my waves meet your shore (ever and evermore)

by gloxie

Summary:

Sage Bradbury never wanted to be a hero. She wanted to finish school, not choke on stairwell dust, and maybe — just maybe — try a peach someday.

But then, of course, they called her name.
And everything spiraled.
Classic.

Now she’s District Eight’s tribute. A skinny girl with anxiety issues, a talent for hiding, and a vivid inner world, which is, unfortunately, useless when someone’s hurling an axe at your face.

The arena? Not a forest. Not cliffs. Not even a scenic dystopian ruin. It’s a dead factory. Rusting stairs. Darkness. Rats the size of cats. And one shot at not dying in day one. Maybe.

But Sage can wait. She can disappear. Let the bloodbath rage. Let the cameras roll. Let the world forget she’s even there.

Spoiler: she lives.
(Yeah. Somehow.)

And now the real question is —
Can a bitch just catch her breath?

Of course not. Welcome to the Capitol.

Notes:

DISCLAIMER: english isn’t my first language, and this work was originally written in my native language, so there might be some small mistakes here and there. i hope you enjoy it anyway! be kind <3

okay, a little backstory: after i read sotr, i remembered a really old thg fic i wrote (i came up with it back in 2017, lmao can you believe), which used to be my first big project and all that. anyway, i found it on my laptop, reread it, and realized that this character definitely had potential!

so this is kind of an attempt to rewrite that story (and hopefully make it a bit less cringe than it was in 2017). i'm not a big fan of putting up content warnings, but, well, you know, it’s the hunger games, so all the awful stuff that could happen probably will happen.

happy (almost) summer, everyone!

Chapter 1

Morning smells of coal and dried flowers. The air is heavy, like before a storm, though the sky is cloudless, as it always is on Reaping Day.

Her sisters are still asleep, but Sage is eager to leave the room. She gets up soundlessly, like a ghost that doesn’t want to frighten the living. She lifts the hem of her nightdress, careful not to brush against the floorboard that always creaks near Marigold’s bed.

All the sisters sleep in the same room. Not because it’s warmer that way, but because there’s no other room. The bedroom is narrow, the ceiling low, and the windows look straight onto the gray wall of the neighboring house. There are several beds, but they’re crammed so close together there’s barely space to pass between them.

Iris has the oldest bed, with one leg patched up with a bandage. Marigold’s is low, nearly level with the floor, so Rosie can climb in without help. Rosie just turned five, and she only falls asleep with her nose buried in Marigold’s back, as if afraid she might vanish in the night the way the lights vanish during blackouts. Sage’s bed is closest to the window, where it’s cooler and sometimes the wind sneaks through the cracks. She doesn’t mind. The air might be damp, but at least it’s real.

The mattresses sag, and the springs creak if you lie down wrong, though she’s long since learned how to move without waking them. The pillows are mismatched, one stuffed with rags, another with something long since clumped together. The blankets are embroidered: their mother taught them to decorate everything, even the broken things.

On tiptoe, Sage passes her sisters. Iris sleeps with her forehead pressed to her arm, as if hiding from the world. Marigold breathes heavily, like someone fighting sleep as if it’s an enemy. Rosie lies stretched across her bed, straight as a board, as if already bracing to carry the weight of the day.

But Sage just wants a little quiet.

The kitchen is empty. A bowl of stale bread sits on the table. She breaks off a piece and eats it standing by the window. Outside, it’s still dim. Just a narrow ribbon of light slips between the rooftops, painting the dust in silvery gold. No people. No sound.

She knows that in a couple of hours, the streets will be filled with noise. Someone adjusting a collar. Someone cursing under their breath. Someone crying, trying not to let the children see. But for now, it’s just her. And this morning. Reaping morning. Silent.

At times like this, it feels as though the district is holding its breath, or maybe has vanished entirely. But of course, that’s not true. Most people are already at the factory. Shifts start early anyway, and today everyone will be sent home ahead of schedule, so the workers are expected to make up for lost time. Some are pulling fabric. Some repairing looms. Some sorting rolls. Around and around, without pause or complaint.

Inside, the air doesn’t smell of morning dust, only of oil, smoke, and sweat. Sage remembers that smell, even if she’s never worked in the factory herself. Her father spent his whole life in one.

She presses her forehead to the cold glass and flinches when a quiet sigh and the creak of a mattress sound behind her.

'You’re up already?' Iris whispers, her voice thick with sleep. It’s not a question, just an observation.

Sage turns. Through the gap between kitchen and bedroom, she can see Iris sitting up in bed, the blanket pulled to her chin. Her hair is tousled, her eyes squinting in the half-light. In moments like this, she looks older than twenty-five—not in her face, but in the way she moves. Iris always wakes when Sage leaves the room early. It’s like she has some built-in sense for her absence.

'Couldn’t sleep.'

'Nightmare?'

Sage shakes her head. Iris doesn’t press. Instead, she slowly pushes the blanket aside and sets her feet on the floor. Her old bed creaks with every motion—the one with the bandaged leg. Iris reaches for the bundle at the head of the bed, pulls out a comb. She’s careful not to wake the others, but Sage sees how her shoulders hunch just slightly. That tiredness isn’t from the night. It’s the kind that’s been building for years.

'Do you think they’ll pick someone from our sector today?' she asks softly, eyes on the window.

Sage shrugs. Iris stands, quiet and practiced, and walks toward the washbasin with a cloth in hand. Her footsteps barely make a sound. She moves like every floorboard holds a secret that must never be revealed.

Sage watches her disappear behind the doorway and can’t help thinking that Iris could’ve had a different life. Not here. Not with three younger sisters in a cramped apartment with peeling walls and a kettle that only works half the time. She’d had the chance to marry. A good man had asked. Not rich, but steady, with a job and a room of his own. Iris said no. Said she wouldn’t leave the girls behind.

Technically, after their parents died, Sage, Rosie, and Marigold were supposed to be sent to the group home. But Iris was already over twenty by then, and she managed to sort everything out. Now they live mostly on what she earns from sewing. Home-based work pays little, but she’s given fabric, thread, and sometimes even samples. She sews everything. Cuffs, collars, hems, ribbons. During the day, she works by the window to save light; at night, under a dim lamp when something urgent needs finishing. There are almost never enough orders.

Sometimes Sage picks up odd jobs at the market, cleaning, sorting wilted vegetables, hauling crates. On other days, she helps organize stock in the warehouse. No one takes her seriously for steady work, because she’s only seventeen. Sometimes, that’s even a blessing. Marigold helps an old woman in the building next door: fetches water, reads aloud to her. The woman pays what she can. Bread, soap, sometimes a lump of sugar. Rosie doesn’t go anywhere yet. She’s too young.

They don’t starve, but they never feel full either. Everything is balanced on a knife’s edge. Sometimes, Sage can feel that edge physically, like a fine thread stretched taut between them and something you can only call disaster. Iris says that as long as they’re together, nothing can truly hurt them. But sometimes, Sage hears her crying into her pillow at night. Quietly, so no one knows.

Still, not everything is bad. There are nights that are different. The kind where Marigold spins ridiculous stories, and Rosie laughs so hard it makes even Iris smile. The kind where they all sit around the table with mugs of hot water and tiny slices of candied ginger someone had hidden away for a rainy day—and today, they decide, is exactly that. The kind where Sage looks at her family from across the room and suddenly understands what they truly have. Not food. Not money. But each other.

On evenings like that, Iris unbraids her hair. She sings, softly, an old song from their mother, the kind that lights a little flame inside everyone. Rosie falls asleep in her lap. Marigold hums along—off-key, but with heart. And Sage just listens. And remembers. Because moments like these—they’re like patterns in fabric: delicate and thin, but they hold everything else together.

Water splashes behind the door—Iris is washing up, quick as always, wasting no extra motion, so there’s no risk of paying more than the bare minimum. Sage hears her pulling on her gray dress again, the one with the patch on the elbow and the embroidery at the hem. Her own work. The object of her pride. They don’t wear anything new, but they wear it clean. That’s something their mother drilled into them from childhood: ‘We may not have much, but we’ll always have our dignity.’

Sage returns to the bedroom to get dressed. The others are still asleep. Marigold tosses in her sleep, pulling the blanket over her nose. Rosie has curled up like a kitten, gently snoring. Better not wake them yet. She and Iris always get up early, to prepare—both themselves and the home—for Reaping Day.

Sage pulls a box from under the bed with their best clothes. She only has one dress for special occasions. It used to be their mother’s. Then Iris wore it. When Sage turned eighteen, Iris passed it on to her.

The dress is dark blue, nearly black, with a neat collar and a carefully hemmed skirt. Sage puts it on, fastens the buttons, feels how snug it fits across her chest. Might need to be altered next year. She turns to the mirror, studies her reflection: a thin face, dry lips, light hair braided tight, a braid she tied in the night.

Iris steps out of the bathroom, dries her hands on the old towel nailed to the wall, and heads straight for the sewing machine in the kitchen corner. She has a rush job today—patching insignias onto work shirts, twenty of them, due before noon. She doesn’t eat. Just takes a few sips of water and sits down, back straight, like someone’s watching her posture. The machine taps rhythmically, like it’s echoing the heartbeat of their morning.

Sage tidies the bedroom—smooths the blankets, fluffs the pillows, folds the nightshirts. Then she quickly wipes the floor near the entrance; if you leave dust there, it spreads everywhere. Her hands work automatically, just like she was taught. She doesn’t complain. Movement is calming.

Marigold wakes up about an hour later, groggy, with fluffy hair and wearing a shirt that used to be their dad’s. She helps Sage wash the dishes from last night’s dinner, then settles at the table with a schoolbook. Of course, no one expects her to study today, but Marigold is stubborn. This year is her first Reaping, and a month ago she announced that even if she can’t control whether her name is picked, she can control what she knows—and no one can take that from her.

Rosie is the last to wake up, hair a mess, full of mischief and ready to ruin everything just to make sisters laugh. Sage pours her some warm water and hands her a tomato. She accepts it with a seriousness like it’s a gift from the president himself. She climbs onto the kitchen stool, swings her legs, and stares intently at the tomato—red, round, with a small dent on one side.

‘Is it ripe?’ Rosie whispers, as if her fate depends on it.

‘Ripe as ripe can be,’ Sage says. ‘Almost magical.’

Rosie nods and breaks it in half. Juice drips onto her hands, but she pretends that’s how it’s supposed to go. Then she bites in and, through the chew, beams,

‘Sweet! That means it’s definitely magic.’

Sage smiles, brushing crumbs off the table. Iris is still at the machine, working without pause. Marigold is quietly reading. Rosie is feeding the second half of the tomato to her rag doll, carefully wrapped in a handkerchief like a baby.

Sage tries not to think about what might happen today, but the thoughts seep in anyway, like water through a crack in the wall. She sits by the window, holding a cup of cooling water, but her gaze drifts. Her mind keeps circling back to what she doesn’t want to touch.

Tesserae. The word itself is like a splinter under the skin. Each tessera means a year's supply of grain and oil for one person. She’s seventeen now, which means her name is in the bowl thirty time, four times for each year since she turned fourteen. Each one, another slip of paper. Another chance.

She reminds herself there was no other choice. Without them, they wouldn’t have had thread for Iris to sew, wouldn’t have paid for Marigold’s schoolbook. And half the district is the same. Thousands of names in those lists. Their family is nothing special. Sage tells herself the odds are tiny. She wasn’t picked last year. Or the year before.

But there’s a voice inside her whispering: what if?

Someone is going to board the train to the Capitol today. So why not Marigold? Why not Sage?

She exhales sharply and sets the cup on the windowsill. The water tastes bitter, like everything you drink when you don’t get to choose.

Outside, the muffled sounds of the morning begin—someone opens shutters, someone shuts a door too loudly. The city is waking up slowly, reluctantly, like an old machine long overdue for oil. No one rushes on Reaping Day. Every movement feels slowed, restrained. Like before a storm.

Sage hears the creak of a chair. Iris finally stands from the sewing machine. She walks over, gently places a hand on Sage’s shoulder.

‘Time to get Rosie dressed,’ she says at last. ‘And we need to eat something.’

‘She already had a tomato,’ Sage replies with a tight smile. ‘A whole one. Thinks it’s magic.’

‘Then maybe it’ll conjure us a decent day,’ Iris says and heads for the bedroom.

Sage sits at the window a moment longer, until she hears Rosie laugh, up to something again. Marigold groans. Iris sighs. Life goes on. For now.

Sage rises. Today is the Reaping.

And there’s nowhere left to run.

***

Before heading to the square, Sage sends Rosie off with Marigold. Iris is already waiting by the gate. Sage tells them she’ll catch up and cuts through the courtyards, taking the shortcut she’s known since childhood. The air is already warm, smelling of dust and iron. Against the backdrop of peeling balconies and sagging clotheslines, everything looks ordinary. Like it’s just another day.

Henley lives two blocks away, in the same kind of apartment building, only with a crumbling stairwell and a door that won’t fully close unless you kick it. Sage climbs to the fifth floor almost at a run, trying to avoid the chipped steps.

He opens the door almost right away. He’s wearing a dark shirt, not fully buttoned. His dark hair is combed back, but still sticks out in strands, like he got dressed in a rush or spent too long deciding what to wear. His face looks tired—not from lack of sleep, but from anxiety.

Henley seems almost composed, but Sage sees the faint tremble in his chin.

“Why aren’t you with your sisters?” he asks, eyes scanning her head to toe, like he’s checking to make sure she’s whole, alive.

“Wanted to see you,” she says simply. “Before...”

Henley nods. No need to finish the sentence. He steps aside to let her in. She walks into the narrow kitchen with the curtained window and the familiar smell of reheated porridge—slightly burnt, with a trace of cheap oil. Everything here is painfully familiar: the worn linoleum, the crooked stool, the cracked mug on the counter.

“My folks already went to the square,” Henley says, closing the door. “Mom can’t handle the crowd. And Dad... well, you know. He always gets more nervous than anyone.”

Sage nods. Henley’s father works in the distribution warehouse, where the rations are handed out. Every Reaping Day, he barely speaks, just paces back and forth through the house, like that might somehow keep his sons’ names from being called.

Henley is eighteen now—his last Reaping. But he has several younger brothers. One is the same age as Marigold. Another is just a year older. And the youngest is barely out of toddlerhood—still younger than Rosie.

By district standards, their family is considered... “stable.” His father has steady work, his mother years of service in the central sewing workshop. Henley never had to sleep in a coat instead of a blanket. They even have a real kitchen cabinet, with doors that close and drawers with handles—not just nailed boards like most people have. But it’s still not luxury. Just a sturdier patch on the same leaking boat they’re all stuck in. They still take tesserae. Still ration coal in winter. Still water down their milk. It’s just that in their sector, the lights go out less often, and the bread is a little softer.

Henley steps closer, reaches for Sage’s hand, intertwining their fingers.

“I did the math,” he says quietly. “The odds of someone from our families getting picked—it’s under one percent. Practically nothing.”

“Oh no,” she groans, barely holding back a smile. “Don’t start with the percentages. I still remember when you went to the market just to prove to that poor old woman that her melon wouldn’t ripen because there were twelve percent fewer sunlight hours this season.”

“Well, I was right,” he grumbles, though the corners of his mouth twitch.

“One more second and you would’ve calculated the odds of me puking from your logic. Seriously, how did a brain like yours end up in our backwater?”

He laughs—softly, quietly—but the sound eases something in the room, like for a moment, it’s all a little less terrifying. Sage looks at him, tousled and serious, so familiar it aches, and she can’t help but remember how it all began.

They were just kids when they first met—literally collided. Henley knocked her down in the water line. Sage didn’t scream or yell, just got up, brushed off her elbows, and stared at him. And he—wild-haired, clutching a barely-holding-together canister—stared right back and said:

“Are you even real, or am I hallucinating?”

She didn’t answer. Just squinted at him. Thought to herself: idiot.

He probably thought she was mute. Or weird. She decided he was the loudest boy she’d ever met. Then suddenly they were in the same school, sitting across from each other, running through stairwells, fighting over chalk stubs and splitting candied apples his father bought on holidays.

But the real beginning came last year, the day after another Reaping. Neither of their families were chosen. And the next day, they ended up alone at his place. Not because it was planned—because things just... fell that way. Sage had brought over thread his mother asked for from Iris, then they started talking, then he made her hot water with dried berries, and somehow it was already dark outside and leaving felt wrong.

They sipped their hot water in silence for almost an hour. Then suddenly Henley said he’d wanted to kiss her since they were seven, standing in that water line. He just didn’t know when to say it.

So Sage kissed him first.

And that was it.

“So,” Sage once said as they were walking home from school, “turns out you fell for the grim version of me, with a bruised knee and a murderous glare? That explains a lot.”

Henley snorted.

“It wasn’t love. It was respect for the threat. I thought, ‘If I survive this encounter—I’ll marry her.’”

“Charming,” she sighed. “And here I was, naïvely hoping you fell for my deep, tormented soul.”

“Didn’t even notice the soul at first. You looked at me like I should be ashamed on behalf of all mankind.”

“Yeah. And I was right. You spilled all my water.”

“Tactical move. Diversion. You noticed. Worked like a charm.”

Henley laughed—quietly, but genuinely. It was that kind of laugh that made something in Sage tighten and unfold all at once. That day, he took her hand and gently squeezed—just like he’s doing now. She feels the faint tremor of her own skin beneath his fingers, and knows he’s trembling too. He’s just trying to hold it together. For her.

“Shall we go?” he asks.

“Let’s,” she nods. “Before you start lecturing me on how the Reaping actually works.”

“Oh, don’t worry. That’s for the walk.”

“Then I’m bringing a brick.”

“Pretty sure Iris would back me up. Yesterday at the market she dramatically recited the entire ration-saving pamphlet to me.”

“Don’t you dare joke about Iris,” Sage narrows her eyes.

“Sorry,” Henley smiles.

He leans in, kisses her temple, and looks at her again like this moment is the only thing that matters. They stay like that for a second longer, then step out into the hot, dusty stillness that always comes before the Reaping.  Sage still holds his hand as they descend the chipped steps of the stairwell. Below, there’s noise—doors slamming in a rush, people shouting, calling for their children.

The square is waiting. And even though everything inside her tightens, it’s easier with Henley beside her.

***

The central square smells of perfume, sweat, and fear. It smells like this every year, on this very day, a blend of celebration and sentence. People are dressed better than usual: pressed shirts, slicked-back hair, ribbons in girls’ hair, buttons sewn back on just yesterday. But the faces remain the same: tense, expectant, as if a question hangs in the air that no one wants answered.

The central square is the heart of District Eight. It’s wide, paved with old stone, cracked in places—like everything else in this sector. In the center stands a tall screen, flanked by columns and sagging garlands. They’re strung up for every celebration, but you can tell—they’re the same ones, just restitched again. Behind the screen is a stage. That’s where the mayor speaks. That’s where names are called.

Important buildings ring the square: the municipal hall with Panem’s flag, the ration center, the factory administration, the Justice Building. They’re made of dark stone, with steep roofs, watching the people from above like silent judges. There are two entrances to the square—people are funneled in by sectors. The older ones at the front, the children and youngest in the back. Peacekeepers line the fences, motionless, like dolls that only come alive on command.

This is a textile district. Everyone knows that. There are weaving mills here—hundreds, maybe thousands. More than half the adult population works there, from early morning until late at night. Others work in warehouses, in repair shops, on sorting lines. The work is hard, but familiar. Everyone knows how to stitch fast, how to use a needle—even the children. Honestly, especially the children.

The housing blocks are gray, towering giants with peeling walls, shared staircases, and courtyards full of trash. Water runs on a schedule. Power is unstable. The streets are dusty, littered with scraps of paper and fabric. Sometimes someone hangs a strip of cloth from their window as a sign—this house has something to sell, or trade.

Kids start helping early. Some hand out parts, some carry water, some—like Marigold—look after the younger ones. And some just stay out of the way, which is help enough. Few can afford not to work. They go to school, of course, but often between shifts. Teachers are exhausted—most of them head straight to factory night shifts after class. Classrooms are overcrowded. Textbooks are old, with pages held together by clear tape.

Factories are both livelihood and danger. It’s easy to get cut, burned, or sick. Accidents are common. Some say that after the fire at Warehouse Three—where Sage’s father and over a hundred fifty others died—things got a little better. If that’s true, it’s a miracle, though the scandal was enormous. The whole sector buzzed for a month. Even Peacekeepers walked around with tight faces, like they’d just realized people weren’t infinite. But Iris says it’s not that things improved—just that no one files reports anymore. And the dead are buried faster.

Henley squeezes Sage’s hand a bit tighter as they approach one of the side entrances, where groups of teenagers are already forming. He stops, still holding on, like there’s time to wait, even though they both know there isn’t.

“I go there,” he says softly, nodding toward the left column, where other eighteen-year-olds are gathering. “See you after. Okay?”

Sage nods. She doesn’t say “yes.” She doesn’t say “if.” She just nods. They both drop the unnecessary assumptions and pretend this is just a regular “later.”

Henley leans in and kisses her—quick, but not rushed. Warm. With a delayed tenderness, like he’s trying to pack an entire conversation into that kiss, in case there won’t be another chance. Then he turns and walks away without looking back—because looking back only makes it worse.

Before joining the line of her age group, Sage scans the crowd for her people. She spots Iris already standing among the adults, holding Rosie’s hand. Rosie yawns, covering her mouth with a tiny fist. Marigold’s a bit farther off, standing tall, fists clenched, shoulders stiff. Even from behind, it’s clear she’s doing her best not to shake.

Sage moves toward them, and with each step, she feels the air grow thicker, heavier—like the square itself is breathing in all their fear.

Iris notices her first. She doesn’t smile, but gives a slight nod—a signal: we’re together. Sage stands beside her and ruffles Rosie’s hair. Her lips are pressed tight; she understands everything, even if she pretends not to. Marigold turns her head, glancing quickly, as if afraid that if she looks too long, she’ll start crying.

