."

She led him to the entrance of her hideout where her backpack was. His jaw was the worst part to focus on.

"That looks bad. Did something try to eat you too, or is this your way of looking tougher?"

He looked down. His fingers were trembling, barely noticeable.

"A mutt. Rat-type," he said quietly. And suddenly, she understood those screeches from before. "It bit me until someone else showed up and seemed like a better snack. I've been walking since then."

He'd been shaking since she saw him, so Tanasmee took off her jacket and gave him hers, the less destroyed one.

"I'm so sorry we got separated."

She zipped up the jacket on him completely, hoping it would stop the trembling. It wasn't cold—maybe it was shock from the attack. She scraped the last of the cream from the tin, and before she could apply it to his jaw, he grabbed her wrist tightly.

"What's that?"

"Cream. They sent it for the acid rain," she said. He hesitated, thinking it over, then finally let go and allowed her to apply it "So... do you have anything in there?" she asked staring at his backpack

"Not much," he replied hoarsely. "Used up what little they sent me."

"Well, lucky for us, I've got more apples than I know what to do with," she said, cracking a smile as she opened her bag. "And some juice, it'll be easier for you to swallow."

They ate in silence. Together, for the first time, without a word.

Haden barely touched his apple. Tanasmee kept glancing at him—the twitch in his eyes like he expected something to leap out from the ruins. The bite on his jaw had turned swollen, bruised, pulsing. His breathing sped up at random intervals. It looked like he was fighting a battle she couldn't see.

"Have you seen anyone else?" she asked after a while.

He shook his head.

"I've been thinking," she started. "There's little Juno, Nereo..."

"Viriel," he said, naming the male tribute from 1.

"Viriel? Viriel... That sounds like a disease. How odd," she muttered.

"How odd that you don't remember a Career."

"Didn't seem like he had much going on upstairs," she replied, tapping him playfully on the shoulder. "Anyway. That makes six of us. We could plan something, not saying we should hunt that other tribute but we need a plan."

He tilted his head slightly.

"Five."

Tanasmee frowned.

"What do you mean five?"

"The rat mutt's other victim didn't survive."

She nodded slowly, a sharp unease creeping in. She hadn't heard that cannon while sleeping.

"Great. So it's just the Careers and us now." She didn't want to reach this point, face that reality  but there it was. Went quiet for a moment, then stood up decisively. "We need to do something."

"You think all this food they've been sending you is gonna bulk you up to charge at them?"

"No, but I'm not going to sit around and wait to be picked off. So get up."

She grabbed her backpack, and he gripped his knife. For the first time, she walked through the arena with the comfort of having someone beside her to fight. Him, and herself. She'd had enough.

"What's your plan?" he asked in a whisper. Speaking was clearly getting harder.

Tanasmee glanced sideways at him.

"I don't have a solid one," she admitted. "But I know that little wannabe Capitol alliance is doomed by now"

They walked in silence for nearly an hour. Every time it seemed like the fog might clear, there was just more of it thick and hot, filled with rubble that made it hard to keep a steady pace. She tied a damp cloth around her face to filter the smoke. He didn't. He didn't seem to notice those kinds of details anymore. Tanasmee helped him when he staggered, even though he insisted on walking alone.

"You know what zone comes next?" she asked, but got no reply. When she turned to look, his eyes were distant. "Hey, Haden, are you still with me?"

He nodded slowly. For a moment, he seemed to understand. To still be himself.

"If we keep going this way, we'll reach the sunken metro tunnel. It has two entrances," he said with effort, rubbing his neck. "I saw rats there. Real ones. Not mutts."

"Perfect," Tanasmee replied with a crooked half-smile. "Then we can work with that."

He looked at her, confused.

"If Nereo's busy with the District 1 pair, we can lure them into a trap. Cause a cave-in, push them into the metro... something that limits their mobility. With luck, they'll kill each other."

"And us?"

"We hide. Let the arena do the dirty work. It's not perfect, but it could work, right?"

The tunnel wasn't far. The Capitol lights barely reached that part of the arena, as if even the Gamemakers had written it off as a slow death zone.

When they arrived, they found what looked like a partially collapsed maintenance room. Tanasmee crouched and started carefully moving pieces of rusted metal.

"If we block this entrance and make them think we're inside..." she muttered more to herself than to him. "Maybe they'll try to go around the tunnel. And if we leave signs of an ambush... maybe one of them will fall for it."

"You think it'll work?"

"I don't know," she confessed.

He nodded slowly. His breath was growing more shallow, but he kept his eyes on her. Like he needed to look at her to stay grounded. Like his mind was unraveling and she was the last thread holding it together.

They worked for an hour. They stacked debris, left tracks in one direction, then doubled back in another. They even dropped a shredded piece of Haden's clothing near the edge of the tunnel. He barely spoke anymore, so she told him to sit and wait. When it was done, she returned to the hiding spot she'd used earlier.

The sky stayed silent.

The arena, expectant.

"Now," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "We wait."

She turned to look at him. He was sitting with his head against the wall, eyes closed, murmuring something barely audible.

"What did you say?"

"I want my mom," he whispered, without opening his eyes.

She stared at him for a moment.
Then sat beside him, saying nothing. She could feel it: he wasn't really there anymore.

"Hang on a little longer."

And then it happened. A cannon fired, making them both jump. His eyes snapped open wide and he instinctively stood, looking in every direction.

One cannon.

Tanasmee didn't need anything else. Nereo.

"Juno or Viriel?" she asked in a mumbled.

Haden didn't answer.

It took her a few seconds to realize she couldn't hear his heavy breathing. Or him moving. Or—

She turned just in time to see him lunge at her.

She didn't scream.

There wasn't time.

He crashed into her, his body trembling like a taut wire about to snap The knife he had passed within inches of her face, tearing through the fabric of her jacket. They rolled through dust and rusted metal, her back slamming into a fallen beam.

"Haden?!"  She pushed at him, but his grip was feverish, frantic. His eyes looked at her, but they didn't see her. Or maybe they did, maybe they saw someone who could be his last threat. "What are you doing?!"

"I'm sorry," he muttered through clenched teeth, but his eyes were glassy. He wasn't really hearing her. "I don't want to be alone anymore."

"Then don't be! Don't kill me, damn it, don't kill me! Get off me!"

He was trembling. Every muscle in his body vibrating like it was at the brink of collapse. The knife slipped from his fingers and hit the ground with a metallic clang.

Tanasmee took her chance. She kicked him in the stomach, made him stagger, and rolled away.

"You're sick!" she shouted, trembling too. She didn't know if it was the adrenaline or the rage. "You're not okay, Haden! I'll help you. Just hang on."

He stayed there, on his knees. As if all his strength had suddenly drained away. He looked at her. And for the first time since that night they separated, he seemed to really see her.

"I... I didn't mean to..."

Only their ragged breathing filled the thick air. She crawled toward the knife he'd dropped.

Haden shook his head and stood up again, eyes locking on her like prey.

Tanasmee bolted. She tripped over a fallen pipe but didn't stop. She couldn't. The trap she'd set was now a trap for her. She heard the sound of his steps behind her, the uneven thud of one boot and the drag of the other leg but still, he came. Like a wounded animal. Like a mutt.

She turned a sharp corner and hid behind a half-collapsed wall.

Then he appeared.

"Don't hide," he rasped. "You'll leave me alone."

She tried to run again, but he was faster this time. He slammed into her, and they crashed to the ground. It was more br

utal now. He ripped the knife from her belt, raised it over his head, pinned her wrists down, and held her in place with all his weight.

"I didn't think we'd both make it this far. I don't want to do this," he whispered, tears falling from his eyes.

Tanasmee swallowed hard. She'd never seen death so close. Just inches away. So many thoughts cross your mind when you're about to die. All the things she would've wanted to do. All the things anyone would've wanted.

"Then don't."

"It's not that easy," he said, more to himself than to her. "There's only a few of us left and I want to go home."

"I want to go home too."

"But you... you don't understand. You haven't seen what I've seen. What they did to me. What I did to myself to stay alive."

She felt a lump in her throat.

"I'm sorry, Tanasmee. But only one wins."

The blade gleamed for a second before slamming down toward her chest.

But Tanasmee twisted just in time.

A scream tore from her throat as the knife plunged into her left shoulder. The pain was sharp, burning, savage. She felt the hot rush of blood soaking her clothes instantly.

"Haden! Haden, stop!" she screamed, struggling with all her strength.

He raised the knife again. Once more. Eyes alight with something that wasn't him. She knew. Even if he didn't. He was already gone. And of all the things in the arena that could kill her—that was the cruelest.

But he didn't strike again.

A sharp noise. A dull thud.

A new knife sank into him.

Haden howled. A guttural, animal sound. He staggered to the side, and she finally broke free.

"You!" he roared, turning clumsily toward his new attacker.

Nereo.

He was covered in dust, every inch of him bruised and bloodied, his former allies had clearly put up a fight. His hand was wrapped in blood-soaked bandages, one he likely wouldn't recover, but his expression was cold. The knife he'd thrown was embedded in Haden's flesh just below the shoulder. Not a mortal wound. But enough to slow him down.

"Party's over, Eight," Nereo snapped, drawing another blade and raising it.

Haden charged at him in silence.

Their knives clashed, again and again. Haden fought like a madman wild, without form, all brute force. Nereo was precision. He slid, dodged, struck at weak points. But Haden didn't stop. Wounded, yes. But unstoppable.