“You’re late,” she says softly—almost without reproach, just stating a fact.

“No. The mayor hasn’t come out yet,” Sage whispers. “Let’s go sign in.”

And they move toward their peers, trying not to look around. The Peacekeepers have already started the check-in: list, fingerprint, register mark. The line moves slowly, and with each step, Sage’s heart beats louder. Finally, the sisters are sent to opposite sides of the square: Sage among her age group, Marigold with hers. Classmates give each other small nods, but no one dares to greet aloud.

On the stage, the local Victors are already seated. Cecelia, the winner from ten years ago, tall as an arrow, wearing a gray scarf she once made herself from scraps of her victory uniform. Woof, stocky, broad-backed, with a grim stare, as if still standing in the arena, though his Reaping was fifty years ago. Between them sits Paisley, Iris’s former classmate.

Sage never spoke to her but remembered how she’d sometimes sit by the window during breaks, always sketching something in the margins of her notebook, answering questions without a hitch but never looking anyone in the eye. Paisley won seven years ago—quietly, almost by accident. Since then, she hardly speaks. She looks off to the side. Her fingers are always fiddling with something—the edge of her skirt, a sleeve cord, a thin bracelet on her wrist. She has a younger sister; they live together now, and Sage sometimes sees the girl at the market. Their family is supposedly respected now, yet still quiet, invisible. As if hoping fate might simply forget about them.

There was another Victor once, but no one mentions him anymore. After he returned, he was silent for a long time, then started drinking, and last year he jumped from a factory rooftop just before the Reaping. His house now stands empty. They say his mother still lights a candle on the doorstep sometimes. But people rarely speak of him, as if not mentioning means he never existed.

The stage seems too bright against the rest of the square, like a display window showing off those who survived. They sit, quietly exchanging words, until they’re joined by Alcyon Corvella—the new local escort. He was assigned to District Eight only three years ago, and since then he’s become as familiar as the hum of the looms, in that perfectly starched suit, with a pink ribbon on his lapel and a manner of speaking like each word is a royal gift he’s bestowing upon the cave dwellers outside the Capitol.

Sage once heard Rosie ask Iris, “Why does he always shine like a candy?”. Iris just shrugged, but Sage had thought then: because there’s nothing left inside him, only the wrapper. And today, she notices his step first—not even his face. Graceful, feline, obviously rehearsed step. Fingers in white gloves wrap around the microphone as if it were a champagne flute. He smiles like it’s all a masquerade, not a death lottery.

“Good day, my dearest, most delightful little Eighters,” he purrs, settling into his chair.

“I’m so thrilled to see your faces again… even if not all of them look so happy. But trust me, we’re about to experience the most thrilling moment of the year together!”

He pauses, casting a glance toward the crowd, as if cueing himself for effect.

“Oh, how I adore the Reaping. So much… drama, such freshness, such youthful energy!”

No one even reacts. The square seems to be waiting. It’s like the moment before a storm: no thunder yet, but the sky has already made its choice. And then the mayor appears on stage—in a polished uniform and with a face stretched into an unnatural smile. The camera zooms in on his face, the screen flares.

Everything else freezes. The silence becomes total.

The mayor clears his throat, as if he can’t find the right tone. He clutches the folder with his speech in both hands, as though it might shield him from the gaze of several thousand people.

“Dear citizens of District Eight,” he begins, trying to sound upbeat, but it comes off rehearsed. “Today, as every year, we gather once again to pay tribute to the peace secured after the Dark Days…”

Sage notices the girl in front of her shifting nervously from foot to foot. The mayor speaks of a war that ended decades ago as if it were still ongoing, as if none of them had heard this exact speech dozens of times before. His voice gains confidence, but it’s the confidence of paper, not conviction.

“…and to remind ourselves that the freedom and stability of Panem are not just words, but the result of a great sacrifice. To maintain this peace and balance between the districts and the Capitol, a symbol of unity was created: the Hunger Games.”

He pauses. Probably, protocol says the pause should be reassuring. In truth, it’s just awkward. Someone coughs quietly.

“Today, as always, we will select one tribute from among the boys and one from the girls aged twelve to eighteen, to fight for the glory of our district and, perhaps, bring us victory. We are proud of our past participants and, of course, will never forget those who gave their lives for us.”

He nods toward the Victors. Woof remains motionless, like a rock. Cecelia nods—sharp, emotionless. Paisley looks away.

“Before we proceed with the drawing, let us honor the fallen with a moment of silence,” the mayor says.

As always, the minute lasts an eternity. Something inside always breaks during it. The voice of the people goes completely still. Even the Peacekeepers stand a little straighter. Birds seem not to sing. Sage turns her head involuntarily, slowly, as if afraid someone might notice. Her gaze sweeps across the heads, the faces, the familiar outlines in the rows to the left. And she finds Henley.

He stands tall, arms by his sides, gaze fixed ahead—not at the stage, not at the screen, but through them, it seems. His chin trembles slightly, but he holds firm, as always. Sage knows he’s trying to set an example for his younger brothers, and she straightens up too, hoping Marigold can see her.

For a moment, Henley’s eyes flick slightly in her direction—just barely, almost imperceptibly. But it’s enough. Sage gives him an encouraging smile, and he smiles back, tightly. She’s here. He’s here. For now, they both are. And all they can do is hope that in the next hour, nothing changes.

Reality snaps back with a squeal of feedback as Alcyon Corvella takes the microphone. His voice is sweet as syrup:

“Thank you, honorable mayor. And now… the moment we’ve all been waiting for.”

He rolls his eyes with theatrical delight, as if announcing a performance and not drawing the name of someone likely to die in the arena. Then he turns smoothly to the transparent bowl with the girls’ names, unhurriedly, as if posing for the cameras instead of holding someone’s fate in his hands.

“Let’s begin, as always, with the lovely young ladies of our district. Who will be the one whose name rings out first?”

Sage feels everything inside her clench. Alcyon has annoyed her since that very first Reaping when he arrived in the district—glossy, falsely radiant, like a mannequin in a shop window. He looks at the crowd as if they’re not people, but rare insects pinned behind glass. And now, in this moment, he looks absolutely pleased.

The previous escort, Galatea Trend, at least never pretended to enjoy herself. She always spoke curtly, without a smile, as if rushing to get it over with and go home. There was something unpleasant about her, but it was honest. Alcyon is the opposite: everything about him is lovely—except the truth. Of course it is. He’s not scared. He doesn’t have to stand in the crowd and wait for his name to be pulled from a bowl. He’s never been afraid, and he’ll never understand what this minute means—this moment between breath and potential sentence.

His hand dips inside. Fingers sift through the slips. The crowd holds its breath. All hearts beat in sync—like looms at the start of a shift. Alcyon’s smile widens; he tilts his head slightly toward the camera, as if to say: look, I radiate charm. White gloves glide over the slips inside the bowl as he stirs them gently, tauntingly slowly, as if they’re invitations to a gala, not names.

And Sage stands there, fists clenched, silently pleading: not us. Not Marigold. Not…

He pulls one out, unfolding it carefully, like a ball invitation.

Then reads the name.

Hers.

“Miss Sage Bradbury, please come up to the stage!”

For a moment, Sage doesn’t understand. The words sound like they’re coming from far away, muffled through thick glass. And the name… her name… doesn’t register as hers at first. It trembles in the air, foreign, distorted, too loud. For the past seventeen years, she’s heard it from her sisters, her teachers, her neighbors, Henley. But never like this. Not from a stage. Not in front of everyone.

The skin on the back of her neck goes cold. Somewhere to the left, someone exhales—and the relief in that breath is sharp, like a slap. Someone starts whispering. Someone turns their head. She feels the stares. They pierce like needles in her back.

Her feet seem fused to the ground.

“Miss Bradbury,” Alcyon repeats, in that same sweet voice, holding not an ounce of patience, only polite coercion. “Dear, you don’t want us to have to come fetch you, do you?”

He even chuckles. But no one in the crowd laughs.

Iris. Where is she?

Sage turns around. And sees her. Iris is already looking straight at her, unblinking, clutching Rosie’s shoulders. There’s no scream on her face, no tears—only horror, clenched into silence. Marigold—further away—but she’s looking too. Her chin trembles. She’s barely holding on, and still, she nods at her. Just a little, as if to say: go, we’re here.

And it’s in that exact moment that Sage is overtaken by a strange, icy mix: terror, so dense it’s almost breathable, and… relief. Dull, shameful, almost unbearable. Because at least, it’s Sage. Not Marigold. Her heart may be shattering, but the world hasn’t completely overturned. Her sisters are safe. For now. For this year.

Sage almost hates herself—not for the feeling itself, but for the fact that it lives so close to the fear. And yet it’s there. As real as the stone beneath her feet.

She feels Henley move—her gaze snaps to him instinctively. He stands frozen, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. He’s shaking his head—slowly, as if he can’t believe it. And then—a step forward, as if he means to rush toward her, but one of the Peacekeepers raises a hand sharply, as though they’d anticipated the move.

No. Don’t. She doesn’t want him touched.

Sage raises her own hand—slowly, like underwater—and stops Henley with a single motion. He freezes. But she sees how his fists clench. His eyes never leave her for a second.

No words come. Her body moves without her. One step forward. Then another. The crowd parts. Her footsteps echo dully against the stone-paved square, as if the whole world hears them.

The stage draws closer. Alcyon extends a hand to Sage. His glove gleams white. She doesn’t take it.

She climbs up on her own.

The stage is brighter. Cleaner. Further from the ground.

Alcyon smiles — steady, shameless. He turns to the crowd, and Sage hears his voice regain its cheer:

“A wonderful choice! Sage, our brave tribute! And now… let’s find out who will join her.”

He turns to the second bowl — the one with the boys’ names. The white gloves dive in again, and she sees his fingers brush over the slips as if choosing not at random, but by instinct, by taste. The same theatrical pause. The same gentle flourish.

Sage stands alone, beneath a thousand watching eyes. And only one thought hammers in her skull: please, not Henley, please, please, please. Let it be anyone but him.

“And now,” Alcyon purrs, “let’s see who will accompany our lovely Miss Bradbury.”

He pulls out a name. Unfolds it slowly. That same bright, artificial smile blooms on his face.

“Riven Alden,” he announces. “Mr. Riven Alden, please come up to the stage!”

Her heart drops — plummets into the deepest, darkest, most selfish part of her. Sage rejoices, because the name is unfamiliar. Not Henley. Not one of his brothers. This year, her house will only mourn her.

A pause. Movement deep in the crowd. Whispers: “Where is he?”, “Who is it?” — and then Sage sees him. A boy. Short, thin, with a wind-chapped face and hair fallen messily across his forehead. Fourteen, maybe younger. He walks forward slowly, barely breathing, as if this is a dream, and he’s just going through the motions. He doesn’t cry. Doesn’t even tremble. He just walks, carefully, as if afraid he’ll break something or step wrong. There’s no courage in his stride, but there is surrender.

Sage sees his face for the first time. It tells her nothing. She doesn’t know what school he’s from, what sector he lives in, who he has. But she sees his eyes, and in them — the same thing as in hers: the slow, creeping understanding that from this moment on, they’re both doomed.

Alcyon claps. The cameras swing toward the boy. Someone in the crowd lets out a sob. Someone calls Riven’s name. A mother, maybe. A sister. His steps on the stage — like blows to bone. He’s up there now, but not really present. His shoulders are drawn up, like a bird being held by its wings, just tightly enough to keep it from flying. His gaze is still lost in the sea of gray faces below. None of them see him making it out.

He stands a little apart from Sage — too small, too quiet — and doesn’t look at her. They are not a pair. They are two separately doomed people, thrown together on a single deck before the storm.

Sage turns her head, just enough to catch a glimpse of Henley. He’s still rooted to the same spot, but his face has changed. No longer afraid — just blank. As if he’s forgotten how to breathe.

Everything inside her pulses. In her throat, her temples, beneath her ribs. It’s not her heart beating — it’s some crumpled-up hysteria that won’t come out. Because it can’t. Because the camera is right in front of her face. Because Iris is holding Rosie, and Marigold is holding herself together, and Henley… Henley is still holding on to Sage, even if she’s no longer beside him.

Everything inside tangles: terror, relief, and a sickening guilt. Because she’s glad it wasn’t him. And she’s ashamed to be glad. And still, she’s afraid — because this boy is going to the arena with her now.

The roar of the crowd dies out, like wind sealed in a closed room. A shiver runs through her — small, cold, barely visible on the outside, but inside it wrecks everything. Sage feels her knees want to buckle, and yet she stands straight. As if her body still obeys — not out of strength, but out of stubbornness. Out of sheer inertia.

Alcyon is speaking again — about honor, excitement, the great privilege of being chosen. His voice is like melted sugar poured over a broken doll: thick, sticky, too sweet to be real. Sage hears the words, but they don’t sink in. They bounce off her like raindrops hitting a roof. Because inside, something else is roaring now: the sky, the explosion, the void.

Somewhere to the side, the mayor appears. The sheet of paper in his hands trembles a little more than his voice. He begins to read “The Treaty of Treason”, the same one every local child has heard each year since they learned how to understand speech.

Each paragraph lands like a sentence dressed up in pretty clothes, memorized for performance.

Sage doesn’t listen. She can’t. The words — about great betrayal, about the rebellion that split Panem, about the wisdom of the Capitol that blessed us with structure and peace — pass by her ears like a hoarse, monotonous veil. The fear hasn’t lessened with rhetoric. It’s just crouched beside her now. Lurking.

Riven doesn’t move. He stands as if his body has fused with the stage. The wind tugs gently at his shirt — thin, slightly worn at the shoulders.

Sage notices his ankle: scratched, just visible through a lifted pant leg, a thin red line across pale skin. It’s such a childlike detail it makes her throat tighten. Another wave of pain crashes over her — not hers, not his, just pain, as it is. The kind that settles into everything like dust in this district.

The mayor reads the final line. Pauses. Says:

“Long live Panem. Long live unity.”

Then the horn sounds. The first note — dull, metallic. And then the anthem begins. It always sounds the same, solemn, cold, as if not played on instruments but on teeth. There’s no beauty in the melody. Nothing you’d want to sing. Nothing that moves you, except to stillness. Only the command to listen. Only the reminder: you live because we allow it. Each chord cuts under the skin, not like music, but like an alarm turned inside out and wrapped in shiny foil.

Sage stands. Stares into the void. And at some point, she realizes she no longer feels her legs. As if everything that held her here — memory, fear, Henley’s eyes — is back there, below, somewhere in the crowd. And she is already beyond it all.

The stage. The anthem. The cameras.

Welcome to the Hunger Games.

Notes:

yes-yes-yes, i love floral names — step aside, everdeens!! okay, to be fair, there is an explanation for it, but it’ll take some time, lmao

SO!
sage stands for wisdom.
marigolds are soft, bright flowers, a symbol of loyalty.
iris means courage, and our iris is the one her sisters lean on.
rosie, or rose, is beauty and gentleness.

their last name! bradbury, after the author ray bradbury. the idea for the floral names came from his book dandelion wine. i just couldn’t find a feminine name associated with dandelions — and “dandelion” is way too tightly linked to the witcher character, and that is not the vibe i’m going for...

but! it’s a hint that their family is close, warm, full of love and care, like summer memories from the book i mentioned.

and yes, poor henley is literally named after henley shirts. district names are so ridiculous sometimes... but hey, at least it’s not RYAN. thank god!

Chapter 2

A Peacekeeper appears beside them, tall, face hidden behind a mask. He nods. It’s time to go.

That’s it. This is the moment she’s torn from her life — not with a scream, not with tears, not even with a blow. Just like this: with a nod. Quiet. Final.

Sage looks back one last time, and realizes: this is the last.

Iris clutches Rosie so tightly the girl seems unable to breathe. Marigold stares straight at Sage, jaw clenched so hard her cheeks have gone white. And Henley… Henley stands like if he moves even a fraction, she’ll vanish forever. He doesn’t blink. Sage catches herself thinking: If I can just remember that look, maybe I’ll survive. Maybe that memory will hold me when everything else falls apart. Maybe—

Stupid comfort. She knows she’s not coming back.

Riven steps forward after the Peacekeeper. Sage follows him, and the cameras follow them. The crowd parts, but she doesn’t see it anymore — only the narrow strip of dirt beneath her feet. Maybe it’s just in her head, but she feels like there’s no more oxygen in the air.

They’re led to the Justice Building — tall, rectangular, with columns and sickening, polished symmetry. The floors are gleaming, the walls smooth and bare. Everything here feels carved with a ruler, scrubbed to a shine, arranged by rules so clean, so precise, no one in the district could ever live by them.

Every time Sage passed this building, it felt like it was laughing. With its stone face, echoing halls, and hollow corridors, it mocked the rest of the district — where walls crack and doors hang on kindness alone. This building doesn’t belong here. It’s something the Capitol dropped from their world. Built to remind everyone who owns the order and who holds the power.

Inside, it’s cool. It smells like metal and dust. Not real dust — the kind that gets under your nails — but sterile, official dust.

The Peacekeepers say nothing. Sage and Riven are separated almost immediately. He’s taken left. She’s taken right. She doesn’t even get to look at him. Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be. Everything’s supposed to follow protocol now.

The goodbye room is nearly empty. One table. One chair. A camera tucked behind tinted glass in the corner — mute, but always watching.

The Peacekeeper nods and leaves. Sage sits and waits. Hands in her lap. Fingers knotted together like that’s what’s holding her together.

It’s too quiet. Even the clock doesn’t tick. Only her heart — pounding like some heavy, broken machine under her skin. She doesn’t know how long she waits — five minutes, ten, or forever. Time stretches thin, muffled and dizzy, like just before you faint.

A stupid thought crawls into her head: maybe no one will come. Not because they don’t love her. But because… there’s no one to come.

They never had many people. The neighbors were “familiar,” but not real friends. Classmates were acquaintances, not kin. Sage isn’t the kind people gather around. She’s the kind who leaves school the second classes end. Who carries her baby sisters home. Who stays silent when everyone else argues. They know her, but they don’t invite her. And that’s not sad. It just is.

Sage exhales shakily and reminds herself: she doesn’t need a crowd. She’s not expecting flowers or speeches. But she’s waiting for Iris. Because if Iris doesn’t come, it’s over already. Before the train, before the arena. And she’s not ready for the end.

The door swings open.

Iris walks in without a word — fast, like she was afraid they’d stop her.  She goes straight to Sage and wraps her arms around her so tightly both of them lose their breath. Her face buries into Sage’s shoulder. Her hands are shaking.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“For what?” Sage rasps, barely audible. “It’s not your fault.”

Iris pulls back and looks at her, like she’s trying to memorize everything all at once — the shape of her face, the freckle near her hairline, the uneven seam on her collar. She strokes her head, like Sage is little girl again, sick, and there’s nothing Iris can do but offer silence and touch.

“You’re strong,” she says. “You’re going to make it. You hear me? You always were…”

She swallows the rest.

“You’re better than all of us.”

Sage shakes her head. She doesn’t need to hear that. She knows it’s not true, just comfort, dramatic words for the dying. All she needs is Iris not to let go of her hand.

The next moment, Marigold bursts in, nearly crashing into the table. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes blazing, lips pressed into a painful line. She sits down fast, like standing hurts.

“I thought it would be me,” she breathes. “I was getting ready. All spring. I studied plant names. I read about traps. I thought…”

“Mari…” Sage reaches for her.

Marigold doesn’t pull away. Just leans her forehead against Sage’s hands.

“I would’ve gone. If they’d called me. I swear. Not because I’m brave. Just… Just so it wouldn’t be you. You understand?”

Sage understands. They all do. But right now, that changes nothing.

Marigold lifts her eyes.

"Remember everything", she says. "People. Roads. Who eats what, who’s afraid of what"

"ll try", Sage forces out, though speaking suddenly feels impossible.

"No. Promise me"

Marigold’s voice hardens, almost threatening — as if the promise itself could hold her sister in this world a little longer. Sage looks into her eyes. Big, stubborn, dark. There’s so much pain and belief in them all at once, it’s nearly unbearable.

"I promise", she says.

And in the same breath, she feels the swell of hatred. Not at Marigold, of course. At herself. Because she hates lying. And right now, she’s doing exactly that. Saying what Marigold needs to hear, while everything inside her screams the opposite. Sage doesn’t know if she’ll manage any of it. Doesn’t know if she’ll even be able to think, once it starts. Or breathe.

She can feel the lie settle inside her — heavy, sticky, like soot after a fire. "I promise" — such a simple word, and yet the most terrifying one. She has no right to it. Because deep down, it isn’t really a promise. It’s just a desperate attempt to soothe the ones who still love her, in the last few minutes they have. And in that moment, Sage despises herself for not being able to be honest at the end.

Her chest tightens from the silence between them. From Iris’s gaze, from the way Marigold still grips her wrist like she’s afraid Sage will vanish if she lets go. And Sage… Sage is vanishing. Everything inside her feels muffled, like she’s underwater. She hears her sisters’ voices, the Peacekeepers outside the door, maybe even the anthem echoing faintly from the square — but it’s all drifting away. Losing color.

And then comes the thought, plain and colorless: I’m already dead. Not physically. Not yet. But something in her broke the moment her name was called. The life she knew ended right there, standing with Alcyon’s glove in her face and a camera above her head. All that’s left now is the train that will take her to certain death. And the only thing she can do is make sure her sisters don’t see how afraid she is.

"It’s going to be okay" Sage says. And knows it’s the second lie.

Marigold nods, then pulls back slightly — and only then does Sage notice that Rosie’s been in her lap this whole time. Tucked tight against her chest, curled up small like maybe if she stayed quiet enough, no one would notice her and make her leave. She lifts her head timidly. Her eyes are wet, her lower lip pressed tight the way she always does when she’s trying not to cry in front of her sisters. Tiny. In her best dress. Hair a mess. Freckles on her nose — the ones she hates.