Tanasmee crawled along the ground, clutching her bleeding shoulder. She couldn't stay. Not now. She ran and didn't look back no matter what she heard. The sounds of their fight followed her: the clashing arms, the shouts, their ragged breathing.

She found a gap in the rubble, a narrow crack in the wall just wide enough to squeeze through. Without thinking, she pushed herself in. The metal tore at her good arm, but she didn't stop. She waited there for minutes that felt like hours. Still, no cannon fired. No for Viriel. No for Haden. Confused for what had just happened her breath began to quicken, spiraling into hyperventilation—betrayal sitting heavy in her chest. She didn’t want to take it personally, but it was. It always is. Isn't it?

Then a parachute arrived, larger than any she’d seen before. When it landed in front of her, her first instinct was to hurl it away with force.  Why did they always have to get the scraps? Why did she have to receive their little gifts and settle for them?  Why not just end it? They threw kids in there and no one could do anything. 

She walked over to where it had landed and picked it up, slamming it repeatedly against the ground until it was bruised and battered. 

When the tears finally stopped and she’d taken out all her rage on the package, she forced herself to think clearly. She wouldn’t forget that. She would never  forget that. And to make sure she didn’t, she planned to remember it out there. Alive.

For the first time, she knew she would do anything to win. It wasn’t just survival anymore, it was a real possibility, and she would chase it with everything she had.

She opened the package. At first, it seemed like too much. Gifts that detailed were rare in the arena. It was a dark gray overshirt, sober in design but with a subtle sense of style. She touched it hesitantly. It was elegant, almost beautiful, but heavy.

She laid it across her legs and examined it. Reinforced stitching. Odd weight. Thick layering in areas like the chest and back. This wasn’t fashion for the Capitol’s sadistic amusement.

"For the star that must not fade."

“Why…?”  she turned  it over. No Capitol seal. No public sponsor. It hadn’t been sent by her mentor.

She started wondering if it was thermal. Or maybe acid-resistant—for the gases. She pulled it on with effort, threading it carefully over the shoulder Haden had left unbandaged.

Still no cannon fire.
Not for Viriel. Not for Haden.

Which could only mean one thing:

Nereo hadn’t finished the job yet. 

And neither had she.

Going back to where you almost died isn't a smart idea. But the Hunger Games were never about smart ideas. They're about desperate decisions.

The air smelled of rusted iron, steam, and blood. Further ahead, where the shattered hallways of that building opened like a badly stitched wound, the floor still had fresh stains. And then she heard it. Low. A sigh. A shuffle.

She walked slowly, silently. Uncertain. But when she finally heard that cannon fired, she knew she needed to see him and hurried forward, afraid she might be too late.

And there he was.

Haden. Half his body slumped against a wall, eyes half-closed, a fatal blow, and his broken jaw trembling with every breath.

No sign of Nereo. Not yet.

His eyes opened a little wider when he saw her. Or at least they tried to. He wasn't the one who had died.

"So you came back," he said, his voice broken, as if every word tore a piece from his chest. "You're stubborn."

Tanasmee didn't answer. She crouched down slowly in front of him. She looked at him the way you look at something that's broken and can't be fixed.

"I wasn't going to leave without checking if you were dead," she replied. Cold. But not cruel.

Haden tried to smile. Or at least that was what that strained grimace looked like.

"Well, Viriel showed up pretty alive and furious. You were right, they were doomed," he replied. "I thought you'd hate me."

It took her a moment to answer. With him, she always had to search for the right words to make everything sound less harsh. She knew how he clung to things, and he could do it even on his deathbed.

"I wasn't going to leave you alone. Not again."

He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling through his nose. His chest rose and fell erratically. A dark pool spread beneath him that he no longer tried to contain.

"What a ride."

"I won't forget this," she told him, just like they had promised each other.

"Me neither. This is the last thing I'll experience. This is where it ends for me."

She swallowed hard. For a moment, she didn't know what to say. But she understood the kind of fear someone describes when they know they're about to die.

They fell silent. There wasn't much left to say. She hated seeing that the last thing she'd remember of him was a shadow of the boy who'd entered the Games. What had they done to him? Life was slowly slipping from his eyes.
And then, very faintly, she heard something.

A thud. Light. Distant.

A metallic echo, like boots against a rusted pipe. The air shifted direction. The kind of shift you learn to read when you know a predator is approaching.

Tanasmee stood up slowly.

"He is coming."

"Then give him a good show... And it wasn't personal. It really wasn't."

She knelt one more time. Took the knife from his hand.

"It is personal, I think it always is," Tanasmee whispered. But she didn't get up right away. She still couldn't leave. It wasn't time yet. She wanted to find some beautiful words for him, something comforting. But nothing came out. If she were the one dying, she'd want to hear something beautiful too, but her heart was blank, weighed down by seeing him like this—the exact way she had always feared losing a friend.
There were so many things she now wished she had told him. So many regrets. But all she managed to say was:

"Thank you."

He looked at her with glassy, half-lost eyes, and she saw the exact moment when life left them. She would never forget those eyes. The cannon fired.
Goodbye, Haden Velstitch, who didn't left this world alone, just the way he wanted.

But Tanasmee continued alone.
She didn't look back. Not because she didn't care. But because looking back was a luxury she could no longer afford.

And because now, she was truly determined to win.

The artificial sky was beginning to darken again. A purple hue blanketed the ruined city, washing away its usual grey. One hand on her wounded shoulder, the other gripping a knife she barely knew how to use.

The arena, once so vast, now felt like it had shrunk. They knew it was the big finale.

She heard his footsteps before she saw him.
Slow. Confident.
He wasn't running. He didn't need to. He knew she was injured. And he probably knew she was hiding.

"Tanasmee?" his voice called, strangely calm. "You don't have to make this harder. You've come so far. So far. Isn't that enough?"

She held her breath. Every cell in her body screamed to run, but she knew that would only expose her more. The wound in her shoulder throbbed with every heartbeat.

Nereo stepped forward a few more paces, and now she could see him through the cracks. Still with that bloody hand almost detached and now one arm hung awkwardly, probably dislocated from his fight with Viriel. Yet still, his presence was commanding.

She felt the knife trembling in her hand. She wasn't going to win this. Not even in her dreams.

"I think it's time to end this. You don't know how badly I want it to be over."

Tanasmee crawled around, low to the ground, and managed to slip into a wrecked building full of shattered glass.  The inside was tight, full of rusted junk. Ruins. What a perfect place for a final battle, she thought, and so did they.

Seconds passed. Just a few.

Then the door creaked, and he entered. The silence was absolute.

"Your time should have run out long ago" His voice was close. Too close.
The eloquence that had once defined him was gone—probably for a long time now.

She clenched her teeth and stood up suddenly, throwing her heavy backpack. The noise cracked like a gunshot, and he turned his head toward it.

She ran. Circled around him from behind, emerged from the shadows, and tackled him with everything she had. The hit wasn't elegant or precise. It was pure desperation. They crashed to the ground, rolling until they slammed into a shattered display case.

Nereo's knife flew from his hand. So did Tanasmee's.

He growled, grabbing her throat, but she clawed, kicked, screamed. Trying to get him off her. They fought like two animals caught in the same trap. The floor was covered in glass that dug into their skin and made them slip. She managed to grab a shard of glass, but he dodged it.

He slammed her against a crumbling wall. The impact knocked the air from her lungs.

"Enough!" he shouted, punching her in the stomach, and then pressed down hard on her shoulder wound. Blood spurted out, and she let out a guttural cry that barely escaped her lips breathless.

Tanasmee collapsed to the ground, gasping, spitting saliva. Her legs trembled. Her vision blurred.

Nereo retrieved his knife and approached slowly, as if everything was already decided. As if it were just a matter of closing a circle.

"I won't enjoy this. But it's the right thing. I deserve to win. You know that, right? I am going to win!" he said but more to himself, as if he was reaffirming it.

Tanasmee looked up at him with bloodshot eyes, and a broken smile appeared on her face.

"And what makes you so sure of that?"

"If I don't, it means these Games are just a joke. A big cruel joke"

Then he lunged and the knife came down, aimed at her chest.

Tanasmee Breamlace closed her eyes.

But the pain never came.

Only the dull sound of something resisting. Metal against metal. The knife hadn't pierced her.

Nereo frowned, confused, and tried again.

Nothing.

She gasped, eyes flying open, and saw it: the blade had struck, yes, but not her skin. There was a hidden layer, a semi-rigid structure beneath her clothes. She felt a dull blow—but not the end.

And then she understood.

The gift. "For the star that must not fade."

It was armored. The knife hadn't struck the way it should have.

Her eyes went wide.

Nereo froze for a split of a second but she moved first.

With a strangled cry, she grabbed a large shard of glass that cut her hands and hurled it at his face. It didn't hit cleanly, but it was enough to disorient him. She pushed herself up and despite the gaping wound in her shoulder, she pushed him hard.

He stumbled backward.

His back hit a fallen steel bar. He lost his balance and fell into a half-uplifted metal panel, like a trap formed by the collapse. The edge cut into his side. He screamed.

Tanasmee ran toward him, grabbed her knife from the floor, and pointed it at him. She hesitated for a second.

Just one.

"No!" Nereo bellowed, raising his hands, still dazed but scrambling to recover and escape.

Tanasmee lunged forward, knife raised.

Out of necessity. Out of instinct. Out of everything.

The blade sank into his neck with a wet, swift sound.

Everything went silent.

She dropped to her knees, shaking. The knife slipped from her hands. She hugged her chest, still in disbelief that she was alive. A buzzing filled the air and then, the cannon fired.