"Can I?", Marigold asks gently, and carefully sets Rosie down on Sage’s knees.

Sage hugs her. At first tentatively, afraid she might break. Then tightly. Like maybe, if she holds her hard enough, she can stop everything from slipping away. Rosie buries her nose in Sage’s collar. Her fists are clenched. She says nothing at first — and then, a moment later, still clinging to her, she whispers:

"I brought you something"

Sage feels her tiny hand press something into hers. A tomato. Slightly wilted, but still red, lovingly wrapped in the corner of an old handkerchief.

"They’re magic", Rosie says, barely audible. "Remember?"

"I remember", Sage breathes.

Her fingers close around the fruit like it’s not a tomato, but a heart — small, warm, beating. A lump rises in her throat. But she doesn’t cry. She can’t. Because if she cries now, no one will be able to put her back together. And they… they can’t see that. This day will live in them forever, and she wants them to remember her standing, somehow, not broken.

She’ll cry later. When no one’s around. When she’s no longer someone’s sister, just a number on a train. Then, maybe, she’ll let herself fall apart. But not now. Not in front of them.

Iris sits down beside her. One hand on Sage’s back, the other resting on Marigold’s shoulder. They sit like that, the three of them, gathered around the fourth — Rosie, curled up in Sage’s lap, hugging her as tightly as if that alone could keep her from leaving. Rosie shifts slightly, then looks up, her eyes wide and glistening, like a baby bird dragged out of the nest too soon. Her lips move, and the others can barely hear her whisper:

“Will you be back soon?”

Sage freezes. Only one thing echoes in her head: say yes. Just like she said it for Marigold. Just like she said it for Iris. They don’t need honesty. They need hope. Even the tiniest piece of it.

“Of course,” she says, stroking Rosie’s hair. “I’ll just be in the Capitol for a little while. Then I’ll come back. I promise.”

“With gifts?” Rosie asks, serious and simple, the way only children can be.

“The biggest ones,” Sage replies, her voice barely trembling. “Candy, and silk ribbons. And maybe… maybe even a book. The one about the fox and the clock, remember? I’ll come home and tell you all about the fools who live in the Capitol…”

Rosie nods, pressing her face into Sage’s shoulder. She doesn’t say anything more. Just breathes, evenly but with effort, as if holding herself together takes everything she has.

Iris looks at the two of them. Her gaze holds no panic, no visible pain — just that grim, carved-in-stone resolve she’s worn since their parents died. The kind Sage always envied.

“You’re not alone,” Iris says. Quiet, but in a way Sage knows she’ll remember forever. “Even there. You hear me? We’re with you.”

Sage doesn’t answer. Can’t. She just nods once, barely, because if she speaks, even a single word, the fragile balance holding her up will collapse.

And so they just sit there. The four of them. In silence. Until the knock at the door comes again. Surprisingly gentle this time, almost polite. But they all know what it means. Time’s up.

“I don’t know how to say goodbye,” Iris whispers. “I can do anything else. But not that.”

“You don’t have to,” Sage replies. “I don’t know how either.”

“So… not goodbye,” Marigold says. “Just until that day comes.”

Sage doesn’t ask which day. They all know. So they say nothing. Rosie nods too, solemn like a grown-up. Then she buries her face in Sage’s chest, and Sage closes her eyes, because she doesn’t know how to survive this if it’s the last time.

A minute later, the peacekeeper opens the door. It’s time to go. It’s time for them to keep living. And for Sage — to wait for the train.

Iris stands first. She brushes her fingers across Sage’s cheek — quick, as if afraid the peacekeeper might stop her. Marigold kisses her temple, abrupt and fierce, almost angry. Rosie doesn’t let go. Sage passes her into Iris’s arms, but even as they walk away, their hands are still clinging until Rosie’s soft fingers finally slip from hers.

And then the door closes. And everything is too quiet again.

Sage is alone. With an empty chair across from her and a tomato in her palm — still a little heavy, still warm. The only thing in the room that feels remotely real.

Time passes strangely. She doesn’t know how long it’s been. A few minutes? Ten? More? The room feels stretched, like an old photo, warped and unreal. Sage sits, listening to her own heartbeat, and thinks: Is that it? No one else is coming?

She isn’t angry. Not even surprised. Just... sinking into a deeper kind of emptiness.

And then — footsteps. Quiet, hesitant. Just outside the door.

A knock. Familiar. But different this time. A pause before the door opens, as if the person outside is also mustering their courage.

The door swings open. And Sage sees him.

Henley.

Her heart stumbles. He enters slowly, like he can't quite believe they've let him in. His shoulders are tense, fists clenched, lips pressed together. But his eyes are the same as ever. Only now there’s no trace of the usual mischief, no spark, no light. Just pain and fear, carefully hidden beneath a layer of stubbornness.

He doesn’t say hello. Doesn’t ask how she is. Just sits across from her, and for a while, they simply look at each other. As if trying to understand: Is this real? Is this our last conversation? Is this all that’s left?

“I’m glad you’re here,” Sage says at last. And it’s true. One of the few truths left.

Henley nods. His gaze drops to her hands. To Rosie’s tomato. He smiles — barely, crookedly, like it’s both too early and too late for that sort of thing.

“Is that your lucky charm?” he asks. His voice is low, hoarse, like he hasn’t used it in a while.

“Magic,” she says. “Rosie gave it to me. So it’s bound to work.”

“Then I won’t worry about you.”

They fall silent again. And in that silence between them — everything. Childhood, school, chalk crumbling in rucksacks, whispers in the library, hot water with dried berries. First touches. First kiss. Henley carrying Sage’s books even though she could carry them herself — just because “gentlemen don’t let ladies lug things about.” That one time he brought her an orange when he found out she’d never had one, and said, “It’s as sour as you on a Monday morning.” It really was sour, but it was the only orange of her life, and she remembered it forever.

Summer evenings, lying on their backs, staring through the window in his parents’ flat, making up their own constellations because the real ones were hidden behind the factory smog. How he’d sneak through backyards to leave a dried apple slice at her door, saved from his lunch at the mill. And how she kept the cloth wrap for a whole week, because it smelled like smoke from his hands.

His hand in hers when she was scared. Hers in his — when it was him who was scared. The time they fell asleep pressed together on that narrow sofa, under one blanket, and woke at dawn, warm, quiet, inside something bigger than just an embrace.

And that night. A closed door, light from a single lamp, and fingers trembling from the fear of ruining something. Henley was so gentle, like Sage might fall apart with one wrong move. And she was so quiet, she could hear her own breath as he kissed her skin, slowly, like he was memorising every inch. And since then, he always held her differently. With the certainty that nothing could bring them any closer.

She rewinds it all in her mind, everything that was, and never will be again. Memories of a girl dying in front of the whole country. Memories that will stay with Henley forever.

Suddenly, he leans forward and says:

“I thought that if either of us were to get picked, it’d be me.”

Sage looks at him, and her throat tightens.

“Don’t say that. I kept praying it wouldn’t be you.”

He raises his eyebrows slightly. There’s pain in his eyes, and something else, harder to name.

“Are you angry?” she asks.

“At you? No.” Henley shakes his head. “It’s not your fault they pulled your name. I just… I don’t know how to be on this side of it. When there’s nothing to do. Just watching.”

She drops her gaze.

“And I don’t know how to leave. But here I am. Learning.”

Henley looks at her — steady, heavy — like he’s trying to memorise her face, every detail of it.

“If I could, I’d go in your place.”

She nods.

“I know.”

He shakes his head. Then reaches forward again — takes her hands in his. And for a moment, she feels alive again.

“I love you,” he says.

Calmly. No drama. As much a fact as the existence of air. But what matters most isn’t the way he says it — it’s that he’s never said it before. As if he’s always known, but only now found the courage to speak. The words come out unevenly, like they’ve been inside him for too long, warm, sharp, real.

He looks straight at Sage, unwavering, unflinching. She forgets how to breathe. Everything inside her stills, as if the world has shrunk down to just this: Henley, those three words, and the thought that this might be their last conversation.

She feels tears welling up in her eyes. Not from fear. Not from pain. But because someone once called her their beloved at the exact moment she has to start saying goodbye. Not just to Henley, but to herself.

“I know,” she says. Quietly. Barely audible.

Then she looks at him.

“I do too. Always.”

Henley nods, like he’s accepted it as a promise. He squeezes her hand tighter.

“You’re stronger than you think.”

She shakes her head slowly.

“No. I’m not… I don’t know how to fight. I don’t know how to kill. I’m not fast, I’m not tough. I don’t have any weapons or any plan… you remember the kind of arenas they like. Jungles, plains, deserts. I’ve spent my whole life in the Sector — I’ve never even been to the woods. My hands only know how to sew and stir soup. And I’ve never even seen someone die before, I… my heart breaks just thinking about it…”

He says nothing, but he keeps his eyes on her. Steady. Warm. As if he still doesn’t believe any of her words. And she goes on, whispering, tripping over each word:

“I’m not brave, Henley. I’m just… my name came out of the reaping, that’s all. I… I’m not a hero. I don’t even know how to keep myself from breaking on the first day.”

Sage looks away. Because she can’t bear to see him believe in her. She doesn’t want him to believe in something she’s sure isn’t real.

“I’m scared,” she finally says. Softly. In a child’s voice. “So much.”

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t argue. Just cups her face in his hands, gently, like she’s made of porcelain. And says:

“That doesn’t make you weak.”

Then he leans in a little closer.

“It’s what makes you alive. And I want you to stay that way. Even there.”

“I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“Then remember. There. In the arena.”

“What if I can’t?”

“You will,” he says simply.

Sage closes her eyes. Just for a second. To remember the warmth of his hands. To carve this moment into herself.

A knock at the door again. This one cuts deeper than before.

Henley stands. Walks to her. And kisses her forehead.

“You’ll come back,” he whispers. “I’ll be waiting.”

Sage doesn’t answer, just holds on to his fingers until she has no choice but to let go. Then Henley leaves, and she remains. And the room doesn’t just feel empty — the emptiness feels… final.

Now it’s only her. And what’s waiting ahead.

Sage sits, unmoving. Hands on her knees, the tomato still in her palm. The room seems to shrink again, down to a single point: the empty chair in front of her. The air grows thick, like wet cloth. Sage thinks that this was it. That this was the ending, and now there’s only silence, the train, the arena.

But suddenly… the door creaks open again. Not sharply, not with authority. It’s not another Peacekeeper. The footsteps are soft, almost hesitant. As if the person behind the door can’t quite believe they’ve been allowed in.

The door opens slightly. Sage looks up — and sees a stranger.

The woman lingers on the threshold for a moment, as if unsure whether she’s allowed to come in. She’s well-dressed — not flashy, but tasteful: a dark blue dress that fits just right, a neat collar, spotless patent shoes. Her hair is pulled back into a strict but not merciless hairstyle. There’s not a thread out of place, not a speck of dust on her. It’s as if she’s been cut out from another world — one where mirrors still work, where there’s hot water and manicure scissors.

She looks just a little older than Sage. Two years, maybe. But between them — a whole lifetime. Her face is light, delicate, but not soft. Her eyes study Sage — not with pity, not with disdain, but with something else. Curiosity, maybe. As if she didn’t come to offer sympathy, but to ask: Are you really who you seem to be?

Sage feels like a crooked stitch on smooth fabric. But the woman finally steps inside, closes the door behind her, and says:

“Hi. I hope I’m not intruding.”

Her voice is calm, well-measured.

Sage blinks — and suddenly the face clicks into place. She’s seen it before. Briefly. At the market, among stalls of knitted gloves, dried fish, and old soap. Sometimes they reached for the same bunch of dried beans or dill. Now and then they’d exchange a polite word or two — nothing more. Mostly, the woman kept to herself, even when she was helping someone. Quiet. Collected. Strangely distant.

Ester. Paisley’s sister. Paisley, the girl who once stood in this same building, in this same room, on the edge of that same road.

And then it all makes sense. The nice clothes — bought with victory money. The calm — tight, practiced. She’s been through this too. Just… from the other side.

Sage doesn’t understand why she’s come. They’re not close. They never were. Ester lives in the Victor’s Village — in a tidy house with a green façade and a high porch, where the windows are always clean and the doors never creak. They say victors are even allowed to call other districts now, even though not long ago, climbing the outer fence meant instant death. Ester has her own room, hot water in the evenings, and power that doesn’t get cut without warning.

And Sage… Sage is from the sector. From a peeling apartment block where the stairwells smell like coal and flooded basements. Her neighbor boils soup on a rusted stove with only one working burner, and Iris washes clothes in rainwater collected in cracked plastic basins. Picking the same bunch of radishes didn’t make them friends. They were from different worlds. Sage would’ve never guessed she’d come.

Ester closes the door behind her and stands still. Just looks at Sage. There’s no pity in her gaze. No fear. Only resolve. So quiet it’s almost frightening.

“You came to see me?” Sage asks. It sounds stupid. But nothing else comes to mind.

Ester nods.

“I couldn’t not come.”

She steps closer. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t reach out. Just stands there, head slightly tilted, as if trying to find the right words — or not quite daring to say the ones she already has.

“I’m not going to tell you you’ll make it,” she says finally. “Because I don’t know you.”

A pause. Ester presses her lips together like she’s swallowing something heavy.

“You know I’m… from a tribute’s family,” she says. “My sister… they took her when I was thirteen. I was so scared, I barely remember anything. Just Paisley standing on that stage, not looking at us. And then… our mother crying until she got sick.”

Sage says nothing. Not because there’s nothing to say — though maybe that too — but because she doesn’t want to break the moment.

“I remember what it’s like when everyone’s looking at you and no one knows what to do,” Ester goes on. “When it feels like you’re the one who won the reaping, but it doesn’t make it any easier.” She lets out a short breath. Almost a laugh. “Anyway… I know what it’s going to be like. For them. Iris. Marigold. Your little one.”

Sage’s eyes snap up.

“You…”

“I’ll look after them,” Ester says. “Not with daily hugs or anything, but I’ll bring vegetables. I’ll make sure the kids get to school. I’ll help if something comes up. Just — no ‘she would’ve wanted that,’ okay? That stuff usually just pisses you off.”

Sage almost smiles — lopsided, uneven. And she feels something shift in her chest. Gently. Like there’s finally room for air again.

“Thank you,” she says.

Ester smiles, like that was the only answer she expected. Then she turns toward the door — but pauses. Looks back at Sage over her shoulder.

“Just do everything you can. Not just to win. But so they’ll know you tried.”

Sage nods.

“Live,” Ester says at last. And slips out the door.

Sage exhales — and with relief, realizes that her chest doesn’t feel so empty anymore.

Because somewhere out there, beyond the wall, someone is already holding her sisters’ hands.

Chapter 3

The vehicle they’re put into feels more like a miniature living room on wheels. Soft seats, dim lighting, even the upholstery isn’t the usual coarse fabric, but something velvet-like, warm to the touch. Probably just an ordinary mode of transport for them — the Capitol people. But to the residents of the district, it’s a kind of comfort that feels almost obscene, like it wasn’t meant for them in the first place.

It’s the most comfortable ride Sage has ever had, and that thought alone makes it all the more uncomfortable. Because this coziness — it’s not care. It’s like a fancy coffin: impressive, sure, but what does it matter when you already know where you’re headed?

She’s sitting on the right, by the window. The world outside is familiar but distant, like in a slow-motion dream: factory walls blackened with soot, half-dead trees, the same shopfronts that haven’t changed in years. Everything drifts by — quiet, sluggish, as if the district doesn’t even notice that today someone is being driven away to die.

A cloth sits on her lap. Inside — a single tomato, carefully wrapped. Sage checked several times on the way here: it’s still intact. Slightly bruised on one side, but warm. As if it, too, is coming along for the ride.

Riven is sitting across from her, in the far corner. His back is straight, hands resting on his knees. He barely moves. His eyes keep scanning the cabin, the doors, the window — not looking, but searching. As if he’s still waiting for someone to stop the vehicle and say, “Sorry, mistake, we mixed you up with another Riven Alden — you can go home now.”

It’s obvious he’s been crying, and even though his face is dry now, his eyes are red, his nose shiny like after a cold. He’s pretending he’s fine, holding it together — but his shoulders betray him. They’re tense, like he’s holding his breath just to keep from bursting into tears.

Sage doesn’t know what to say to him. They haven’t spoken a word since the Justice Building. Maybe because she doesn’t know how to say the right thing in situations like this. Or, honestly, in most situations. She’s always been that way — silent when words are needed. Or she says the wrong thing, at the wrong time. Since childhood.

When Marigold argued with the neighbors, when Iris rushed to defend someone in the yard, Sage would just stand there and think she wanted to say something too. But inside, there was only a crumpled-up feeling and not a single fitting word. Like there was a thin sheet of glass between her and the world. You could see through it — but you couldn’t knock on it.

With Henley, sometimes it was different. With him, that glass would vanish. With him, she wasn’t afraid to speak — even nonsense, even out loud. But Henley was something else entirely. He was the crack in the dam she’s been holding up inside herself for seventeen years.

And now here she is — sitting across from Riven, silent again. Because inside, it’s that same crumpled-up feeling. And not a single fitting word. What are you even supposed to say to a boy who’s just been sent to die along with you?

“It’ll be alright”? That’s a lie.

“Hang in there”? He’s already hanging in there the best he can, clinging to what little self-control he has left, to silence, to the straightness of his back.

“I’m sorry”? She’s sorry for everyone. For him, for herself, for the fact that days like this even exist, that there are machines like this, trains like those. But that doesn’t change anything either.

She feels helpless. Not in a combat sense, Sage’s uselessness in the arena is a given. But in a human sense. She’s sitting across from him, older, more experienced, the one who’s supposed to say something, to comfort, to support — but no words come. She just… doesn’t know how to be next to someone when she’s this scared herself.

Sage glances at Riven — furtively, so he won’t notice — and thinks how small he looks. Like he’s not fourteen, but nine. Thin wrists, narrow shoulders, fragile face. He looks younger than twelve-year-old Marigold.

And yet, he holds it together. Like someone who’s already been told there’s no way out.

Then it suddenly hits her: Riven is her competitor. His death, technically, is in her best interest. The fewer tributes, the higher the odds. Simple math. But the thought only makes things worse. Not because of guilt — though it’s there too, tucked somewhere deeper — but because of how terrifyingly easy it is to turn a person into a statistic.

The car moves on. Tires thump dully over cobblestones, then old asphalt. Inside, it’s quieter than it should be. Just the occasional breath. And the warm tomato in Sage’s hands, the only thing that still feels alive.

Up ahead — the station.

The train.

And then — everything else.

The mentors.

The Capitol.

The chariots.

The show.

The interviews.

The arena.

The sponsors.

Death.

Sage closes her eyes and tries to picture herself in past Games.

That boy from District Two, who fought off four tributes at once — and won. The girl from District Three, who made traps out of drone wreckage. The victor from District Five, who had eyes like a predator and blood on her hands from the very first hour — she didn’t even flinch when she crushed someone’s spine with a rock.

Sage remembers turning away from the screen. Iris had muted the sound, but it was too late: that crack stayed in her head for a long time.

Oh, and then, that boy from District Four.

Sage remembers how Caesar Flickerman was practically gushing, calling him “a sensation,” “the youngest victor ever,” “a true gift from the sea.”

He was fourteen then, so they were born in the same year. Only he managed to win three years ago. And she, even now, doesn’t stand a chance.

She remembers how he smiled at the camera. How he held the trident like he’d been born with it. How—even surrounded by death—he somehow managed to look like it really was just a game.

Sage remembered thinking: sure, he won, but he’s still just a kid. And now here she is. A tribute, just like all the others. Just as much a child.

Sage tries to picture herself in those same costumes, on those same old arenas. But nothing fits. Instead of a weapon, she’s holding a tomato. Instead of strategy—anxious blankness.

She’s not a fighter. She’s not the kind they show before the Games with bold letters flashing Possible Favorite. She’s the kind whose name gets forgotten on day two, because her body’s already gone by day one.

That’s not modesty, that’s just the truth.

She knows that.

But still, she tries to imagine—what if. What if she somehow won over the sponsors. What if she found water. What if she stayed hidden. What if she ran just long enough to wear the others out. What if she just didn’t die right away.

She thinks it—and then catches herself. Because even that thought—“don’t die right away”—already sounds like a goal.

Ridiculous. And terrifying.

The station appears suddenly, just around a bend. A long, narrow building of white concrete and glass, with sterile columns scrubbed to a shine just for the broadcast. There’s a crowd at the entrance. Cameras. Reporters with microphones. Posters with Capitol logos. Peacekeepers lined up along the perimeter—neat, silent, not even like people, more like holograms copied from the same template.

The car hasn’t even stopped yet, and her jaw is already clenching. Sage knew this was coming. She’s seen it in past years. The tribute exit, the mock celebration, the fake smiles, the fancy speeches, the empty eyes.

But it’s one thing to watch, and another to be inside it. In this body, in these clothes, with this face—about to be filmed from every possible angle.

The door opens. The world instantly gets brighter, louder. Flashes, shouting, the click of shutters, the muffled voice of a broadcaster.

One of the reporters yells:

“Smile for us, District Eight tributes! Show us how brave you are!”

Riven tenses beside her. Sage hears him inhale sharply and senses that he still doesn’t fully understand what’s happening. His eyes dart around — he’s looking for somewhere to hide. The answer is simple. There’s nowhere.

They’re not allowed to board the train right away. A Peacekeeper stops them politely but firmly at the base of the ramp. Apparently, the reporters need enough footage for the broadcast.

“Look straight ahead,” purrs Alcyon from somewhere behind, appearing as if out of thin air. “Don’t slouch. Smile, if you can.”

Sage hears everything she needs in that if.

To the reporters, they’re not quite people. They’re product — manufactured by the tribute factory. A pretty package is part of the branding.