She had won.

And she felt nothing but cold. Colder than she had ever felt, with not a single ray of sun there. The sun was never there and would never be ever again.

The victory trumpets sounded.

"Ladies and gentlemen," boomed Claudius Templesmith's voice "we present to you the victor of the Sixty-Eighth Hunger Games: Tanasmee Breamlace, from District Eight!"

Chapter Text

I have won.

I don't know how I'm supposed to feel.

Outside, everything is whiter than I remembered. The walls. The lights. The hospital sheets I wake up in. Everything looks freshly washed, like the Capitol is trying to scrub away the scent of blood with bleach and ammonia.

There are no windows, no doors. I'm strapped to the bed, unable to move.

My body barely responds. I don't know how long I've been here. I assume they sedated me after I got on the hovercraft. They sedate me over and over, so I figure days must have passed in which they stitch me back together, wash me, stand me up again like a broken doll they're trying to disguise as victory.

The first time they come in to feed me, they roll in a glass cart that reflects finally letting me see my image, one I don't recognize. My hair is the only thing that looks lighter, but the rest of me is still a mess. My cheeks are hollow, my dark circles so deep they look like cracks. I'm a wreck. I touch my neck without thinking, as if I still expect to feel Nereo's hands tightening around it. They're not there. But the acid burn still stings.

I can't stomach the food. The Capitol serves it on bright, shiny trays like trophies. And the first time I bit into an apple, I thought I would throw up. It tasted like something I didn't deserve.

I'm barely awake long enough to see the doctors come and go. I don't understand what they're saying—just medical terms—but I catch fragments. They're debating whether or not to leave the scar on my shoulder visible, wondering if it "tells a good story." I can only hope they erase it. Of all my wounds, that one would hurt the most to see. The image of my ally stabbing me would play in my head every time, and I'd spend a lifetime remembering who gave it to me.

When they finally stop sedating me and unstrap me, there's no one in the room. No one ever wants to talk to me, or looks at me without pity, distance, or superiority. I lift the gown and look at the leg where the mutt left its mark—nothing there.

So I stand up, steady.

Something new catches my eye: a basket. I approach it. Inside are beautiful artificial flowers and more juice. When I check the label, I see it's pomegranate. I don't understand the message behind it.

But I don't care. Because now that I'm more lucid, I understand what it means to still be here: it means I'll see my family again. I'll go home. My sister. My father. District 8.

I put on the same clothes I wore in the arena and step outside. Down a hallway and into a beautiful room filled with cameras I'm starting to get used to, I see familiar faces, and for once, they don't hold back.

Cecelia is the first to hug me. Then by her side there's Woof, Plaucidia, and Concordia.

Cecelia smells like lavender and tears. She hugs me so tightly it hurts my chest, but I don't say a word. Of all the faces I could've seen in this place, hers is one of the few that doesn't turn my stomach. I even feel like crying. I want to cry. But for the first time, I remember where I am and the new status I've acquired. Cecelia speaks softly, as if afraid I'll shatter. She tells me I did well, that she's proud. I don't answer. I wouldn't know what to say.

Woof can barely speak, but he squeezes my hand. His eyes are wet or at least, I want to believe they are. I never really knew if he understood me completely. And I didn't understand him either. But there's something in his gaze that grounds me. As if saying, You're alive. That's enough.

Behind them, Plaucidia and Concordia wait their turn.

"There's my circus girl!" says Plaucidia, in that voice that always sounds like she's at a party I wasn't invited to. She's wearing a silver coat with huge shoulder pads and a feathered hat, like she's the star of a parade and not a political escort. But still, for a moment, I see her gaze soften.
"I told you, you have a spark."

"We're so glad to see you standing" says Concordia, though her smile is awkward. Her lips are such a bright pink they look drawn on with a marker, and her fake eyelashes tremble as she speaks. Her outfit sparkles, but what hits me most is how poorly she hides her discomfort. I begin to realize there are now two ways people will see me: as someone to admire and desire, or someone to fear. And she's torn between the two.

Of all the people here, it stings  that it has to be Concordia who takes me back to my apartment. They have to prepare me for the Victory Ceremony.

In the elevator, she scans me up and down, not like a person, but like a product fresh from the repair shop.

"You have no idea how many ideas we have," she murmurs, as if already calculating.
"You're not too malnourished, thank goodness. I've seen worse. What matters is your face looks good on camera—and we've got a solid starting point."

We enter the apartment, and my prep team is waiting, two people whose names I never wanted to learn, because I knew I'd never see them again. And once you name someone, the bond becomes real.
But here they are. Here I am.
And they're genuinely happy to see me.

After eating, while they get everything ready to work on me, I head toward the rooms where we used to stay. The absence hits me before I even reach the door.