She straightens her spine. Her lips tremble, but she still forces them into something resembling a smile. Not because she wants to. But because she understands: the chances of surviving are slim, but if she doesn’t appeal to them — those chances will vanish completely.

If she doesn’t come off as sweet, brave, and promising all at once, they won’t even remember her. No sponsor will pay attention — let alone invest resources. She’ll become just another gray blur on the screen, a number on a list, one more forgotten before the Games even begin.

If she’s been chosen — if there’s no way out — then at least let there be a chance. Let someone, somewhere, see this smile and think: she might be interesting. She might survive.

Riven stands beside her. His face is like marble. He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t cry either. He just is — real. Small, unguarded, and somehow, because of that, even stronger in Sage’s eyes.

She glances at him — not directly, from the side. Raises her eyebrows just slightly. A subtle signal, almost invisible. Casual.

He doesn’t react at first. But then he notices. Understands. Slowly, with effort, he swallows and… does it. Not a smile, more like the ghost of one. A slight twitch at the corners of his mouth. Not warm — careful. Taut, like someone who hasn’t smiled in a long time but still remembers how.

Sage gives a tiny nod. Good. They both played along. Maybe that’ll be enough.

Inside, though, her stomach turns. The smile feels foreign, unnatural, like a poorly sewn costume where every crooked stitch shows. She’s disgusted — with herself, mostly. With the way she put on the mask. With the way she made Riven wear it too. It all feels… wrong. Dirty.

But picking a fight with the escort, the Peacekeepers, or the slick, glimmering Capitol audience — that would be stupid. Especially in the first hours. She might hate it, but smashing the window with her forehead won’t help either.

At some point, Sage realizes she’s still clutching the tomato. Tight, like a lucky charm. A camera sweeps past, and she quickly tucks it into her pocket. Let it stay with her for now. Let at least one thing remain from home.

Finally, the voice at the ramp says:

“All right. Go inside.”

Sage and Riven rise—not like heroes, but like holiday decorations taken down from a town square and packed back into storage once real life resumes. Alcyon follows them. The staircase beneath their feet sways slightly, like an exhale. They step into the train car, and Sage can almost physically feel the door to her old life slamming shut behind her. The one where shoes rub her heels raw, where water runs by schedule, where the walls freeze through by December. The one where they were still alive, but only within the limits of what was allowed.

Silence wraps around them. Not heavy, not cold. Strange. Soft. Sage takes a step forward and stops dead.

This isn’t a train car. t’s a world. As wide as the Capitol archives they sometimes show on TV.

The ceilings are high. The windows stretch from floor to ceiling. The walls aren’t just panels, but smooth, glossy, the color of warm milk. The floor is carpeted—carpeted!—soft like the back of Rosie’s plush doll. The air smells not of coal or old fabric like the trains Sage sometimes had to take to the warehouse, but of something sweet, dry, and clean—like if the word “luxury” had a scent.

To the right is a dining area with a long table and chrome-plated cutlery that looks like it belongs in a museum display. To the left—sofas, wide as beds. So many of them it seems this space could fit an entire floor of a District apartment block.

Sage stands in the middle of it all, like she’s landed on another planet. Her eyes dart across the details. A crystal pitcher of water. A bowl of fruit. Real fruit. Juicy, vivid, gleaming. Orange. Green. Deep red. She almost can’t believe they’re not fake.

Inside her, a strange feeling rises—somewhere between awe and disorientation. Riven stands nearby, just as overwhelmed. He doesn’t even move, just stares out the window, where the station slowly recedes and the District slips away beyond the glass—first rooftops, then chimneys, and finally the gray haze on the horizon.

“Well, my little stars, how do you like our humble train? Isn’t it just divine?”

Alcyon’s syrupy voice fills the space all at once, smooth as frosting and twice as artificial. He swoops toward them with a tight smile, already turning halfway like he’s addressing Sage, Riven, and some invisible crowd of adoring fans all at once—though most likely, that fans doesn’t even exist. There’s only him, made entirely of invented light, lacquer, and lies.

There he is, Sage thinks grimly, our guide to hell, with a bowtie and rainbow nails. And convinced that gold napkins and velvet chairs count as “humble.”

Then again, maybe he just forgot what a District trains looks like. Or never knew in the first place.

She doesn’t answer his question. Just nods—just enough to be read as agreement, but not interest. Riven doesn’t move at all. He seems stuck between this is real and I must have fallen asleep and slipped into a nightmare.

Alcyon smiles—with his lips, his teeth, his cheekbones. But his eyes stay empty, like a display case. Sage sees the tension in his mouth, how unnaturally neat his hair is, how crisply ironed the lapels of his jacket are. A walking wrapper. Even his words fall like confetti from a TV show—pretty, meaningless, and probably sticky to the touch.

“District Eight doesn’t often delight us with such… interesting tributes,” he continues, emphasizing the word interesting, like they’re livestock at the market. “But this year, I have a feeling we’ve got something special!”

He snaps his fingers, and soft lights flicker on above them, illuminating the interior like they’re part of a display. Sage looks at him—at his shine, his fake cheer, his staged warmth—and asks, almost automatically:

“What’s special about us?”

Her voice is calm, even polite. She always speaks quietly—so quietly that her words sometimes register as a whisper, especially against the backdrop of Alcyon’s mechanical enthusiasm. So it doesn’t surprise her when she realizes he hasn’t heard her—or is pretending not to. Instead, he’s already turned back toward his invisible audience and his own reflection in the polished surface, as if they’re not people, but props in his monologue.

“All of this is yours! A cozy little space, just for you. I do hope you’ll feel right at home… well, almost.”

A smile. A wave of the hand. A step to the side.

“Let me give you the grand tour, my darlings! Over here, we have the lounge area: handmade cushions, rugs of real sheep’s wool… Don’t be shy, you can touch! And there is the kitchen: the chef’s not traveling with us, of course, but he’s already prepared you lunch, dinner, and dessert. And this—”

He gestures theatrically toward the stairs.

“—these are your cabins. Private, fully equipped! Just like the best hotels in the Capitol, only without the excess. Well, almost.”

He laughs alone, but as if an audience is laughing with him. Sage hears that laugh like a rattle in an empty tin can—loud, hollow, tied to nothing—and feels something inside her twist. In the light, in the sofas, in his voice—there’s no warmth. Only gloss. Only packaging. She wants to ask if maybe it would’ve been better to give her and Riven a little humanity instead, but she stays quiet. Because she knows he wouldn’t understand. And he doesn’t have to. His job is to make them shiny, not real.

She feels a small movement beside her. Turns her head and meets Riven’s eyes. They look at each other—just for a second, no words—but it’s enough. In his gaze, the same thing she feels: exhaustion, distrust, a faint, bitter trace of humor.

“You see it too?”
“You hear it too?”

No one smiles. Just a tiny, invisible gesture—half a second of silent agreement. Then Sage asks—quietly, slowly, gently, like any sudden move might shatter something:

“Are you… okay?”

And instantly, she wants to bite off her tongue. Dumber question doesn’t exist.

Riven doesn’t answer right away. Then he gives a small shrug, like it’s the only answer he’s capable of.

“You?”

“Not sure yet,” she admits honestly.

He nods. Silently. Maybe even almost smiles. Or maybe she imagined it.

They stand in silence. For a while, they even breathe the same way—slowly, as if afraid to move too much. Riven doesn’t ask what’s next. Neither does Sage. Because they both know: everything they knew was left behind, on the other side of the glass.

She’s about to say something—something comforting, or at least human—when Alcyon suddenly leaps into the space between them.

“Oh, just look at those faces,” he sighs, raising his fingers to his cheeks. “Such… rawness. Such texture. Such potential for transformation!”

Sage resists the urge to look at him the way Iris used to look at mice that got into the grain. Instead, she takes a step forward, as if admiring the interior. In truth, she just wants to put some distance between them.

“You’ll rest here, recharge,” Alcyon continues, as if trying to sell them an absurdly expensive piece of fabric. “We’ve got everything included—meal, comfort, costumes… and of course, style!”

He snaps his fingers and turns halfway, motioning for Sage to follow him.

“Allow me to show you to your personal cabin, my dear. I’m sure you’ll love it. Strictly standard, of course—but with a cozy twist. As they say, don’t deny yourself a thing.”

Sage follows him across the soft carpet, feeling her worn-out flats sink into the plush pile. A thought pulses in her head—not quite a thought, more a sensation: if safety ever smelled of mildew, then a trap might smell like expensive pillows. Alcyon moves ahead smoothly, like a mannequin in a display window, lifting a hand to a control panel.

“And here we are,” he announces, as the door opens with a soft hiss. “Your cabin. A place to sleep, to dream, and hopefully—to be inspired!”

He steps aside to let her in. Sage crosses the threshold—and almost stumbles from the contrast.

The room is small but decorated like something from a glossy magazine. The bed is neatly made, the pillows arranged with mathematical precision. The lighting is adjustable from a panel by the headboard. By the window, there’s an armchair and a little table with a vase holding a single fake daisy. On the wall hangs a neutral abstract painting in beige and copper tones. Everything… is clean. Too clean. There’s not a single object she could believe in.

“Here you’ll find clothes, hygiene products, the schedule…” Alcyon continues listing like he’s reading from a brochure. “If you need anything, there’s a call button right there by the door. Don’t hesitate. We want you to feel comfortable with us!”

He turns, adjusting his lapel as he goes.

“And now,” he says with that same fake cheerfulness, “I need to show your companion his cabin. We wouldn’t want him to feel neglected, would we? I'll be back in an hour. You’re not getting rid of me that easily, ha-ha!”

Sage gives a crooked smile in return. A moment later, Alcyon disappears behind the door, leaving her in silence.

She doesn’t want to sit on the bed. Doesn’t want to touch anything. She just stands there, because for now, she has no idea what to do with herself—physically or emotionally. The silence wraps around her, but it doesn’t comfort. It clings—sweet and sticky—like city dust she wants to wash off her skin.

Finally, Sage notices a door in the corner of the room, and on it is a small glowing icon. She opens it cautiously, as if something unnatural might be hiding behind it, something as artificial as everything else here.

Inside is a cramped but clean stall. Glossy tiles. The water is controlled from a panel. On a shelf: shampoos, soap, even a fresh towel rolled into a neat white cylinder.

Sage stands on the threshold and doesn’t move. A shower, that belongs to someone else's life. In the District, water came on a schedule, once every three days. Ice-cold, even in summer. In the apartment blocks, old pipes shrieked before a murky stream slapped into a bucket, and everyone had to wash quickly, in turns, with basins. Iris heated water on the stove and mixed it in a bowl. Sometimes, if they were lucky, there was enough to rinse her hair. Rosie cried when soap got in her eyes, and it could only be washed out with a ladle from the pot.

And here — just a button. Just warm water. No limits. No waiting.

Sage becomes even quieter for a moment, remembering. She quietly returns to the room, sits on the edge of the armchair and unties the knot on her pocket. The tomato is still there—whole, just slightly bruised on one side. She takes it in her hand: warm, alive, like a tiny heart that somehow made it here from another world. She wraps it back up — gently, almost reverently — and places it on the nightstand beside the bed.

Then Sage goes back to the bathroom and unzips her dress. Pulls the fabric down over her shoulders, careful, as if afraid to leave a trace. It slips down with a faint rustle and stays on the floor, like a shed skin. She picks it up and folds it without thinking. A habit born in a home where every item had to last long enough for the younger sister to wear it too.

She doesn’t step under the stream right away, she moves slowly, like someone who can’t believe it won’t hurt. At first, the water feels foreign, too soft, like it was made up. But after a minute, her skin begins to give in. The tension starts to ease.

Sage washes in silence. When she turns off the water, the mirror on the door reflects a face that unsettles her for a moment. As if it isn’t hers. Cleaner, but no closer. Her cheekbones sharper than before—maybe from hunger, maybe just exhaustion. Her skin pale, almost translucent, like someone who’s spent too much time indoors. 

Her eyes too large for her face, the reason she used to be told she looked “like a scared owl” as a child. Thin lips, cracked slightly from the dry air. She looks stretched, off-kilter—like every part of her was drawn just a little too sharply. Her face is tired, dull, shadows under her eyes. 

Sage dries off quickly, out of habit — short movements, conserving the towel, as if she’ll have to wash it by hand later. Then Sage lifts her hands and loosens her hair. Dark strands fall heavily across her shoulders like a blanket. It helps. Just a little. She closes her eyes for a moment. Stands still. Breathes. Just breathes—while she still can. While no one’s watching, while she can still be just herself, for a minute or two.

She slowly walks over to the small built-in closet. The door opens smoothly, almost soundlessly. Inside, the clothes are neatly hung: dark gray trousers, a sweater, soft slippers. Everything neutral. Sterile. As if chosen not for a person, but for a pattern. But at least it’s not a uniform, not yet. And not the outfit for the ceremony. Which means she can still work with it.

She changes mechanically. Nothing pinches or scratches, and yet it still feels foreign. As if none of this is meant for her, but for some generic "female tribute from District Eight", without a name or a story.

"Miss Bradbury, dear," comes a voice from the other side of the door, in a tone just slightly softer than an aluminum tray. "It's time for lunch."

As if she had a choice.

Sage gets up, but doesn’t rush. After all, this is her last breath of air before being thrown back into the world of unfamiliar eyes, unfamiliar voices, and one doomed fourteen-year-old boy who now shared her sentence.

The door swings open before she can reach for the handle. Alcyon stands in the doorway, bathed in the glow of corridor lights like a freshly laundered handkerchief: white, immaculate, and utterly useless in any real crisis. He smiles again with his signature grin.

“Ah, there you are. I was afraid you might be hiding. Don’t worry — no one bites in the dining room. Not until dinner, at least.”

Sage doesn’t answer. She merely raises one eyebrow, just enough to appear mildly interested, not a total misanthrope. Alcyon seems to take it as an invitation, turns on his heel, and they walk.

He doesn’t stop talking for even a second.

“The chefs this year, I’ll have you know, were handpicked from the finalists of The Great Capitol Chef. An excellent selection, if I may say so. Our previous tributes always left with full stomachs... well, except for those with digestive issues. Ha!”

Sage walks in silence, slightly hunched, with that particular kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but from knowing that sleep won’t help anymore. Her feet sink softly into the carpet, and with every step, the space around her feels a little less hers. Alcyon moves with a spring in his step.

“I hope you have a good appetite,” he continues, as if it were a matter of national security. “Today’s menu is mushroom pasta and a light cream soup. Naturally, everything will be served with finesse. Even the spoons are silver.”

“Perfect,” Sage replies under her breath. “Great for seeing your reflection.”

It takes Alcyon a moment to realize what she meant. And when he does, he only laughs, brightly, musically, but with a slight strain.

“Ah, so you’ve got some spirit! Wonderful. The audience will love that.”

Sage just lowers her eyes.

When they enter the dining room, Riven is already seated at the table — neatly, obediently, as if afraid to accidentally stain the tablecloth. To his left sits Cecelia — as always, stunningly beautiful, but with a presence sharp as a blade. Tall, sculpted, with a posture untouched by Games, injury, or luxury. Her hair is pulled into a severe bun, her face smooth and tense. She doesn’t smile, even when she nods at Sage. Her gaze carries something akin to military discipline — precise, assessing, restrained.

Cecelia won ten years ago. She was eighteen at the time. Her Games took place on a swampy plain — it rained for weeks, everything rotted, and the tributes died not so much from weapons as from fever and infections. She survived by learning to distinguish edible roots from poisonous ones, and because, working night shifts at the factory, she was used to going without sleep. She drowned her last opponent in a bog.

Later, she had three children — three — but still looks like she could walk back into the arena tomorrow. Sage had always wondered how someone could come home after all that, and not only survive, but start a family. To kiss, to make love, to give birth — without being terrified that one day, your child might stand on that stage too. She doesn’t know whether to admire it or be afraid. Maybe both.

Beside her sits Paisley — completely different. Quiet, fluid, almost liquid. She’s perched with one leg tucked under, absently fidgeting with something under the table — maybe the hem of her dress. Her hair has come loose from its style, soft blonde strands falling across her face. She’s the same age as Iris, but looks slightly older. She reminds Sage of Ester, though unlike her sister, there’s something perpetually unfinished about her. She doesn’t look people in the eye — more often somewhere just beyond them, as if still waiting to wake up.

Sage lets her gaze drift across the table — the dishes are clean, the food served, everything formal, almost too much so to feel real. On her plate is something one might call lunch — if you closed your eyes and pretended you weren’t from the kind of place where food doesn’t come garnished with sprigs of greenery. Sage notices the spoons really are silver. Her reflection in one distorts her face — makes her eyes larger, mouth smaller, cheekbones blurred. There’s something symbolic in that.

Alcyon takes his place at the head of the table with the air of a godfather about to give a toast.

“Well now,” he says, clapping his hands. “Our first shared lunch! Ah, I adore this moment — all that awkwardness, all those unspoken fears… But trust me, by dinner you’ll all be laughing.”

“Doubt it,” Cecelia mutters.

“Pardon?” Alcyon perks up.

“I said humor and I don’t get along. It doesn’t work on me.”

“What a shame,” he replies without missing a beat. “You're always so moody, Cece. I’ve got a brilliant collection of morale-boosting jokes! Though perhaps not over lunch.

Sage sits down in silence and looks at Riven. He seems to be doing everything he can to avoid meeting her eyes, focused intently on poking at his plate with a fork, as if his life depends on it. Maybe it does. She lowers her gaze to her own plate. On it is something she can’t quite name. White strips of dough, glistening with sauce, and dark slices of something—probably mushrooms, judging by the smell. On top, herbs, chopped so finely it’s like someone measured them with a ruler. It all looks... strange. Foreign. Like a picture from a cookbook that once sat dusty and useless in the shop window downtown.

She picks up her fork and takes a bite. And freezes. The taste—warm, rich, deeply salty, with a hint of bitterness and sweetness at once—feels like a city after rain, like bread, but so fresh she’s never tasted anything like it. The texture is soft but not sticky, and the sauce coats her tongue like it was made just for her. This isn’t just good. This is like touching another world—one where no one measures portions or splits bites four ways.

“Fettuccine with portobello in cream sauce,” says Alcyon, proudly watching her reaction. “A public favorite. Amazing how good mushrooms look, don’t you think?”

Sage doesn’t answer. She just keeps eating—slowly, not because she wants to savor it, but because she doesn’t believe no one’s going to tell her to stop. Riven glances at her out of the corner of his eye, as if checking her response. Then, slowly, cautiously, like the dish might explode, he lifts a forkful to his mouth and tries it. His face shows nothing—no delight, no disgust. But then he starts eating just a bit faster than before, and Sage understands: he liked it too.

“Bet you’ve never had anything like this before, huh?” comes a voice from across the table.

Sage looks up. It's Cecelia, who lifts her gaze from her plate. Still stern, still unsmiling, still as upright and tense as a drawn bowstring, but her voice holds no mockery, no disdain. Just something close to sympathy. 

“Yeah,” Sage nods shortly.

“Then listen now, before you’re too busy chewing,” Cecelia says. Her voice is steady, like a sniper’s aim. “Right now is the best moment. From this point on, you’re not you anymore. You’re what the audience thinks of you. Smile. Say what they want to hear. Let them remember you not as scared kids, but as someone worth rooting for.”

Sage feels her fork freeze in midair. She knew this would start, but something inside still tightens.

“They’ll ask you questions,” Cecelia continues. “Not for the answers, but for the reactions. Be ready. It’s better to have a couple of stories prepared. Something touching. Or bold. Just make it memorable. No one cares about the truth. From now on, you’re characters.”

“But don’t overdo it,” Paisley adds softly. “The camera loves bright, but not fake. If you try too hard, they’ll feel it.”

She doesn’t look directly at them. Her voice is barely audible, but there’s a strange firmness in it. Like she’s been through it herself and knows what she’s saying.

“You both look fine,” says Cecelia. “Attractiveness is currency. A smile—even a sincere one—is a weapon. And it works both ways.”

“One more thing,” says Paisley slowly, as if weighing each word. “Try not to get close. Not to each other. Not to anyone else. Especially not in front of the cameras.”

She pauses. There’s no sternness or worry in her voice, only weariness.

“The audience loves drama, sure. Attachment. Hints of friendship. Sometimes you can use that to draw in sponsors. But in the end, it always turns against you.”

Sage feels a heavy knot tighten in her stomach.

“What looks like a bond,” Paisley goes on, “will become a weakness. They use it. They turn it against you. They pit you against each other. That’s the game.”

Sage suddenly remembers. She was only ten when Paisley went into the Arena. The Sixty-First Games. Paisley had been paired with a boy... Sage vaguely remembers that his name was Callan. He was strong, with sun-colored hair and a habit of laughing on camera. They stuck together from day one. The audience loved it. “Romance!” the hosts whispered conspiratorially.

And then… then the camera showed Callan held by two tributes from District Four. One of them gripping a knife. Paisley stood nearby. Her face was smeared with blood, her lips trembling. She wasn’t screaming — she was begging. Please. Don’t. He’s surrendering. We’re surrendering.

But no one listened. The blade slid slowly under his ribs, and Callan was still looking at Paisley when he started choking. He didn’t scream — just gurgled, like he was trying to speak.

And Paisley turned and ran.

Sage remembers sitting on the floor, too close to the screen. Remembers the warm light, Paisley’s face in close-up — pale and unnaturally still. Remembers the door slamming — her mother rushing in, pulling her away from the broadcast. Don’t watch, she said. You are not to remember this.

But she did. Every detail.

Now, looking at Paisley — calm, restrained, like something carved from stone — Sage realizes: she’s not just speaking. She knows what she’s warning them about.

Sage lowers her eyes to her plate, but the food suddenly loses all flavor. She doesn’t know whether she’s grateful for the honesty, but she knows she needed it. Riven sits pale, and Sage can almost hear the image of the coming days being reshaped in his head.

“Don’t fall for politeness,” Cecelia continues. “No one here is your friend. Not even the ones who smile at you.”

“Especially the stylists,” Paisley says softly, almost in a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the silence. “They love playing the savior. Pretending they care. Acting like you’re lucky to be in their hands. But they’re not with you. They’re with the Game.”

She doesn’t look directly at anyone. Her voice is like water murmuring beneath ice—quiet and flowing.

“Be polite,” she goes on, “But watch what you're saying. The line between attractive gossip and contempt is very thin.”

Riven freezes, leaving his food unfinished. He looks at them as if trying to decide whether to trust them. Sage still holds her fork, but the taste of food has faded. The mushroom sauce melts on her tongue but leaves no aftertaste—only dryness in her mouth and the dull pounding of blood in her temples.

“And another thing,” Cecelia says, “as long as you're in the Capitol, always look at the camera, not at the cameraman. The camera is the audience. They’re your only chance.”

She shifts her gaze to Sage. There’s no hostility in her face—only weariness.

“Enjoy your meal,” she adds dryly.

For a few minutes, silence hangs over the table, broken only by the faint clink of forks on porcelain. Then Alcyon clears his throat, uncertain.

“Well,” he says with exaggerated cheer, “such grown-up conversation. Feels like dinner at Patroclus Larkwood’s! All we’re missing is wine and bitter jokes about taxes.”

No one laughs. Sage frowns. The name sounds vaguely familiar. Patroclus Larkwood… wasn't he the one who ran the Games before Claudius Templesmith? Although she's not sure, maybe it's some kind of politician. Or maybe he was that Victor from District One everyone was talking about a couple of years ago.

Either way, she’s not sure who he is, but wine and taxes sound equally distant from her reality.

Alcyon pretends not to notice the others’ reactions and carries on:

“But really, isn’t it just incredibly inspiring when experience is passed on to the younger generation? That’s true continuity, isn’t it! You two are just fountains of wisdom, my dears. Walking aphorisms. I really must publish a little book one day: ‘One Hundred Tips for Surviving Live Broadcasts’. With a foreword by yours truly, of course.”

He grins and winks at Riven, as if inviting him in on the joke.

“Or perhaps ‘How to Be a Fan Favorite Without Losing a Limb’. Catchy, don’t you think?”

Cecelia blinks slowly, saying nothing. Paisley tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, staring into her plate. Riven lowers his head even further. Sage does the only thing she can—she keeps eating. Because despite everything, it’s still the best dinner of her life.

And maybe one of the last.

When the plates are empty and the conversation has faded completely, Cecelia sets down her teacup, grimacing slightly at the taste, and says without much ceremony:

“Well. One last question for the evening. Can any of you fight?”

Sage struggles to lift her gaze. She feels clumsy, like a student caught off guard by a question in class she hasn’t prepared for. Riven slowly shakes his head. Sage, a little late, does the same. Cecelia just nods briefly, as if that’s exactly the answer she expected.

“Excellent,” she says, without irony. “Then do you at least have any ideas? Something… unexpected?”

Riven blinks. Sage stares at the table. Perhaps it’s a little funny, hoping for something “unexpected” when you’ve just tasted cream sauce for the first time and still aren’t sure if you’re allowed to leave food on your plate.

“Got it,” Cecelia sighs. “Well, that’s a kind of strategy too. No plan at all. Sometimes works.”

She stands up, her movement both weary and sharp, like someone who has been sitting in one position for far too long. There’s no irritation or anger on her face, just routine.

“Let’s go. The Reaping broadcast is about to start. You need to meet your competitors. And while you’re here… rest. Look decent. Sleep. And please, don’t try to punch anyone until you figure out how to actually do it.”

And with that, she walks out, not looking back.

Silence settles in the room. Somewhere beyond the wall, machines hum, Alcyon chuckles softly in the hallway, and only Sage keeps thinking how strange it is — none of them knows how to hold a weapon, and yet they’re already preparing for war.

Notes:

sage is officially appointed head of the alcyone haters club (we all have no right to judge her)

paisley walked so katniss could run btw

Chapter 4

The screen is mounted in the common lounge—on the wall, like a massive altar. Wide, glossy, framed in a razor-thin bezel, and showing an image too sharp to pretend you missed the details. No one speaks. Sage sits on the sofa, legs tucked under her, palms resting on her knees. Riven is next to her, curled into the corner. On the screen—tributes.

The same ceremonies, only in other districts. They’re shown with pomp, brassy music, slow-motion close-ups, and the host's voice-over:

“And now, let’s take a look at the brave young men and women who will take part in the 68th Hunger Games!”

First comes District One. The boy—tall, blond, smirking. Everything about him oozes repellent confidence: from his polished shoes to the way he adjusts his collar. Behind him—a girl with a braid down her back and eyes that seem to have already run the calculations. They take each other’s hands. Emerald and Opal. A pair. Volunteers. No one needs an explanation.

Then—District Two. The girl, Nemesis—stocky, hair cropped short, a scar under one eye like she’s already been wounded more than once. She stands straight, hands behind her back. No trace of emotion. No effort to charm. She just scans the crowd like she’s choosing who to kill first.

The boy beside her—Oberon, shorter, broad-shouldered, with a heavy jaw and steady gaze. His face shows nothing but tired focus. He doesn’t look cruel. Just... trained. Ready. When he steps onto the stage, he does it not like a teenager, but like someone who’s been told: go and do what’s expected. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t glance back. Doesn’t blink.

Riven seems to freeze. Presses into the armrest. Sage feels herself tense, too.

“Those two can hold a knife,” she whispers under her breath.

Riven doesn’t answer. Just swallows hard. He got the same message.

Next—District Three. A boy with glasses who looks more like a librarian than a killer. His hands are shaking, but he’s smiling. As if he still doesn’t understand where he is. The girl beside him is the opposite—silent, tiny, with her chin always dipped down. Sage can’t tell if she’s scared or just doesn’t think the others are worth looking at.

District Four. The boy—well-built, with sun-darkened skin only earned by those who’ve worked under it since childhood. He smiles, but there’s something predatory in it—not joy, but a display of teeth. Like a shark trying to be polite. The girl next to him—tall, with a sharp gaze, moves like she means it, stands wide-legged and unashamed. Her body knows how to subjugate others. She doesn’t wave at the camera. Just looks straight into it, like she’s already seeing her future opponents.

Compared to the ones before, the tributes from District Five don’t look... dangerous. Not weak, exactly, just ill-suited for the show. The boy is tall and lanky, with curls sticking out at odd angles and hands stained with faded blotches of something dark, clearly ingrained into his skin. Maybe machine oil. He doesn’t look at the camera—his eyes dart across the stage, like he’s more interested in how the spotlights are built. When the announcer says his name, he nods to himself. As if this is a roll call in class, not a broadcast.

The girl is round-faced, with a heavy fringe and a slouching posture. She stands as if her legs ache. Looks down—not in shame, just disconnected. As if everything happening is distant, behind glass, and none of it really involves her.

Their mentors keep a careful distance. As if unsure what to do with their tributes—or themselves. They exchange glances, like arguing silently: Will it work this time? Or will it be like always?

Another square appears on the screen. The frame jitters for a second—like the cameraman missed his cue.

The girl — Velo — walks out first. No brightness, no fire. Just pale, with a heavy gait, like she hasn’t slept in days. Her shoulders sag; her lips are pressed into a flat line. When the announcer calls her name, she doesn’t react—only after a pause does she nod, slowly, like the signal reached her late. Her fingers keep worrying the edge of her sleeve.

And then—the boy. A real child. Looks ten, maybe eleven, though of course he’s older. His name sounds absurd—something bright and soft, completely out of place in a broadcast where everyone will be dead in two weeks. His face is blank with confusion. His fingers twist the hem of his jacket. He doesn’t understand what’s happening.

In the background, their mentors are shown: a woman in a gray coat, hands clasped behind her back, and a man—tall, handsome, dark-skinned. They don't look at the children. They don’t step forward. They just stand there, as if serving a sentence. Like doctors who’ve been told the patient is beyond saving, and all that’s left is to watch.

District Seven.

Cedar, the boy, is solid, with broad hands and splinters on his fingers. He clearly knows his way around an axe. His back is straight, chin tilted forward in that way people do when they’ve long since learned to endure and keep quiet. His face is plain, rough-cut, country. But there’s no stupidity in his eyes—only weariness. He doesn’t look like someone chasing glory. But if a fight breaks out—he’ll throw the first punch.

His partner's name is Daphne. She is scruffy, in a shirt with a missing button, looking like she’s already fed up with everything before it’s even begun. Her hair sticks out in every direction, an old scratch still healing on her arm. She seems utterly indifferent: stage, cameras, the stares. When they call her name, she just turns her head and frowns. No bows. No smiles.

Next—District Eight. Their district.

Sage sees herself, and for a moment, doesn’t recognize the girl on screen. She looks older. Thinner. Paler. Her shoulders are slightly tense, but her face is calm. Almost. The mask is holding. The smile is small and careful, the kind you wear once you’ve learned that sometimes how much you eat depends on what your face is doing. Next to her is the boy. Riven. He stands straight, but you can tell it takes effort. His face is pale, lips pressed tight. He’s not even trying to look confident.

Sage watches herself like she’s a stranger. Is that really me?

The camera doesn’t linger on them any longer than it does on anyone else. The image moves on, as always.

District Nine. The boy, Mills, is freckled, with messy hair and big hands. His face is simple, almost childlike, even though he’s about Sage’s age. His eyes are lost, shoulders already hunched before his name is even called. When he steps onto the stage, he stumbles slightly. Scans the crowd, as if searching for someone. He doesn’t find them.

The girl is different. Broad-shouldered, with a stubborn jaw and a heavy gaze. Her hair is tied back roughly. She clutches a scrap of fabric in her hand—maybe a handkerchief, maybe part of a sleeve. She walks up fast, almost angrily. Stands beside the boy and doesn’t even glance at him.

He looks at her—and then starts crying. Not sobbing, not wailing. Just tears, sliding down his cheeks, and he does nothing to stop them. He just stands there. Doesn’t hide his face. Doesn’t wipe them away. Just stands and cries.

The ceremony goes on. The cameras keep filming. No one intervenes.

District Ten. The boy is dark-skinned, with sharp cheekbones and sun-darkened hands. Broad, but not threatening—more like someone who’s carried buckets and sacks since he was a child, who stays quiet and gets things done. His eyes are dark, tired, like someone who’s seen animals slaughtered and now understands it’s his turn. He walks forward without hesitation—not because he’s eager, but because he seems to know there’s no point resisting.

His counterpart is something else entirely. Pale, wiry, with rough hands and a defiant chin. Her face is sharp, eyebrows uneven, lips drawn tight. She moves quickly, like she’s afraid someone might change their mind. The cameras don’t interest her. No one does. She doesn’t look back. She stops a little apart from the boy, as if she’s already decided: alone. It’s going to be alone.

Sage watches her and feels a chill run down her spine.  She might not make it to the end… but she’ll take someone with her. Maybe more than one.

In District Eleven, the girl doesn’t look like a fighter. She’s tall, bony, with arms that seem like they’ve never known a full meal. The dress hangs on her like a sack, her face is ashen. Hair dull, unkempt. Her eyes—like a cornered animal’s. She keeps fiddling with the hem of her skirt. When the camera finds her, she lowers her head even more. No anger. No resolve. Just emptiness.

The boy who steps out after her looks thirteen, maybe fourteen. Skinny, with narrow shoulders and legs that seem unsure how to hold up his weight. His hair is cut short, his cheeks hollow. He walks like he’s been pushed—unsteady, step by step, like across ice. Onstage, he freezes. Lips pressed tight, eyes darting. He tries to look composed, but his fingers give him away—constantly twisting, counting maybe, or praying.

Sage watches them and feels her chest grow heavy. These two won’t make it to the halfway point. That’s not even a feeling. It’s a fact.

And she immediately feels disgusted with herself.

When did you become this?

Who is she to make that call? To judge by bony shoulders, by trembling hands. As if she’s not the same. As if she can fight. As if she’ll know what to do if there’s a knife beside her—and someone in front who doesn’t want to die. Or worse—someone with the knife who doesn’t want to die.

She looks away, fingers tightening on her knees.

You’re no better, she tells herself. You just happen to look calmer. That doesn’t mean you’re not just as doomed.

And finally, the broadcast switches to District Twelve. The last one, as always.

The boy, Wayne, is angular, with dark hair, eyes cast down, and a back held too straight. Sage notices how often he blinks—too fast, like he’s trying to force back tears before the camera catches them. The girl, Suki, is pale, thin, with the eyes of a trapped animal. They don’t stand together—not like a pair, but like two people with nowhere else to go.

Then, suddenly, their only mentor stumbles into frame. He’s clearly drunk—no need to spell it out. Swaying, glassy-eyed, hair a mess like someone yanked him out of bed five minutes before airtime.

The showing ends. The screen goes dark, and somehow, the room feels darker than before. As if it wasn’t the TV that switched off—but hope.

Sage feels the chill crawl over her skin. She doesn’t move. Breathes shallowly.

She hears Riven shift beside her—drawing his knees up, curling in tighter. Silence stretches out. Thick. Sticky.

“Well,” says Cecelia. “Thoughts?”

Sage flinches. She hadn’t expected anyone to ask.

“Two’s scary,” she answers honestly. “Both from Four are dangerous. Especially the girl. Seven’s guy is strong. Ten…” she hesitates, “...there’s something there. I don’t know what, but something. That’s my guess.”

She trails off. Cecelia nods.

“Solid read,” she says. “You’ve got a decent eye.”

Paisley turns her head and looks at Riven.

“What about you?” she asks.

He stares at the floor, whispering,

“They’re all scary. Except maybe… the boy from Three. He looked… confused.”

“He’s dead,” Cecelia says quietly, almost with sorrow. “By the morning of day two, most likely. Either someone will kill him, or he’ll do it himself.”

Paisley doesn’t argue. She just lets out a heavy sigh.

“Listen, kids. We can’t save you,” Cecelia says. “None of us can. Just remember that right away.”

“Cecelia,” Paisley says gently.

“They need to know.” she looks them straight in the eye. “We can give advice. Show you a few tricks. If we’re lucky, maybe get you food or medicine. But the rest, unfortunately, is up to you now.”

Riven says nothing. He doesn’t nod, doesn’t flinch. Just lowers his gaze even more, like Cecelia’s words are carving themselves into his back, one by one. A muscle twitches at the corner of his mouth, as if he wanted to speak but changed his mind.

Silence follows. Awkward. Heavy. The kind that comes when someone speaks the truth and no one knows what to say after. Sage lowers her eyes, and something inside her clenches — sharp and small, like a knot pulled tight in her stomach. Because she already knows this kind of silence. The kind that means no one knows what comes next, or how many sunrises the people in the room will live to see.

It was the same silence that filled their apartment the day their mother died.

She hadn’t died suddenly. Not like their father, who vanished in smoke and flame under the collapsing beams of the warehouse. No. This was different. Slow. Drawn out. Like the hush before a fall. Their mother took to bed in early spring — first just tiredness, then the cough, then blood on the rag she hid beneath her pillow. And then, one day, she simply didn’t get up. As if someone had switched her off from the inside, like a burned-out lightbulb.

And that night — after everything — the apartment was just as silent. The windows were cracked open, but even the wind felt wrong. It didn’t bring sound — only cold. Rosie was asleep, curled up, barely a year old. Marigold sat under the table, knees to her chest, not saying a word. Her cheeks were red from crying.

That night, Iris had looked more grown-up than Sage had ever seen her. But at the same time, she seemed completely unfamiliar. She was scrubbing the floor. Over and over. Wordless. The water in the basin was already black, but she kept dipping the rag, kept scrubbing, as if wiping away the stains could somehow erase everything else too.

Sage had stood in the doorway. Not crying. She couldn’t. It felt like everything inside her had already gone quiet. Like her voice, her breath, all her words were stuck on the other side of the room — where the one who wouldn’t get up anymore was lying. She hadn’t gone to her sisters. Just stood there. Watching.

And she remembered how, in that room — even though there were children, even though someone should have screamed or sobbed or said something — the silence had been almost total. Like a vacuum. Like the world had exhaled and forgot to breathe back in.

Then someone knocked at the door — a neighbor, maybe, or a woman from the distribution center Iris had called on the old phone. But even when the adults came in, even when they started whispering, talking, doing something — Sage could still hear only that silence. And it didn’t leave, not for a long time.

It still hasn’t. It just changes shape.

And now, in this train car, Sage hears that same pause again. Recognizes it like you recognize a wound, even long after it’s scarred over.

“I didn’t say you won’t survive,” Cecelia adds, her tone softer now but still direct. “Just… don’t rely on anyone too much.”

Paisley leans forward, elbows on her knees, fingers locked together.

“Cecelia and I… we survived,” she says, as if reminding not so much Sage and Riven as herself. “But if you think that’s thanks to brains, strength, or luck—forget it. We just got lucky. Back then. In those circumstances. And you know what? That’s good news. Because luck can happen to anyone. Even you.”

Cecelia raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. She only glances at Sage and Riven, as if trying to gauge whether they stand even a sliver of a chance.

“Alright,” she says after a moment. “Since we’re all here anyway—let’s start simple. What can you do? I don’t mean reading and writing—I mean with your hands, body, mind. Anything useful?”

Sage twitches slightly.

“I can embroider,” she says uncertainly. “And sew. Fast. I can keep a straight line just by eye. And I can make soup for four people out of one carrot and two potato peels.”

Paisley smiles.

“Well, I’ll be honest—carrots are rare in the arena. But sewing? That’s better. Means your hands are steady. You prick your finger a lot?”

“Every other day,” Sage shrugs. “But I’m used to it now. Barely notice.”

Cecelia nods.

“Pain tolerance. Good. So, in an emergency, you could stitch a wound. Can you run?”

“Up and down stairs, yes. Our elevator doesn’t work. Fifth floor, if that matters.”

“Endurance, then. Not zero. Ever worked anywhere? Factory?”

“I used to go to the production floor with my parents sometimes when I was little. But I usually work at the market. I carry crates. Clean up.”

“Okay, so you’re not fragile. That’s a great start. And you?” she turns to Riven.

He blinks, as if he hadn’t expected to be addressed.

“I… I climbed roofs a bit. Pipes, balconies.”

“What for?” Paisley asks, more curious than judgmental.

“For a kitten. Once. Then… just to be alone.”

“Ever fall?” Cecelia asks casually.

“Once. From the second floor. Landed on a pile of rags. Hurt, but didn’t break anything.”

“Tough one,” Paisley notes. “Some agility, then. Are you scared of heights?”

“I don’t know. Probably. But I climb anyway.”

“Brave.”

“That’s not called ‘brave.’ It’s called ‘stupid,’” Cecelia smirks. “But sometimes stupid people get lucky.”

They fall quiet for a second.

“Can either of you handle a knife?” Cecelia goes on. “Or any kind of weapon, maybe? Who knows.”

“Just a kitchen one,” Sage answers honestly. “And even then, not very neatly.”

Riven shakes his head.

“I can’t. Not with sticks, not with rocks. I got in a fight once and got my ass kicked.”

Cecelia lets out a crooked grin.

“Fantastic. A mentor’s dream. At least you’re honest. Got a good sense of smell, maybe?”

“I can tell if milk’s gone sour,” he mumbles.

“Wonderful,” Cecelia deadpans. “Let’s hope the arena has milk and someone’s dumb enough to poison it.”

Paisley lets out a dry chuckle, the tension easing just a little.

“Don’t worry. A few years ago, a tribute from Seven won knowing nothing except how to gut a fish properly. He just happened to be near someone who could kill—and ran at the right moment when that guy died.”

“So basically,” Sage sums up, dryly, “you’re saying if we don’t die right away, we might have a chance.”

“Exactly,” Cecelia nods. “Because once the arena starts, all this planning? It goes straight to hell. The trick isn’t so much preparation—it’s being in the right place at the right time.”

She’s about to add something else—maybe something genuinely useful, maybe just another grim one-liner—when a rustling outside the door interrupts her. And right on cue, Alcyon bursts into the room.

“Oh, my little stars!” he beams, his voice so saccharine it’s clear he’s been eavesdropping. “I was just checking on dinner and here you are—talking about death and survival. The drama! The tragedy! But darlings, this isn’t a funeral—it’s a celebration! Or have I got that wrong again?”

He snaps his fingers like summoning invisible staff. No one moves a muscle.

“All right, all right, my dears. Fatigue is terrible for the complexion, and you have cameras ahead—lights, interviews! You need to be... fresh. Like a morning salad.”

He winks—playfully—and Sage has to fight the urge to throw something heavy at him. Something like reality.

Cecelia rises slowly, her voice ice-wrapped courtesy.

“We were just finishing. Thank you for the reminder.”

“Always happy to help,” Alcyon grins, stepping back toward the door. “By the way—you’re due for your first photo shoot right after we arrive. The stylists are already preparing. No bruises, scratches, or sulking expressions, please. Panem loves its tributes perky.”

He exits, and the door clicks shut behind him.

Silence.

“He just said we’re supposed to be like salad,” Riven mutters. “Nice to be reduced to vegetables.”

Cecelia snorts, walks over to the table, pours herself a glass of water from the carafe, and takes a sip—like that’s the official end of the conversation.

“There’s still time before dinner,” Paisley notes, glancing at the clock.

“We could stare at the wall in silence... or play something,” Riven offers.

“Like what?” Sage asks.

“Maybe… ‘guess who dies first’?” he says darkly.

Paisley exhales sharply through his nose—it's not laughter, more like surprise. Sage just purses her lips.

“Charming,” she says quietly. “A real family holiday game.”

“Never had games like this,” Riven notes. “Ours were more like 'guess who stole coal from the basement again'.”

“Enough,” Cecelia shakes her head. “If they’ve given you a couple of hours of peace, don’t waste it on idiotic jokes.”

She pauses for a moment, then adds, almost wearily:

“It’s not like we have a lot of time left to waste.”