My friend isn't there.

And he never will be again.

He came with me but he's not coming back.

I enter my room in silence. Everything is exactly the same, like time didn't dare set foot inside. Then I see it.

Lying on top of the clothes I wore before the arena, something glints shyly: the small silver flower-shaped pin Finnick Odair gave me. I recognize it instantly. Concordia never returned it. I had promised I would give it back, not thinking it would be in person, never imagining that promise would survive everything else.

It's strange.
I guess that's how the saddest ironies are made, through the small things that survive, when the people don't.

When I return to the main room because they're ready to make me shineI wonder what they’ll try to dazzle the audience with this time. I’m sure now that I’ve won, they’ll go all out. Sometimes, the thought that I’m a victor still feels so surreal it knocks the air out of me.

It's not easy to see yourself as a winner when you haven't won anything

"So beautiful... but they left the scar on her neck? Seriously?" says the girl from my prep team. It's time I learn their names. Sempronia. Her name is Sempronia. I knew from the moment I saw her that she had to be around my age, the youngest of them all.

"They couldn't remove it," Concordia replies, like she's delivering bad news. "Too deep, but at least it adds character, don't you think?"

It annoys me that they're talking about me like I'm not even here, like I'm part of the set decoration. Just that this time I'm not sedated enough to let it slide. What's worse is hearing that they left a scar, I haven't seen myself in a proper mirror yet or even myself at all other than the mess I was the first time I woke up between those sedatives, maybe because I haven't had the time or because I have been avoiding it but now I dread and at the same time need to see myself.

"Well. We’ll just work around it with makeup. The lashes are fine, though, and those cheekbones… now that was a win, wasn’t it?" Sempronia winks at me. But at that moment, I can't listen anymore. I push her hands off my face and stand abruptly, heading straight for a mirror.

And that's when I see it. That's when I see me. My skin is glowing. Literally. Not with sweat, or oil, or life. It glows, not just smooth and poreless, free of blemishes or any sign of a face that's survived the Game but glowing with golden highlights. Like my honey skin has been melted down and fused slightly with gold. I rub my cheek hard, trying to get it off, but the shimmer is embedded. Ingrained. 

I pull down my shirt a little and, to my relief, the scar on my shoulder is gone, along with the others. But the one on my neck caused by the acid? Just like they said. Deep, permanent. Like it grew with me. Like it dug in so far that even the Capitol couldn’t reach it.

My cheekbones are more prominent. Not swollen just... reshaped. Like someone sculpted my face using a ruler and a reference photo.
And suddenly I miss the sunken cheeks I saw when I first woke up and hated.
They've done something to my eyes too. My lashes are longer, curled—like the kind you see in drawings of pretty cartoon girls.
I blink, and they feel heavy.

Have they changed me?
Or am I just seeing myself wrong?
Maybe I'm hallucinating.
Maybe this is the face of a girl who had to kill to live.
Maybe this is what's left of me when everything else is stripped away.

I stay in front of the mirror for a while, and I don't dare take off the rest of my clothes because I'm scared of what I might find. Scared that maybe something else has been touched, altered.

So I just stand there, wondering if I'll ever recognize myself again without having to touch my face to be sure it's real.

"What have they done to me?"

"Well, Tanasmee, we're short on time. We should keep going," Sempronia murmurs, stepping beside me to guide me back to were they are.

I sit in front of another mirror. There I am again.
And I wonder: how many more times will the Capitol put its hands inside me before I stop recognizing myself altogether? 

I always knew they did things to the victors. 
When I was little, I didn't notice.
But as I got older, I started seeing it—those little or big changes they carried after their Games. I don’t know if what they did to me could’ve been worse, but deep down I’m sure it could have. 

They come closer, all too familiar, ready to start. They touch my face and hair without hesitation. One of them, whose name I learn because I know he won’t stop talking—and because I find it oddly funny in all this awful panorama— is Caius, with gleaming silver hair. He jokes while dabbing the corner of my mouth with a napkin like I’m a child who’s made a mess. At first, I think they act this way because they believe I’ve already been broken in. I didn’t think they’d be so casual after everything. He jokes while he wipes the corner of my mouth like I'm a messy child.

At first I think they act this way because they think I've been broken in.
I didn't expect them to be so comfortable around me after the Games.

"We really lucked out with you, darling. Yours was beautiful. Not like those Games where they tear each other apart over a can of food. The Capitol has such good taste this year," says Caius.

"I cried when you sang, you know? You looked like an angel. And look at you—you survived!"

They talk about the arena like it was a stage. Not an open grave.

That's when Concordia comes back with the dress. It floats, almost like it’s alive. Made of airy gauze in soft pastel tones, fading from coral-pink to an almost-white sky blue, threaded with gold so fine it could be mistaken for sunlight.
The sleeves are puffed. They help me into it. It's not heavy, but it has structure.
It wraps around me like a cage made of mist.
Each layer is edged in delicate waves, like flower petals, and shimmers slightly. The fabric moves when I walk, as if it breathes with me.