Sage chuckles. Reluctantly, but genuinely.

In the end, no one plays anything. Paisley pulls a notebook from the inner pocket of her jacket and starts sketching—focused and fast, like she’s racing the moment when she’ll have to start being serious again. Riven sits on the floor and begins to take apart the armrest of a chair—not out of malice, but nerves. He simply doesn’t know how to sit still. Sage walks over to the window, but the curtains are drawn tight. All she sees is her own reflection. She stares at it for a while, until her own face starts to annoy her.

When dinner arrives, it’s wheeled in on a cart, covered with a white cloth and gleaming silver lids. Exactly like the pictures in those Capitol magazines they sometimes found in the Peacekeepers’ garbage—shiny, orderly, obscenely clean. This time the plates hold roasted bird, potatoes, a salad decorated with flower petals. Small bread rolls. A bowl of soup that smells like rosemary and lemon. And then—ice cream. Real ice cream. With strawberries.

For the first time all day, Sage isn’t sure if she’s hungry. It smells too good to turn down, but looks too polished to trust.

“They’re definitely planning to kill us,” Riven mutters, “but they’re feeding us like they’re about to serve us at a restaurant. ‘These were the finest tributes of the season—try them with a garlic glaze.’”

Cecelia lets out a restrained huff of laughter.

“Don’t torture yourselves. Eat.”

Paisley cuts her meat in silence. Her movement is light, unnervingly precise—the kind of gesture you get from someone who does everything quietly and automatically. Sage tries the potatoes. Big, hot, soft, seasoned with butter and garlic. Too good to be real. Worlds away from the crumbling gray tubers, coarse bread, and cheap salt she’s used to.

Riven, though, eats ravenously. Not like a glutton—like a boy who’s heard “wait, that’s for tomorrow” far too many times. He drinks the soup in nearly one go, then eats the ice cream slowly, like he wishes he could save it for later.

“We didn’t even have this on New Year’s Eve,” he says softly, staring into his spoon.

Dinner ends quickly. Too quickly. Sage looks up from her empty plate and realizes she feels… strange. Not like she wants more—her stomach is full, overfull, her body heavy and slow. The soup was delicious. The meat, soft, with real sauce. Even the bread—crusty, didn’t crumble, didn’t cut her gums. And the ice cream… sweet, vivid, like it came from a different universe entirely. Everything anyone could possibly want.

And yet, despite the fullness, there’s still something hollow inside.

Sage leans back in her chair and swallows slowly. There’s an uncomfortable lump in her throat. Her mouth tastes of grease and something cloyingly sweet. She stares at her knife and fork, neatly crossed—just like Alcyon told her to—and feels a flicker of irritation. As if the food wasn’t meant to nourish her, but to strip away the last feeling she had left—hunger.

When you’re hungry, you want something. And when you want something, it means you’re alive. But now she doesn’t want anything. Not a bite. Not a crumb. Not even the sound of another voice. She only wants to lie down. Or vanish. Or… or just stop thinking.

She notices Riven has already licked his spoon clean and set it down beside his plate with care. Paisley’s already on her feet. Cecelia folds her napkin slowly, too precisely, as if it won’t go straight to the laundry—or the trash.

Sage is the last to stand. Her stomach pulls her downward, and her legs feel heavy, not just from food, but from the weight of knowing this was her last evening before the Capitol. For a moment, she wishes dinner would go on. That this—Riven’s laughter, Paisley’s silence, Cecelia’s annoyed sighs—would stretch just a little longer. Because after this, there’s only the arena. And they probably don’t serve ice cream in the arena.

Cecelia stands first.

“All right, kids. Go to sleep. You won’t get many chances to rest from now on. If you can’t sleep, just lie still. Your body needs the quiet.”

“Goodnight,” Paisley adds as she heads for the door. “I hope your dreams are kind.”

“Thanks, Paisley,” Sage says.

Paisley turns back, and her eyes carry no sarcasm—only something close to warmth.

“Anytime.”

And then they part ways. Quietly. Without goodbyes, because conversations like this don’t end in words. They just stay with you.

For the first time in many years—or maybe ever—Sage is about to spend the night alone. No sisters. No familiar voices. No Marigold telling Rosie a bedtime story. No Iris’s soft, restless breathing. No bodies close by—unsettling, but familiar.

Sage steps inside and freezes for a second, as if expecting someone to already be there. Someone to say hi, make a joke, steal the blanket, kick the pillow onto the floor. But inside—it’s quiet. Even the door shuts behind her without a sound.

She looks around the room again, slowly. Everything is picture-perfect: the bed neatly made, the curtains drawn just right, a glass of water on the bedside table, a stack of towels folded like they’ve never been touched. Even the light seems carefully chosen, like someone had calibrated the exact shade needed to calm a nervous mind before sleep.

But something’s off.

Sage walks over to the bed and only now notices: nothing she brought with her is here. No mother’s dress. No tomato wrapped in cloth. Someone from the staff probably took it for disinfection. Or laundry. Or—threw it away. Decided it didn’t matter. Or didn’t belong.

Still—something clicks in her chest. She should’ve expected this. The train is headed for the Capitol—there’s no room for anything that smells like home.

She sits on the edge of the bed. Her feet don’t touch the floor. Her back stays straight.

Don’t cry over a tomato. Just don’t.

But it’s not about the tomato. Not really. It’s about the fact that it was hers. That she held it in her hands while the cameras flashed, while she climbed the ramp, while she tried to remember how to breathe. It was warm. It was from Rosie. It was from home. And now—it’s gone.

Sage lies down without undressing. She places her shoes neatly at the foot of the bed. Pulls the blanket up to her chin, the way Iris did when she thought her sisters were already asleep.  Closes her eyes. And feels nothing. No fear, no anger, no sleep. Only loneliness—growing heavier with every minute. It feels like the whole world has vanished, and only she remains. And a strange bed that smells too new. And a silence that never asks permission.

Sage doesn’t know if she’ll sleep.

But her body grows still.

And for now—that’s enough.

***

The coffee smells like something made up.

Bitter, sharp, scalding. Too spicy, too strong. As if someone had tried to squeeze both alertness and anxiety—and the glossy morning cover of someone else's life—into a single cup. Sage brings the mug to her lips carefully, as if it might bite her.

Of course, she knew coffee existed. She’d even once heard Bobbin from school talk about tasting it—just once—on the black market, in exchange for a slice of ham and a uniform jacket. He’d said, “A bitterness that wakes you like a slap.” Back then, Sage hadn’t really believed him.

But now—here it is. Coffee. In her hands. Thick, hot, in a mug with thin walls and a tiny crack near the rim. She takes the first sip. Everything burns. Tongue, throat, stomach. And yes—it does feel like a slap. Just not the kind that wakes you up. More like the kind that leaves behind shame.

At that moment, the train enters a tunnel. It’s early morning. The light outside vanishes, and her reflection sharpens in the glass—pale face, chapped lips, tangled hair. She doesn’t remember if she dreamed last night. But she remembers waking up. To silence. No one breathing nearby.

Somewhere behind a partition, a door slams. Quick, loud footsteps.

“Oh o-o-oh!”

Alcyon’s voice bursts out, like someone wound him too tight.

“We’re almost there! We’re getting close! God, I love this part!”

He bursts into the room, shining like someone promised him a fortune—or at least five minutes of airtime. He’s dressed in a fresh orchid-colored suit, eyes sparkling, hair sculpted to perfection, each curl seemingly personally inspected.

“Are you ready?” he yells—not really asking. “You’re not ready! I’m not ready! Every time—like the first time!”

He spins through the room, practically bouncing on his toes. Riven appears in the doorway, yawning into his fist. Sage takes another sip of coffee. It doesn’t burn as much now.

“There’ll be cameras right at the exit,” Alcyon warns, dialing his energy slightly down, though he’s still practically fizzing. “Try to look… you know. Appealing. A little mysterious. And don’t slouch. Please?”

Sage watches the window. The light in the tunnel is starting to shift—silver melting into flashes, reflections sliding across the glass like ripples on water. The train is slowing down. Her heart isn't. Outside—almost the Capitol. Inside—coffee. Bitter. Real. And a kind of dread that no expensive drink can wash away.

She turns, slowly. Cecelia sits by the wall, in a different dress now—silver, thin as a blade. She’s drinking water, but from a wine glass. Paisley’s on the sofa closer to the exit, one leg over the other, fingers clasped. She looks like she just woke up and hasn’t yet decided if it’s worth staying awake.

Sage pulls herself together and walks over. The mug is still warm in her hands.

“So we just walk out — and they’re already filming?” she asks, no buildup.

Cecelia answers right away:

“Yeah. Live broadcast. This year they want a close-up of the arrival.”

“They’ll show your boots at least five times!” Alcyon exclaims, outraged.

A pause. The train gives a soft creak—almost like it’s holding its breath before a leap.

“What happens after?” Sage asks. “After we step out.”

She keeps her tone even, but her fingers tighten slightly around the mug.

“Nothing terrible yet,” Paisley says. She looks at her closely, but not unkindly. “You’ll meet your stylists. Can’t say much about them, honestly—this year it’s a completely new team. Oh, and after the photo shoot comes the opening ceremony. You know the rest.”

Sage nods, takes another sip—this time without grimacing. Just buying a little more time. Then, without looking at either Cecelia or Paisley, she says:

“And… how should I act? I mean, there. When we come out. With the cameras. The crowd. And later, during the ceremony and all that.”

She asks it plainly, almost wearily. Not trembling, not hoping—just the way you ask which side of a package to open so it doesn’t spill everywhere. Cecelia lets out a short breath. Not mockingly—more like she understands.

“Best not to trip,” she says, then adds, more seriously: “They’ll build a persona out of you. Like I said—you’re not a human to them. You’re a character. The key is: don’t fight it, but don’t disappear into it, either. Don’t overshare, but be relatable. Not boring, but don’t scare them, either. Crying’s fine, if it’s beautiful. Smile, if you can. The point is: they have to want to see you again.”

Paisley smiles, almost sincerely:

“If you’re lucky, you’ll have fans soon. And enemies. Sometimes they’re the same people.”

Sage nods—like someone accepting rules to a game she never intended to play, but knows blindfolded defeat would be worse.

Outside, light begins to seep in—not grey, but golden-yellow, like honey. The tunnel’s ending, but now everything starts for real.

Sage finishes her coffee. The bitterness lingers on her tongue. She has a feeling it’s going to stay there a while.

When the train stops, it’s almost inaudible — not a crash, not a screech, but an exhale. The sound is almost gentle, as if they’re being welcomed warmly. As if this isn’t a ride to execution, but an entrance to a luxury restaurant.

The doors open. The first thing Sage notices: the air is completely different. Too clean. Too even. There’s no smell of coal, dust, or overheated metal. Only something sweet and bitter at once — like perfume.

The platform before them looks like a stage. The tiles beneath their feet are polished to a mirror shine, and the walls are covered with mosaics of glossy ceramic depicting stylized laurel wreaths and flames. The light is soft, but it’s everywhere, and it feels like hiding here would be impossible. Even her own shadow clings too close, like a sniper’s aim.

The mentors step out first. Cameras start flashing instantly. They buzz and click annoyingly, but above all, they flash — like glittering insects, intrusive and cold. One operator glides along rails on a small platform, another with a shoulder camera hovers nearby, and someone else films from above — probably a drone. In hundreds of Capitol homes, in studios, on massive screens — someone is watching Sage right now. And deciding what she’s worth.

Alcyon hisses behind her through clenched teeth:

“Back straight. Chin up. Face. Don’t clench your fists. Smile with your eyes.”

She has no idea what "smile with your eyes" means, but she takes a breath — and steps forward. Riven walks beside her. He stumbles slightly but recovers quickly. His lips are pressed tight, but his gaze is determined.

A moment later, another train pulls in beside theirs. Snow-white, smooth like an eggshell. It has blue accents — a stripe along the body, a logo on the door. The doors open at the same time, and another bunch of camera crews rushes to the newcomers.

Next, the tributes from District Three step onto the platform.

The boy — the one with the glasses. They’re fogged up from the change in temperature, and he hurriedly wipes them with his sleeve. His face looks scared, but focused. He doesn’t look back, just walks, like he’s rehearsed it ten times. The girl beside him is small, dark-haired, with slicked-back hair and a still expression. She doesn’t breathe more than necessary. Doesn’t move unless she must. In her hands is something like a small notebook — why, it’s unclear. But she clutches it tightly, like an anchor.

Their escort is a woman in a ridiculous outfit the color of overcooked carrots, with a look like someone just unpaused her after a long freeze. On her head is something like a construction of feathers and wire — apparently meant to resemble a bird, but looking more like a collapsed carousel. She grins broadly, as if death doesn’t exist in her world, and waves at the camera like she’s performing a puppet show for a handful of children.

The mentors follow behind. The man is balding, red-faced, and doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He looks tired — not just physically, but deeply, as if this once mattered to him, and now it doesn’t. The woman next to him is thin, jittery, with lips always pressed together. Her hair is pulled back into a bun so tight it seems to make blinking harder. Her gaze is sharp, calculating, like someone used to spotting weaknesses — and never disappointed in what she finds.

Sage looks at this trio and feels the corners of her mouth twitch — almost a smile. Maybe those kids did rehearse their entrance. Maybe they even had a shot. But it likely wasn’t these three who got them ready.

She immediately pulls herself back. This isn’t the time to be smug. Not the place. Especially not for her — the one barely standing, hiding the tremble beneath layers of fabric and caffeine. It’s laughable to think anyone here is less prepared than she is.

Sage and Riven walk side by side, slowly, across the unfamiliar platform, under the aim of glass eyes that blink and click with the precision of mechanical breath. And suddenly, she hears him whisper, barely moving his lips:

“Are we on air already?”

“We’ve been on for a while,” she replies.

He exhales heavily. Not like an adult, like a child. As if he understands — but not completely.

Ahead is a service door. Alcyon pushes it, and it swings open with a short sound, as if sucking in cold air. Beyond it — the street. Bright, almost blinding after the building’s dimness. Nearly noon. The light lays thick on the pavement like paint, making every shadow sharper. The air smells of dust and gasoline. All around — white spires, patterned bridges, towers with mirrored domes, streets gleaming like a river. For the first time, Sage sees the Capitol not in glimpses on a screen, but whole, massive, unreal.

The van is already there. Rectangular, pale gray, without any markings. Its rear door is open, lowered like a ramp, and inside the dim interior stand two figures — Peacekeepers. No way to tell who they are. Identical masks. Identical uniforms. Identical silence. They stand like mannequins, unmoving, staring.

In the back window of the vehicle, the daytime sky reflects. Too blue. Too peaceful for what’s happening.

It all feels fake somehow.

Riven falters slightly, as if something’s pulling him back. Sage feels the tension in his hand beside her — not because he’s resisting, but because he doesn’t yet know how to surrender. He leans toward her, not looking directly:

“Will we get… any time? Before the arena?”

Sage tries to keep her voice steady:

“A little. But yes, we will.”

Riven nods. And almost inaudibly adds:

“I don’t want to die.”

She doesn’t answer. “Me neither” wouldn’t help.

And then they climb into the van. The metal floor echoes dully beneath their feet, like it resents every step. Inside, it smells of cold, sterile machinery, and something else — elusive, unsettling, like the scent of new clothes you didn’t choose.

The benches along the walls are covered in gray fabric. No armrests, no backs. Just a place to sit while you ride toward something no one truly comes back from.

Sage sits first. Back straight, hands on her knees. Riven sits beside her, but not too close. Leaves a thin sliver of air between them. He sits quietly, gaze down, fingers gripping the edge of the bench like letting go might stop his heart.

The Peacekeepers remain standing at the doors, statuesque. They say nothing.

The van starts moving — no signal, no warning. Just movement. At first smooth, then a bit sharper. Buildings flash past the windows — buildings that have nothing in common with their home district.

And this is only the beginning, Sage thinks distantly. The worst hasn’t even started yet.

Notes:

yes, that was a tyra banks reference, bear with my sense of humor pls, the trauma blender is coming right up

Chapter 5

Sage sits in the chair and tries not to look at the mirror.

The room is warm, filled with the scent of cosmetics, steam, and something syrupy — sweet to the point of nausea. She’s surrounded by people: without asking, without explaining, they do whatever they want with her. One shaves, another buffs, a third applies something — layer by layer, as if scraping off the real Sage to sculpt someone else.

It doesn’t hurt, but it feels alien.

Her skin reddens from the scrub. Hair disappears — from her arms, legs, eyebrows. The stylist team puts drops into her ears, wipes her nails, tears off cuticles, polishes her heels, rinses her eyes. They all chatter, someone laughs — but not her. Sage says nothing. Only flinches occasionally.

By the time they get to her head, she can barely feel her body. One of the assistants is brushing her hair, while another pulls a bottle from a drawer. The label reads “Platinum Ice.” She doesn’t understand at first — and then she sees the strands, wet with the liquid, fading to almost white.

“Wait,” she says, her voice cracking. “Why?”

One of the stylist’s assistants — tall, with pink eyelids and a tattoo on his neck — glances at her over his glasses. Not annoyed — just with lazy contempt, like he’s addressing a piece of fabric, not a person.

“Seriously? You were going to walk into the arena with that mouse-swamp mess on your head?” he squints. “No shine, no texture, no depth. That’s not a color, sweetheart. That’s… a birth stain.”

He snorts and reaches for the dye again.

“Trust the professionals. We know what we’re doing. You want someone to notice you, don’t you?” he grins, teeth gleaming. “Blonde looks cleaner. Better contrast with your skin. Brown eyes pop. And fewer associations with…”

He waves his hands vaguely.

“…the factory,” he adds, smiling like he’s doing her a favor. “You’re a potential brand now, baby.”

Her hair smells like chemicals. Her skin — like peach lotion. Her fingers — like something powdery, almost sweet. There’s not a single speck of dust on the mirror. Not one. It reflects with perfect clarity — too honestly. Only somehow, the girl staring back at Sage isn’t someone she knows. Light. Pale. Smooth. Even pretty — but it feels like the only thing left of Sage inside her is the eyes.

She sits on the edge of the chair, as if any wrong movement might shatter all the beauty built around her and send it crashing down on her shoulders. She touches her cheek — carefully, as if it might burn.

The room is warm. The air is slightly sweet, soft, filtered. Even the chair feels like a cloud: not holding her up, but hugging her. And yet, the warmth is suffocating. Not like safety — more like cotton stuffed with bugs.

The assistant flits around the room, grabbing brushes, checking a tablet. He moves quickly, constantly, smiling even with his lips. And then Sage, not knowing why, suddenly dares to speak.

“Excuse me…” Her voice nearly disappears. “The woman… the one whose face is… an animal? How does that work?”

Half an hour ago, she saw that woman in the elevator — and ever since, she’s been dying of confusion. If, of course, that’s an appropriate expression given her current circumstances.

The assistant turns. Blinks. Then laughs — loud, theatrical, like he’s been rehearsing.

“Oh, you noticed her?” He slaps his knee. “That’s Rima! Rima Lark. Stylist from District Nine. Well, former stylist. Starting next year, she’ll be private-only. She had a modified ocelot face implanted. For the aesthetic. Don’t worry, darling — she’s a total sweetheart, as long as you don’t look her in the eyes.”

He laughs again. But Sage doesn’t. She doesn’t know how to react when surrounded by people who willingly turn themselves into predators.

And then — the click of heels. Sharp. Confident. Like footsteps onstage.

A girl walks into the room — tall, long-legged, with bright magenta lipstick and hair the color of caramelized gold, curled into perfect waves that seem to hold not from hairspray, but sheer self-assurance.

She moves lightly, as if music follows her wherever she goes. She’s wearing a cropped peach blazer with wide shoulders, a sequin skirt that sparkles like the scales of some exotic fish, and heels thin as needles. On her wrist is a delicate charm bracelet with little stars that jingle softly with each movement. Her smile is flawless, like it’s been polished in front of a mirror.

“He’s telling the newbies that story about Rima again, isn’t he?” she says to no one in particular, then adds before anyone can reply: “Swear to god, every time. He just can’t help himself.”

“She asked me!”

The assistant sucks in his cheeks, making an exaggerated pout. The girl hops up onto the edge of the mirrored vanity and reaches for a stick of grape gum.

“Don’t listen to him. Rima’s awesome. And the ocelot thing isn’t even the weirdest mod people get around here. Did you see her assistant? Cinna. Gorgeous — and practically unmodified. One day, he and I are totally getting married.”

She snaps her fingers in the assistant’s direction:

“And this one? He wants to get a tail.”

“Flora!” he squeals. “That was just a concept!”

“Sure it was.”

Then she turns to Sage. And unexpectedly, her smile softens.

“My name’s Flora. Flora Fortescue. I’m your stylist.”

Sage doesn’t know what to say. She just nods slowly. Flora hops off the table, steps closer, and offers her hand — not with any fake warmth or superiority, but almost like a real person.

“We’ll be working together. But most importantly — don’t be afraid. I won’t do anything to you that you don’t want.”

She winks.

“Well… not right away.”

“I’m Sage,” she mumbles. “Congratulations… on the engagement.”

Flora blinks, as if she doesn’t quite understand what Sage means.

“Oh! No, Cinna and I aren’t engaged. He’s just an assistant. Not really my level. Honestly, we haven’t even spoken. It’s just my five-year plan. Anyway, shall we?”

She claps her hands lightly, like cueing the start of a fashion show. She walks over to the tablet, which the assistant is already holding up for her with practiced devotion, and scrolls across the screen with a perfectly manicured finger — the nail adorned with a tiny button. Yes, a literal button.

“Look, Gee Gee. I reviewed over thirty recordings of past opening ceremonies, and do you know what I realized? Every single District Eight’s stylist… is boring.”

She turns around and theatrically rolls her eyes.

“They confuse fabric with textile. And those are not the same thing.”