This time, the skirt isn’t short. It’s full. Not like before.

“No flying tulle this time?” I ask, noticing how different it feels, how much more hidden I am. I glance up, watching them pull the high neckline to cover my scar.

"No plunging neckline, of course," says Concordia, catching my look. While Caius slips soft blue ballet flats onto my feet, pairing them with white socks that reach mid-calf.  "We don't want to send the wrong message. A high collar flatters the face. And those colors... well, don't they represent you?."

Before the Games, the dresses were meant to reveal me.
This one wants to hide me inside something that looks magical.
Delicate. Controlled.

I wait behind  the stage alone, waiting in the wings. I adjust my hair, now twisted into a bun adorned with a coral accessory that matches the dress. Then she appears—tall, polished, wearing that rehearsed smile: Plaucidia. Eyes like someone who’s seen a thousand victories but is finally enjoying her own. "Tanasmee, are you ready to go out?"

Go out.

I don't know exactly what she means.
Out where?
Out into real life?
Out to pretend this was a transformative experience?
Out to smile in interviews and talk about how brave, strong, special I was?

I don’t answer. I just nod. Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s that the truth has no place here.

She leaves, and I know I’ll find everyone else up there, because the crowd’s roar grows louder with each member of my team being introduced. When my platform starts to rise, I’m not sure how this will go.

And there I am—on stage. The cameras. The audience. All of that attention I used to love, that I used to think was a good thing now it just stuns me.

My voice shouldn’t shake. My body shouldn’t shake. But something inside me trembles, like the stage lights are piercing through my skin, searching for something that’s no longer there.The roar of the crowd becomes a dull hum as my eyes adjust to the lights. This time there's  light but it’s never from the sun.

"There she is!" he announces. "Our unexpected star! The enchanting, the one and only, the girl with the song, the circus darling! Tanasmee Breamlace, from District Eight!"

Caesar greets me like we’re old friends, guiding me to the couch while  another wave of applause and cheers hits, loud enough to rattle my ears. I glance at the audience, pretending to look for someone. But I know there’s no one there for me.

They play the Games, and honestly, after having been so disconnected during the first few days inside, you’d think I’d be curious. But as soon as they start with the readings and I see the reapings with the faces of the tributes I’ll have to watch die on screen in front of me the only thing I want is to never see any of it again. Ever.

They focus especially on the reaping of the winner’s district. When the camera lands on my sister beside me, clutching my arm tightly, I notice the murmurs in the audience. I realize that for the Capitol, seeing someone who looks exactly like me must be... fascinating. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but I do know that I don’t like the idea of them knowing anything about my family.

The interviews go as expected. I sing, and the audience loves it, even some begin to hum along. Then the Games start, and everything is well-paced since it only lasted five days. I did nothing during the first two, so they don’t focus on me, just show the careers killing with precision. I imagine they would rather have  one of them here tonight, telling the story.

After each death, they cut to my reaction. I don’t know if I respond the way they want me to, but watching everything from the outside only makes me feel more connected to what happened. For the first time, I see the full picture. And if my mind ever wanted to suppress these memories for the rest of my life, showing me all this has done the opposite.

After every kill, they cut to my reaction. I never quite know if I’m reacting the way they want me to, but watching everything from the outside only makes me feel more connected to what happened. For the first time, I see the full picture. And if my brain ever tried  me to forget  these memories, they’ve made sure it can’t now.

On day three, we start appearing more. They show only one of my conversations with Haden where we were joking about dying though the fear behind it all is cut out and so are our complaints and the hopes we had... well, that he had. They keep the part where I sing, because apparently, the audience loves seeing me do that. I see tears in their eyes, and I don’t understand—how can they cry at a song when the lyrics mean nothing to them? They cry for their fantasy, not my pain.

I hate watching myself sing. It was a private moment, just between my ally and me. To lift our spirits. To calm us down. That calm is broken by the acid rain that tore us apart. They don’t show how he told me he’d find me again. He just leaves.

Apparently the acid rain didn’t just destroy our alliance—it destroyed  the careers too. Two of them died after the other ran  for shelter and didn’t let them in. The way the acid eats through their bodies is sickening and I understand it too well. Just one drop marked me for life now I was seeing what thousand of them could do.

Then comes my confrontation with Thorne from District 7. Now, I understand her better. She’d been betrayed by her district partner and had been forced to kill him. So, it makes sense she went after the first person she saw. And that was me.

There’s the chase. I ramble like I always do under pressure. Somehow, the audience loves it.
When she falls, it doesn’t look like I hesitated. It shows me trying to help, and she slips. It’s clearly not my fault.
So why do I feel so guilty?

On day four, I see what Haden went through alone. It was terrible. He was constantly on the run, had run-ins with other tributes, and was exhausted because I had the backpack. The gifts he received didn’t last long, he tore through them in his desperation for food and water. I notice some faces in the audience are annoyed—not by the arena’s cruelty, but because they resented him.

That night, the slug kills Xhantippe and the male from 12. When it comes for me, I say stupid things, things meant to lighten the moment for my past self, but now after seeing children die, my words seem painfully out of place. Still, the audience laughs. They’re delighted.

We move to the final day, when the rat mutt attacks Haden and another tribute. Faced with a choice, Haden pushes the other one into the mutt’s path so he can escape. Seeing the whole panorama really puts things into perspective.

Then we find each other again. And I must have been blind not to notice right away that the rat bite was already killing him, infecting him slowly. The footage shows us walking together, planning our final trap. The way they cut it makes us seem closer than we were before we separated when It's the opposite but  I realize they’re setting up for a bigger, more dramatic betrayal. A twist.

While we’re working on our trap, the careers plan their own ambush. Nereo, who’d been backing everything the District 1 pair proposed, suddenly turns on Viriel. Juno jumps in, slicing off his hand, and he stabs her through the heart. Her cannon sounds. And that’s when I know everyone’s watching me, because they know what’s coming next.

I hadn’t minded seeing Haden on screen—until now.
That moment, when he starts to unravel. When he stabs me. That’s when I completely lose the image I had of him. 

Before, the betrayal was a wound I could blur with memory. But now it’s right there. Unavoidable. Recorded.

The boy I knew, trying to kill me.

My tears threaten to fall.

After I escape, there’s a fight to the death between him and Nereo. A cannon fires, which I guess is supposed to mean Haden died. But it’s not true. He was still alive by that moment.
Viriel comes back for revenge, and his death at Nereo’s hands is brutal. The audience cheers, loud and thrilled.

Meanwhile, I look distant. Detached. They don’t show my rage at the gift. Just me putting it on carefully, like it meant something beautiful.

And I wonder—is  the person who sent it sitting here, watching? Definitely. 

They cut the moment where I go back for Haden, the moment when he apologizes, and I stay with him until he dies. We just jump straight to the final fight. My killing of Nereo it's framed as  self-defense, which it wasn’t. But it’s somehow tinted with ambiguity. The way they’ve intercut everything—my scenes, my choices—it all feels off. Filtered. Twisted.

While I try to make sense of it, I don’t hear a thing. Not the applause. Not the music.
Just my breathing. Heavy. Like I have to keep reminding myself I’m still alive.

“And just like a song you can’t get out of your head… Tanasmee found a way to stay with us forever,” Caesar says, as the mandatory viewing ends and he turns to the audience.

I don’t have to wonder anymore what story they’ve chosen for me. They’ve been telling me from the start with this dress.

The dress doesn’t represent me. They don't even think it does. I finally get it.
It represents what they want me to be. A tragic figure. Melancholy. Pure.
As if my time in the arena were a sad song recorded on an old record. Not just a `circus girl´ but something more.

I’m not the girl who killed.
I’m the girl who sang.
The girl who made them laugh.
The girl who seemed to float even among corpses.

But as I watch their applause, their laughter, their tears… their faces…
Those expressions…

No. It’s not just them.
It’s me too.

And I realize that maybe the footage isn't writing me and neither is this dress. I am the one who has helped to build this version of me, the one they’ll see forever. I acted that way with my fear, with my mouth and they used it. 

Back home, it might’ve come from the heart. In the arena, it became something else. Something they could use. 

"Many tributes try to hide their fear. But you... you turned it into something almost poetic. How did you do it?"

At last, I understand:
What they love most about me isn’t that I won.
It’s how I won.
I didn’t stain their spectacle.
I didn’t shatter their fantasy.

I just stayed alive long enough for them to admire me. Like a piece in their games they have successfully used.

There’s no time for more inner reflection. Everything hits at once when I see those cold eyes. President Snow. Crown in hand.

He doesn’t look as pleased as one might expect, not after everything has gone exactly the way he wanted.

Maybe it’s just a second. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. But something about the way he looks at me doesn’t look content.

It feels analytical.

His smile is perfect, of course. But the way he holds the crown, the slight delay before raising it… It feels like he doesn’t want to place it on my head. He wants to crush it against my throat.

“You’ve given… quite a performance,” he murmurs as he settles it.

His voice is neutral. But there’s a pull in that pause. Like the word performance tastes like defeat to him.

My hands are trembling.
But not enough for the audience to notice.

Only him.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He doesn’t reply. Just stares a moment longer than necessary, like he’s searching my face for something he needs to find.

Then he walks away. And for the first time, I realize that I have no idea what I've stirred in him. But I know this much: He doesn’t like it.