“Um…” Sage isn’t sure if she’s supposed to respond. “Aren’t they… the same?”

“No!” Flora raises a finger, dramatically. “Fabric is what your cute little butt is sitting on. Textile is what the world is made of. We are not going to turn you into a scarecrow in a bolt of cloth. Or a ghost in a drape. No cocoons, no silk wraps, and no ‘hey-look-we-found-a-blond-tapestry-in-the-backyard’ nonsense.”

She taps the screen, and an image appears — the silhouette of a girl, vaguely resembling Sage, but with a posture like a warrior: confident, poised, powerful.

Flora stares at Sage, intent.

“You’re not fabric. You’re thread.”

Sage frowns slightly.

“Thread?”

“Yes.”

Flora taps again, and the image begins to slowly rotate.

“Look, the body is nearly bare. The base is a dense, semi-transparent mesh — nude-toned. Almost invisible.”

She pauses, then smiles:

“You’ll look like a girl who’s only just begun to be woven into something else. Unfinished.”

Then she continues, faster now:

“Over that mesh — handwoven ribbons. Thin and rough. All sorts of materials: cotton, jute, coarse wool, even some bleached burlap. They’ll wrap around your body, crisscrossing, knotting, pulling tight like a real loom.”

Sage glances at the screen. The ribbons seem to bind and protect — but also expose. Her shoulders are bare. Part of her chest shows through the mesh. Her hips are half-covered, but not really hidden. It’s like the body is dressed… but not actually clothed.

“This…” Sage says slowly, “doesn’t really cover anything.”

“Yes.”

Flora nods, as if Sage just gave her a compliment.

“Because you have nothing to hide. Because you’re raw material. And that’s frightening. And that’s beautiful.”

She leans in a little closer.

“Because they’ll be looking. And we need them to remember.”

“What about my hair?” Sage asks, cautious.

“We’ll leave it smooth. Not styled — like it was wet and dried naturally. Clean. Real. But just tamed enough not to argue with the look.”

She raises a finger.

“And I’ll add something — a little secret.”

“What kind of secret?”

“Tiny bits of metallic wire, woven into the knots. Barely visible, but they’ll catch the light from the chariot. A hint of a needle. A nod to a sewing machine.”

She smiles, a little mysteriously.

“And a reminder that you work with your hands. The audience should believe you stitched yourself together, as a person. From scraps. And ended up better than all their synthetics.”

Sage says nothing. She looks at the image, at the ribbons, at the spaces between them. At how each one holds in place only through knots. And something warm rises in her throat.

“I… I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk in this.”

“Don’t worry,” Flora says simply. “They’ve seen worse.”

***

They start with the mesh.

The fabric is as thin as mist. Barely noticeable on the skin, but clinging to every line — hips, stomach, shoulders — like it’s remembering what she’s made of. As if Sage isn’t just putting it on, but passing through it — like through an invisible membrane, into a different version of herself. The one meant for display.

The assistants move quickly and without unnecessary words. Their hands are precise, their motions practiced. One hems the edge right on her body, another smooths the mesh down her spine, a third fastens something near her collarbones. They don’t ask if she’s comfortable — as if her comfort is no longer up for discussion. And strangely, it doesn’t feel humiliating. They work as though she’s a project. A model. Not a girl, but someone else’s design.

Then come the ribbons. First the thin ones — almost threadlike — made of coarse, fraying fabric. They’re wrapped around her wrists, ankles, the base of her neck. The knots are simple but deliberate. Not one is loose. It feels like each knot is holding her shape together, keeping her from falling apart.

Next come the wider, rougher strips. Jute. Bleached canvas. Burlap. They’re layered over the mesh, crossing her chest, over one shoulder, across her ribs, around a thigh.

The spaces where the ribbons don’t meet are nearly bare. Just skin, mesh, and air. And the placement — it’s not quite indecent, but almost provocative. The ribbons don’t just cover — they emphasize: the curve of her waist, the line of her collarbone, the soft inside of her thigh. As if someone wanted to say, look, this is where she’s vulnerable.

The mesh doesn’t hide, but it doesn’t expose either. It just mutes the warmth of skin, making it almost invisible — and somehow more present because of that. There’s something unsettlingly seductive in it. As if she’s not being dressed for protection — but for attention.

Sage feels a delicate shiver run down her spine. For the first time, she realizes — they can make her desirable. Or frightening. Or both at once.

“Too revealing?” one of the assistants asks without lifting their eyes from her waist.

“Perfect,” Flora replies without blinking. “She’s not a finished product. She’s in progress.”

They brush her hair in complete silence. One of the stylists gently runs their fingers from roots to ends, then spritzes something — the strands settle smoothly against her head, sleek as water. Sage feels the liquid sliding down behind her ears. It doesn’t feel like they’re dressing her up — more like they’re preserving her.

The wire inserts are woven into the knots almost invisibly. They catch the light only up close — thin metallic threads, slightly gleaming, cold, like the seam lines on fabric. They’re not decoration. Just a reminder that every stitch can snap.

The makeup happens with barely a word. No one asks what she likes — as if taste doesn’t matter here, only concept. Not that Sage would’ve known what to say anyway.

They don’t mask her skin or smooth it to Capitol-level porcelain perfection. On the contrary — they leave the slight unevenness, the faint shadows under her eyes, the barely-there pallor of her cheeks. As if her face is a canvas just beginning to be primed. Not a portrait. Not a painting. The preparation for one.

Her lips get the lightest touch of pigment — not lipstick, but something dry and matte, like the stain of berry juice. The flush isn’t brushed across her cheekbones but near her temples, as if she’s just finished hard work and hasn’t caught her breath. On her eyelids — dusty ochre, barely there, uneven, like a smudge of wind-stirred dust. It doesn’t emphasize her eyes — it deepens them. Not brighter — truer.

It’s not makeup. It’s a sketch. As if she’s an image still coming together. A face without a mask, but not quite a face yet either. Unfinished. Unready. And because of that — disturbingly beautiful.

When everything is done, Flora walks around her in a slow circle. For the first time, she’s silent. Sage stands tall, trying not to tremble. Her arms are bare, her shoulders bare, her thighs nearly bare. But she’s wrapped in knots, and they hold.

“This isn’t a dress,” Flora finally says with satisfaction. “It’s a warning.”

She looks at Sage in the mirror and lightly places an arm around her shoulders. Sage doesn’t answer. She just keeps looking. At the ribbons. At the knots. At the spaces between them. And at herself — the self no one’s seen before. Not even Henley.

There’s a soft knock on the door, and a moment later Riven enters. He stops at the threshold. At first, he doesn’t look at Sage at all — as if he’s afraid. Or shy. Then he lifts his eyes. And says nothing.

He’s dressed in a costume built on the same idea: ribbons, knots, layering. But more covered. He wears a shirt made of thick burlap, sleeves to the elbows, pant legs to the ankles, with a long vest on top, like it was folded from scraps of canvas and cotton, with rough seams turned outward. All in that same palette of dust, earth, sun-stained fabric.

Sage exhales in relief. Not because she wants all the attention. But because she suspects that if they’d made him nearly naked too — he wouldn’t have handled it.

“Honestly?” Flora rolls her eyes. “I tried to ditch at least one pant leg.”

She shoots a look at her assistant.

“But nooo, of course not. Artemis had her say. ‘He’s still young, let him wear pants, blah-blah-blah.’ Apparently this isn’t a show, it’s a damn summer camp. First year I get picked for the bloody Hunger Games, and even now she won’t let me shine.”

Riven pretends not to hear. Or maybe not to understand. He walks closer, gives her a short nod. Looks at Sage — a quick, direct glance — but then drops his gaze. His cheeks flush red.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be anchors for each other,” Flora whispers, adjusting one of the ribbons on Sage. “Next to you, he’ll look even younger. Juxtaposition. Contrast. Presentation. All as it should be.”

She steps back. At that moment, something chimes softly in the floor — a faint signal. An assistant walks to the wall and presses a panel. The doors slide open. Behind them — an elevator. Inside: soft lighting, mirrors, metal floor.

Flora touches Sage’s shoulder briefly.

“The main thing now — don’t think you’re different from the audience.”

She says it quietly. Almost gently.

“Right now, you’re not just a tribute. You’re my manifesto.”

They step into the elevator. It begins to descend — smooth as an exhale. Ahead lies the chariot. The ceremony. And millions of eyes.

But first — a photoshoot. A few flashes, a couple of angles, the background with the Panem flag. Sage stands as she was taught: slightly turned, chin up, eyes straight into the camera. Hands flicker around her, flashes go off, sharp commands fly. Click-click, and the shot is done. It’s not her in the photo, but an image. A concept. The shadow of a future heroine.

The stables greet them with the scent of hay, metal, and that peculiar Capitol perfume — the kind they probably rub even into the reins. The air is thick, dry, tinged with horse breath and ozone from the spotlights. The space is lit with a harsh, nearly white light. Each chariot stands in its own niche, surrounded by assistants, stylists, guards. The bustle is precise, choreographed — like the final minute of a dress rehearsal.

“This way,” says a tall, slender woman in a fitted gray jumpsuit. Her hair is pulled into a sleek, tight bun, her face stern. This is Artemis, Riven’s stylist.

She doesn’t even glance at Sage — all her attention is locked on the boy.

“Straighter. Don’t slouch. Let your arms hang naturally, but don’t swing them. Your expression — not frightened, but not smug either.”

She adjusts his shoulder, tilts his chin with a finger like a sculptor.

“And don’t forget — the light hits from the left first, then from above. Turn slightly. There. Like that.”

Riven freezes obediently beside the wheel. He still looks a little overwhelmed, but his face is composed now. He resembles a child brought to a city festival and told to stand still. And so he stands.

Sage steps forward. Flora is beside her, nearly weightless. Her hands adjust a ribbon, stretch the line along Sage’s thigh, smooth the mesh.

“Remember. You don’t smile. But you’re not angry either. You’re focused. Like a needle. Like a thread pulled taut. Got it?”

Sage nods. They step onto the platform. The chariot is smooth, blackened, with metal rivets, as if welded from scraps of an old machine. The horses are black and glossy, like drops of oil. The harness — thin straps, partially wrapped in yarn and wire. Even the animals look stylized here.

As the last hands leave their shoulders, Sage catches a glimpse of the others.

Over there, beside a snow-white chariot gleaming like an iceberg, stand the tributes from District One. No one’s adjusting them — they pose effortlessly. The boy is laughing at something the mentor said. The stylist is lifting the girl’s hair, slowly pinning it up with a golden hairpin.

A little farther — District Two. The scar beneath the girl’s eye is now adorned with a strip of embedded metal, like part of a mask. The boy clenches gloves strapped up to his elbows. Their mentor wears a camouflage cloak, speaking softly but intensely, almost nose to nose.

And there’s District Three. Their chariot doesn’t shine. It’s dark gray, matte, with a fine ridged texture, like a circuit board or the surface of an old computer. There’s no gloss — only a cold, calculated rhythm. Everything looks like someone designed it not for a show, but to demonstrate precision.

The boy in glasses — the one with the unsure smile. Now he isn’t smiling. He stands still, staring at a single point, as if running some internal calculations. His suit is tight and high-collared, covered in patterns that resemble code — silvery lines on black fabric, thin and intertwined like paths on a microchip. He barely moves. Occasionally adjusts a cuff. Very carefully. Almost pedantically.

The girl — still the same: tiny, fragile. Supposedly. But the way she stands has something strangely heavy to it. She wears a sleeveless, smooth dress in a gray-green shade, with transparent inserts sewn in — as if she’s made of glass and metal, like a lab vessel. Her hair loose, and there’s something deliberately simple in that — even raw.

She doesn’t look around. Not even at her partner. Her face is blank. Not with indifference — more like a blank screen, where something is about to appear. And no one knows what.

Next, District Four.

Sage recognizes him instantly, though she’s only seen him on a screen before. Finnick Odair. Her age, but already a mentor. The girl tribute next to him stays slightly behind, silent, hands clenched at her stomach. He turns, says something to her — quietly, with a faint smile. She nods, without looking at him. And in that smile — no tension, no fear. Only calm. Almost defiance.

Sage looks away. The air feels thicker. The metal vibrates under their feet. They stand waiting for the signal — like exhibits, like promises, like sacrifices wrapped in packaging.

Soon the doors will open. Soon the lights will blaze. And all of Panem will see what they’re made of.

Suddenly, the sound of heels clattering behind them. Cecelia and Paisley rush up—out of breath, as if they’ve been chasing down their own nerves.

"Here you are," says Cecelia, giving them a head-to-toe once-over. "Well, what can I say. You look like a perfect ten. Or maybe an eight-point-five. Go knock them dead."

"Hopefully just figuratively", Riven replies automatically.

"Just don’t fall," Paisley adds. "And if you do—act like it’s performance art, darlings."

She touches Sage’s hand—quickly, for a second.

"Break a leg."

"Don't jinx it." 

A pause. Cecelia smirks.

"And please... don’t die before the eighth minute of the broadcast. We’ve got bets to place."

At that moment, a signal sounds. Dry, sharp—like someone striking metal. People start stepping back. The lights dim, then freeze. Chariots begin to move—one after another, smoothly, like links in a machine.

Their platform lurches. At first, it’s barely perceptible—as if the universe is taking a breath. Then—steadier.

Sage feels the horses strain in their harnesses. The wheels beneath her groan. The metal hums. A soft wind brushes her face—not real, but engineered, from the ventilation system.

They pass through the arch. And there it is—the Capitol. A massive avenue lit by hundreds of floodlights. On both sides—crowds. People screaming, waving, throwing petals and ribbons. A screen on a building reflects their chariot—Sage sees herself from above, like a chess piece. On other screens—tributes’ faces. Right now, across the country, people are studying her profile, the curve of her lips, the shadow beneath her cheekbones.

She stands as she was taught. Chin slightly raised. Shoulders back. Gaze forward, but eyes unfocused—as if looking through everything. Riven stands beside her. Still as a photograph. He doesn’t even seem to breathe. Buildings slide past—columns, lamps, domes, spires. Faces in windows. Hands. Camera flashes. Someone screams her name, though they shouldn’t know it.

The roar of the crowd is like the wind in the loading docks—sharp, endless, pushing. It shoves at her, but doesn’t break through. Inside—it’s just stillness. Heavy like smoke.

Ahead of them—Seventh District’s white chariot. Behind them—the gray monolith of Nine. The parade moves on, but Sage feels only the motion. As if she’s drifting. As if she’s no longer a person, but an idea. An idea doomed to be liked.

The chariot circles the central square. The space expands, like the final note in a song. The roar swells—and suddenly cuts off. They pass beneath the arch of the Training Center. The light changes: no more white glare, but soft, warm, like in an underground station. The air is quieter, denser, smells of dust and metal. As if the city outside had been a performance—and now they’re backstage.

The wheels clatter against the floor. The parade is over.

The first to reach them are Artemis and Flora. Artemis walks fast, precise, and sharp — but even she has a slight flush on her cheeks, and her eyes gleam like polished blades.

“You hit every mark,” she nods, quickly scanning Riven and adjusting his shoulder. “Held your ground. Not a single wasted motion. Well done, Riven. Very well done.”

Meanwhile, Flora is circling Sage, examining her from all angles like a priceless sculpture that just survived an earthquake without cracking.

“You too,” she says at last, her voice almost tender, almost amazed. “So precise. So beautiful. The movement of your arm — perfection. The tilt of your head on the third turn… Did you improvise that? Brilliant. Absolutely…”

She lifts her hands in the air, like a conductor struck speechless.

“Don’t speak, I’m stunned myself. I could cry. I’m proud. That wasn’t just a presentation — it was an aesthetic. It was a threat. In the best sense,” she adds quickly, “a threat to the stability of outdated visual paradigms.”

Sage raises an eyebrow slightly.

“Thanks… I think I was just standing there.”

“Exactly!” Flora exclaims triumphantly. “You stood! Like you were forged. Like you’d grown into that chariot as a symbol. As a warning. That was a silent manifesto.”

She whirls toward Artemis

“Did you see how the shadow fell across her cheek when the light came from above? Her face knows dramaturgy. It’s a gift.”

Artemis nods, more reserved.

“The lighting was harsh, but we pulled it off. Well done.”

Flora turns back to Sage:

“I can already see it on the cover of Panem Artistica. Headline: ‘The Silence That Screams.’ Or: ‘Age of the Fashion. The Wireframe Girl.’ Something with chill. With tension.”

“Or just ‘Stay Away,’” Sage says dryly.

Flora nods with real respect.

“Yes. That is a statement.”

She helps Sage slide off the platform. The straps tangle; Flora untangles them expertly, wiping glitter from Sage’s lips at the same time.

Just then, Alcyon appears — a whirlwind of flowing sleeves, gleaming fabric, and an even more dazzling smile. He doesn’t walk so much as sweep into the space, brandishing his tablet like a magic wand.

“Magnificent!” he proclaims, as if announcing a beauty pageant winner. “An editor’s dream! A director’s dream! My dream!”

He snaps his tablet shut — theatrically, with flair and precision.

“All right, you’re free. Well… almost free,” he tilts his head and squints, as if sharing a secret. “Now the elevator, then wardrobe. We’ll take off the ribbons, rebraid the hair, kiss a few reflections.”

He makes a grand sweeping gesture toward the exit.

“Then — dinner! And the struggle to sleep, though who really sleeps on a night like this? I certainly don’t. I’ve already drawn a bath and plan to watch the playback on loop until sunrise.”

Alcyon winks at Riven, nods at Sage, and vanishes just as quickly as he appeared — like the flash of a camera.

Riven jumps down from the chariot — a bit clumsily, but without incident. He walks straight to Sage.

“My nose itched the whole way,” he says quietly, almost apologetically. “I was afraid to scratch it — in case it ruined the shot.”

Sage looks at him, and for the first time all day, almost smiles.

“Would’ve added some drama.”

“Really?”

“No.”

They both go still for a second, still dressed in costume, surrounded by crew, horses, the hum of radios and muffled footsteps. The tension still pulses in their fingers, but it’s beginning to fade.

“Well, we survived the opening,” Riven whispers.

Sage nods. Then adds:

“Now comes the easy part. Just dying on live TV.”

He gives her a crooked smile.

And then they walk inward — toward warmth, water, fabric, and light, and for at least a few hours… no cameras.

Notes:

hey sage, that’s your first glimpse of your future husband, would it kill you to look a little closer?

anyway, flora is my FAVORITE. i’ve been dying for her to show up. she haileybiebers cinna >>> the entire world

Chapter 6

The apartments for the District Eight tributes, like everything else in the Capitol, gleam. The floor is soft as moss. The walls — made of glass that can shift between clear, frosted, or animated with moving pictures. The ceiling breathes with light. The bathroom alone is larger than their kitchen back home and smells of eucalyptus — a scent Sage knows only from the nurse’s office lotion back at school. The shower looks like the control panel of some advanced machine. A sleek panel offers dozens of settings: tropical rain, waterfall, steam bath, morning in the clouds, silken foam, citrus breeze.

The water can be any temperature, any color — even scented, if desired. Nozzles are embedded in the walls and ceiling; the lighting adjusts to one’s mood. On the sink lie glittering bottles — some with emulsions, others with foam or creams that melt like snowflakes on the skin. Everything looks like it’s meant for someone else. Someone... cleaner. Expensive. Capitol-born.

Sage steps inside and presses the first button she sees. A moment later, the space fills with steam faintly scented with ginger and menthol. Water begins to fall from the ceiling — soft, like morning mist. It feels like walking into a dream. Or someone else’s meticulously cleaned life.

When she returns to the main room, Alcyon is still euphoric. He can’t sit still — one moment trying to hug Riven, the next flitting over to Sage, only to twirl away again with a theatrical sweep of his arms.

“This is brilliant!” he cries. “A true spectacle! Did you see the stylists from District Two? That was envy. Pure, dripping envy!”

He spins around the room like he’s just stepped off the chariot himself.

“The delivery, the energy, the image — ah Sage, you are an icy arrow to the heart of the Capitol! And that turn of the head in the light — sheer cinematic magic. I nearly cried. Well, almost.”

He strips off his shirt, grabs a silk robe from a hanger, and flings it over his shoulders like a stage curtain at final bow. Sage watches him silently. The adrenaline still flutters through her, but weariness is already seeping into her bones. She doesn’t smile. She just breathes.

Alcyon turns to her, his eyes glowing.

“If we keep this up, by day two in the arena we’ll have more sponsorship offers than the tributes from District One.” He pauses, nods to himself. “Yes. Now I truly believe in this team.”

He glows like he’s plugged into some hidden power source, and Sage doesn’t even try to interrupt. She moves slowly around the room, fingertips brushing against the too-soft, too-smooth, too-fake surfaces, and feels something inside her crouch down and go still, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if pretending it’s the sky.

She still hates it. This city. These smells. This exaggerated awe at every tiny detail — as if the world outside weren’t collapsing while they act out a scene in a play where all the actors die at the end. But there’s another feeling too. Uneasy. Ugly. Like a blister — first unnoticed, then endured, then part of her. Not pain, but background noise. Not irritation, but adjustment.

And Alcyon, with his dramatic flair and breathless gushing, is part of that background now. He still feels repulsive. Too bright, too loud, too alien. But for now — not unbearable.

A sharp knock sounds at the door — like a gunshot. Before anyone can answer, Cecelia and Paisley walk in. Cecelia wears a tailored black dress with architectural lines and a high collar, sharp as obsidian. Her hair is pulled into a tight bun, her lips the color of ink. Paisley wears a semi-transparent robe the color of steamed milk, under which glimmers a pearl-embroidered jumpsuit.

“Well, children,” Paisley says. “We did it.”

“Technically you did it,” Cecelia corrects, eyeing them both. “We just stood in the corner and had heart attacks.”

Alcyon claps his hands.

“Did you see that head turn? It’s the final note of a symphony! A moment of pure visual ecstasy. I squealed.”

“What do you think?” Cecelia asks Sage and Riven, tilting her head slightly. “How did it feel?”

Sage shrugs.

“Hot. Loud. Terrifying. But not boring.”

Riven drops onto the armrest of the couch. His posture is deliberately casual, but his fingers betray him — still tense, still buzzing with the same low hum that had filled the platform as they were pulled through the lights.

“Honestly, I thought I’d forget how to breathe. But I didn’t die, so I guess that’s a win.”

“You stared into one spot like you were trying to blow it up with your eyes,” Cecelia says. “Cameras love that. You came off cold, determined, and just a little emotionally unavailable. Perfect branding.”

“I was just really hungry,” Riven replies. “That happens when I’m stressed.”

Sage glances at him sideways.

“Still hungry?”

“No. Now I just want to sleep. Or fall over. Or turn into a cloud.”

“Don’t fall,” Alcyon says as he pours wine into their glasses. “Falling is only acceptable if it’s elegant. A concept. A symbol. Third night in the arena? By all means. But for now, it’s strictly forbidden.”

“Tomorrow it gets hard,” Cecelia cuts in. “Interviews, training, scores, ratings. Everything that decides how long you’re likely to stay alive.”

“Sounds like a blast,” Riven mutters.

Sage looks out the window. Beyond it — the Capitol: blurred, glowing, full of fire and eyes. Still celebrating. They’d just been put on display. And people liked it. And if someone doesn't, then well, tomorrow Sage will have to make an effort to fix it.

Her mind flickers with disjointed images, like pages torn from different books. The platform, the lights, the girl from District Three, the gleaming horses, a hand on her shoulder, Flora’s smile. It all flashed past — and now settles in her body like dust after an explosion.

She doesn’t know what the next night will bring. But she already feels she won’t be able to sleep. It’s not fear — fear is just background noise now, steady and constant, like the hum of a vent. It’s something else. Something inside has already broken — quietly, without sound. And there’s no fixing it, not yet. You don’t even realize how bad it is until it’s too late to change anything.

Sage raises the glass to her lips and hesitates for a moment. She’s never had alcohol before, and Iris would probably be outraged if she knew how easy it is here.

Back in the district, their neighbor on the third floor — Mr. Littlebloom — always reeked of vinegar and spoiled sweat. He drank anything that could burn. Once, Sage caught him trying to make “pear brandy” out of bread, soap, and some suspicious powder he’d traded off the coal workers. He ended up setting a curtain on fire and putting it out with his own pants, which he removed right there in the stairwell, in full view of Iris. She had been in a daze for two days after that, while Mr. Littlebloom, cheerfully swearing, offered the neighbors “a shot for the evening” and boasted that he was his own pharmacist and distiller.

Since then, the smell of alcohol for Sage had been tied firmly to the crackle of melting plastic and a pair of naked knees in holey underwear.

The Capitol drinks probably don’t smell like soap, she thinks — and takes a bold sip.

The wine is dark red, strange, smelling both sweet and sour. The taste — tart, a little bitter, with some vague warm note, like touching metal with your tongue, and then — honey. It burns slightly going down, but leaves a faint warmth inside. She's not sure if she likes it. But she can't say she doesn't either. It feels too grown-up.

Sage lets go of the glass, sets it on the edge of the table. She turns away from the view of the city — a city that, at this hour, feels like it's drinking her instead, sip by sip. Then she turns back to the others, forcing the corner of her mouth into a smile. Because Cecelia is right, interviews are coming. Training, scores, ratings. And if you're not smiling — you're already dead, just still walking. But not for long.

"Will we train together?" Sage asks, looking at Paisley. "Or each on our own?"

Cecelia rests her elbows on the table, fingers interlaced.

"Usually we prefer individual training. That doesn’t mean we don’t communicate — we stay in contact. But most of the work is one-on-one. It’s more fair that way. Still, these are your Games. The choice is yours."

Sage nods. Slowly, thoughtfully. Her fingers glide around the rim of the glass, as if checking if balance can still be found in something, at least here. Training alone means not revealing everything you can do. Not showing weakness. Not adapting to someone else's rhythm. If they train together, he’ll be watching. He’ll see where her hands shake, where her stamina drops, where her breath falters. And she’ll see him too. And if they both live to the end... they'll both remember exactly how it happened.

But if they're separated, it might dull the edge. Make the personal things feel a little less personal.

"Apart," she says. "I think it's better that way."

Cecelia tilts her head slightly, as if making a mental note. No approval, no disapproval — just acknowledgment. Riven looks at Sage, brows drawn, as if trying to read between her lines. He stays silent for a while, then nods as well. Hesitantly. Like he’s not sure he has the right to make decisions, but uses it while he still can.

"Me too," he says, almost in a whisper.

"Alright," Paisley says. Her voice is soft, like cotton left to dry in the sun. She looks at Sage the way someone looks at a rare fabric held in their hands for the first time, trying to decide: will this make a dress, or a bandage? "I’d like to work with you, if you don’t mind."

Sage feels surprised — but there’s something else too, a thin, nearly invisible response inside her. Not trust, not yet, but something like a thread — coarse, drawn tight — that hums faintly when touched. For a second, she wants to believe that something can still be made from her. Not victory — not necessarily. Just… something. Something someone could shape into something usable again.

"Alright," she replies. "Thank you."

"Then I’ll take Riven," Cecelia says — no questions, no hesitation. "Less sentiment, more work."

Riven flinches slightly. His lips press into a line. But he nods, like he understands that the decision’s been made, and arguing is pointless. Paisley leans toward him across the table.

"This isn’t punishment," she says. "Cecelia’s strict, but fair. And you… you might need her more than anyone."

"I’ve already contacted the right people," Alcyon suddenly says, folding his hands into a graceful arch. "And I’m afraid I must officially announce that all matters concerning interviews and fame now fall under my jurisdiction." He flashes a smile at Cecelia and Paisley. "Forgive me, ladies. You’re incredible, truly. But let’s face it — none of us want our sweet little hatchlings showing up on camera looking like they’ve just been pulled out of a sack of flour."

He turns to Sage and tilts his head slightly to the side.

"And you, my dear, are in for something truly special. Your new hair color is simply delightful. Clean, bright, a bit naive. We have a grand future ahead of us. If, of course, you learn how to smile."

She doesn’t smile, just stares into her glass. The wine is a little cloudy. It seems darker than before. Like swamp water with a bone dropped into it.

"Do you…" Riven hesitates, choosing his words, "do you remember your Games well?"

Cecelia looks straight ahead. Her eyes are clear, calm — like someone who made peace with herself long ago and never looked back.

"I remember every minute," she says. "Not because I want to. But because the brain keeps it, whether I like it or not. I can still tell you exactly what the dirt smelled like the day there were only three of us left. And what I ate for breakfast before I killed someone for the first time."

Sage flinches, not at the words themselves, but at how simply they land. At how easily they settle on the coffee table between wine glasses. As if it were talk about the weather, not a confession.

Paisley lifts her gaze slowly.

"For me... some days feel like a fog. Like it wasn’t even me. Someone else. Younger. Dumber. Or stronger."

A pause.

"I don’t know," she adds. "Probably stronger. Since I made it."

Sage no longer wants the wine. She slides the glass slightly aside. Even Alcyon falls silent, glancing from one mentor to the other. The air in the room feels a little drier. A little quieter. Riven already looks like he regrets opening his mouth.

Only now does it slowly begin to sink in for Sage. Not as a thought, but as a sensation. Not as logic, but as something in her body. Even winning isn’t the end. It’s not a finish line, not an escape. It’s a transition.

Paisley and Cecelia are both silent — one sharp and solid like a blade, the other hazy like a path through mist — but in their faces, she sees different roads leading to the same place.

Say she survives. Then what?

Sage closes her eyes, and suddenly she sees herself on the Victor’s Tour. In new dresses. In bright lipstick. On talk shows where you’re supposed to be funny. At dinners where someone else decides when you’re allowed to laugh. A walking testament that the system works. Staring into the camera when they ask: “And what did you feel when you stabbed that girl or that boy? Are you proud of it?”

And maybe she would feel proud. If she were still herself. If there was still anything left of her.

She tries to imagine coming home. Back to where the air smells of smoke and soap, where old scarves are stuffed into window cracks, where Iris coughs through the night and Rosie talks in her sleep.

Except… no. She will have a home, but not that one. One in the Victor’s Village now. Next door to Paisley and Ester. To Cecelia, her husband and their kids. To Woof’s lonely haven. Not a multi-story sector but her own house, with windows on two sides, with fresh bedsheets, with water that always flows from the tap — even hot. She’ll have a wardrobe. A garden. Evenings without hunger. She’ll be able to call Flora any time she wants, as if a whole country didn’t stretch between them.

There she is, standing on the threshold — in a coat that doesn’t quite fit, but was chosen because it looks good in photographs. Iris holding Rosie’s hand. Marigold stepping out to meet her, unsure whether to hug or just look. She glances up at Sage, with cautious pride in her eyes. As if Sage is now some kind of monument that can still speak in a familiar voice.

And then — him. Henley.

He walks the same way as always, a little hunched, jacket open, hair tousled. Stops a few meters away. Doesn’t say “hi.” Doesn’t say anything. Because there’s already something between them — and now, the whole world as well. Sage feels her heart tighten with the thought. What would he say? What would she say to him?

“Hi, Hen. I survived. I killed. Do you still want to kiss my hands?”

Even if he does — could she bear it? Could she come closer? Touch him? Fall asleep beside him without waking up in a cold sweat, without seeing Riven’s face — the boy she once… once.

Could she ever sit with Henley on the roof again, eating dried apples, listening to him talk about coal seams? Could it ever be like it was, back when their palms touched and she didn’t think — didn’t weigh yes or no — just leaned in closer? Back when they were just two teenagers and now was all they had. And it was enough. Could she ever be that girl again? Sage isn’t sure. There would be too many words inside her then, words she couldn’t say.

And what if he didn’t come at all? What if he said, “Sorry, Sage. I used to love a different you. The one without blood under her nails.” Would she have the right to be hurt?

She glances at Cecelia. That severe profile. Sharp lines. A back that seems like it would never bend. She looks like someone who has learned to live with memory — not to bury it, not to sew it down deep, but to wear it like armor. She has three children. She gave birth. Carried them. Cried over someone who screamed in the night not from blood and fear — just from hunger. Walked someone to school, held someone in her arms. And still, remembered the breakfast she had the day she killed for the first time.

Sage can’t grasp it. How did she do it? How does that fit together? How can someone be a mother and carry everything the arena gave them? How can you sing lullabies when your mind still echoes with the sound of snares and an axe? She doesn’t know. But something about it catches on her from the inside. Not hope, not quite. More like disbelief. Like the world had split just a little, and there was a narrow crack. Just wide enough to slip through. Maybe. Not right away. But one day. If she moved slowly. If she was careful.

But none of that matters yet. First, she just has to survive.

***

The silence stretches just a moment too long, and then Alcyon claps his hands with too much cheer.

"Well! Dinner, anyone?"

His voice slices through the tension like a butterknife through cream. He stands abruptly and gestures toward the glass doors, already sliding them open onto the balcony beyond.

The cool evening air spills into the room, and with it, the golden haze of twilight. Outside, the Capitol skyline gleams in soft hues — silver rooftops, distant glass domes catching the dying light. The balcony itself is wide and high above the city, ringed with delicate black railings shaped like curling vines. Thin lanterns sway gently along the edges, glowing like paper moons.

In the center stands a long rectangular dining table — already laid with crystal glasses, polished cutlery, pale linen napkins folded into triangles. Candles flicker in low glass bowls, and white plates gleam like bone in the growing dusk.

There’s no food yet. Just anticipation.

The mentors step out one by one, their shoes tapping softly on the stone tiles. The air smells faintly of lavender, city heat, and something roasted — a hint, perhaps, from the kitchens below.

They take their seats — Cecelia with her spine straight and motionless, Paisley folding herself down quietly beside her. Alcyon flutters to the head of the table, beaming like a proud host.

Sage steps onto the balcony last, slightly delayed, as if she hesitated to make the move. The evening air brushes her skin with coolness, but not cold; it smells of a foreign city and something almost familiar — maybe lavender, maybe damp stone. She glances around automatically, as if checking for escape routes. Riven is already standing by one of the empty chairs, shifting awkwardly, as though unsure if he’s even allowed to sit. He throws a glance at Sage — quick, evasive — and pulls out a chair for her.

“Uh… I think this is yours…” he mumbles, as if each word costs him effort.

Sage nods — barely looking — and sits down. The chair is cool, wooden, slightly rough beneath her palms. Her feet barely touch the floor — it’s slightly elevated, like everything else in the Capitol. It feels like even the furniture here looks down on you. Riven takes the seat beside her. He sits unnaturally straight, as if afraid to accidentally brush elbows.

Two places remain unoccupied. One chair across from Paisley. The other — between Alcyon and Cecelia. As if someone’s late, or didn’t show up at all. But before Sage can ask, Alcyon declares:

“You won’t believe who I saw today!”

He crosses his arms over his chest, theatrically leans back in his chair, and glances around the table, checking if he has everyone’s attention.

“Cece, Paisley, do you remember Apollo Langford? The one who hosted 'Good Morning, Panem' before that harassment scandal with the weather anchor? Well, he’s back. And not alone. With some boy at least twenty years younger. Yellow hair, fake teeth, but his arms — dripping in jewelry all the way up to the elbows. A whole new look, if you can even call it that.”

He rolls his eyes so hard you can see the whites, and in the same motion, deftly unfolds his napkin onto his lap.

“Rumor has it, he’s pitching a segment for the evening news. Something like 'Langford Unfiltered' or 'A Finger on the Pulse... and Elsewhere'. Ridiculous, obviously.”

Cecelia doesn’t move. Paisley lets out a small snort. Riven blinks, as if unsure whether to laugh. Sage stares at the empty plates in front of her and says nothing. Alcyon continues, either oblivious or pretending to be:

“Oh — and you won’t believe this — Kitty Vanderbee had twins! With a furniture designer! I thought he was gay, but maybe it was just really good PR. Or really bad wine at a party.”

He takes a sip of water, rolls his eyes again for dramatic effect.

“Then again, you know me — I’m always rooting for romance. Even if it smells like wood polish.”

He laughs at his own joke, glancing around as though inviting others to join in. The laughter is swallowed by a soft breeze. For a moment, the distant sounds of city traffic and the chirping of artificial birds in the plantings below drift up. Alcyon rubs his hands together.

“So, where is this dinner already? I hope they’re not pulling another ‘surprise the tribute’ course!” He hiccups with laughter and looks again toward the door. “Although… with you, Sage, they really could start a cooking show. Have you ever had real fish from the Pearl Basin?”

She shakes her head, barely realizing she’s answered. Her head hums, and Alcyon’s voice becomes something like background music — too high, too smooth to be real. And still… she notices: up here, above the city, it suddenly feels a little easier to breathe.

When the doors finally swing open and a serving cart glides soundlessly onto the balcony, the conversation fades on its own, as if someone had turned down the volume. On the trays are porcelain bowls filled with something steaming and green, creamy, garnished with delicate edible flower petals. One of the servers—too beautiful to be real—places the dishes before each guest. For a moment, only the faint clinking of porcelain and the whisper of footsteps can be heard.

And it’s in that moment that Flora and Artemis step onto the balcony.

Flora walks in first—graceful, but not theatrical, her head held high. Her hair is braided tightly, emphasizing the line of her neck. She wears a soot-colored dress with a green shimmer, and in the evening light, it seems almost alive. Artemis follows half a step behind—composed, in a black, impeccably tailored dress, her posture straight, her gaze reflecting a hint of fatigue and wariness.

"And here come the stars of the evening!" Alcyon exclaims with exaggerated delight, springing to his feet. "Had I known you’d make such an entrance, I’d have worn a tiara. Or at least a silk scarf."

Flora gives the slightest smile with the corner of her mouth and sits in the empty seat between Cecelia and Alcyon. Artemis takes the place across from Paisley, nodding politely to everyone.

"There they are!" Paisley exclaims with genuine enthusiasm, rising slightly in her seat. "My heroines. I just have to say it—you worked magic. Did you see how they looked during the ceremony?"

She speaks to the table but doesn’t take her eyes off Flora and Artemis.

"I nearly screamed when Riven turned in profile—he looked like a living sculpture!"

"And Sage!" Cecelia chimes in, leaning forward slightly. "That was something else. She was glowing."

"Thank you," Artemis says calmly as she sits. She takes her spoon but doesn’t rush to taste the soup. "We only tried to highlight what was already there. Sage and Riven did all the rest themselves."

Flora nods in agreement, her gaze lowered to her bowl.

"Oh, come now," Alcyon joins in. "Don’t be modest—it doesn’t suit you. The effect was a bombshell. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting it. No offense, Riven, but you used to look like you were fresh off the rehearsal for a state funeral."

Riven blushes and drops his gaze to his bowl. Sage pretends to stir her soup, though it has long since stopped steaming.

"And now…" Alcyon spreads his hands theatrically. "Now you look like the heir to a hotel empire. Distant, mysterious, and charging per kiss."

"Thank you… I, um, don’t know whose work that really is," Riven says quietly, still not looking at anyone in particular.

"Theirs, obviously," Alcyon replies immediately, pointing at the stylists. "These two make magic. I swear, give them a sack of potatoes and a pair of scissors, and by midnight the potatoes would be strutting down a catwalk."

Flora doesn’t respond. She simply raises an eyebrow and looks at him—polite, but with a touch of irony. Artemis remains unshaken.

"We’re just doing our job," he finally says. "Real transformation doesn’t come from the fabric. It comes from the person who wears it."

Sage feels a pressure building in her ears—maybe from the subtle aroma of the soup, or maybe from the way that “real transformation” sounds. Alcyon leans toward Flora, just a little too close, as if by accident.

"I remember how a few years ago you were considering switching to philosophy. Can you imagine if we’d lost you? Panem would be missing its new icon. And I would be missing my personal muse."

Flora slowly turns her head toward him. Her gaze is cold but courteous. Like someone who’s used to being called a muse, a talent, a goddess—and sees nothing special in it anymore.

"A muse inspires," she says evenly. "I prefer to work."

She looks away before he can answer and takes a sip of water. Sage drops her gaze to her bowl to hide a slight smirk. Even Artemis seems to tug the corner of her mouth upward. Alcyon presses a hand theatrically to his chest; the corner of his mouth twitches.

"That stung! But beautifully so. Which means you're forgiven," he glances toward the server pouring the wine and adds, "let this be the start of our dialogue. I’ve always believed the best romances begin with a gentle slap."

"Or with being ignored," Flora adds calmly, taking a sip of water.

For a second, silence settles over the table. Then Cecelia exhales, almost like a laugh. A soft chuckle follows from her, Paisley joins in with delight, and the conversation begins to swirl again—a light social whirl of phrases, gestures, glances. Artemis cautiously tastes the soup. Riven stays silent, his gaze drifting over the faces at the table, pausing on Sage—but she seems not to notice.

The light over the city dims; the evening glow takes over. And the dinner goes on.

Chapter 7

Sage is one of the first to arrive for breakfast. Her hair is still damp from the shower, she’s wearing a soft gray robe, and her eyelashes are stuck together as if she hasn’t fully woken up — or hasn’t fully washed off her makeup. She doesn’t lift her eyes. Just perches on the edge of the nearest chair, like she’s not quite sure she’s allowed to be here.

Riven is already there. He sits with a straight back, hands folded in his lap. In front of him is a bowl of something that looks like fruit and oatmeal, but he doesn’t eat — only stares into his steaming cup. His gaze slides past Sage, as if a thin, invisible wall had risen between them after dinner.

“Hey,” she says. Her voice comes out softer than she wanted. Almost like a child unsure if they’re allowed to join the grown-up table. “Did you... sleep okay?”

Riven doesn’t answer right away. Pretends he didn’t hear. Then shrugs slightly, still not lifting his eyes.

“Not really,” he says shortly. “You?”

“Same,” she exhales, and adds to herself: that’s putting it mildly.

Last night, it felt like the Reaping never ended. In her dream, Flora pulled her by the shoulder again — but didn’t let go this time. She dragged her forward, not toward the lights or the microphones, but toward a cliff. And there, on the edge, was a crowd. Faces of spectators, faces in hoods, faces with no eyes — all of them holding small remotes.

Beneath her feet — glass. Under the glass — the arena. Bare, deserted, dark. Sage stood frozen, but Flora pushed her in the back, and the glass cracked. First at the edges, then closer. Sage begged her to stop, said she didn’t want this, that it was all a mistake, but no one listened. Not even Henley, who appeared briefly to the side — in the same black uniform, with an indifferent face — looking right past her. She called out to him, but her mouth didn’t work. No sound came.

Then the glass gave way, and she fell. For a long time. In absolute silence. Until something flared up below — too fast to understand what it was. Too hot. It burned her until she screamed.

She woke up screaming, choking into the pillow. In the morning, her hair smelled of sweat, her lips were dry like after a fever. And now, sitting across from Riven, she still feels the trembling in her chest: the shadow of the dream, the echo of falling.

“It was hot,” she says suddenly. Out of nowhere. “I dreamed I was... burning. Or falling into fire. Something like that.”

She doesn’t know why she said it. She just wants someone — anyone — to hear even a piece of it.

Riven looks at her for a long time but says nothing. Just slowly drops his gaze into his cup, then down to his spoon.

“I dreamed I had no face,” he says quietly. “Just a suit. Just a voice. And everyone applauded.”

Sage nods. And for the first time that morning, it feels like they truly see each other.

Flora and Artemis arrive a bit later — coordinated, silent, like they’d already said everything they needed beforehand. Flora whispers something to the waiter, Artemis gives a polite nod to the others without smiling. Not a trace of yesterday’s charm, not a hint of flirtation — just the professional poise and calm of surgeons before an operation.

Right behind them, almost immediately, comes Cecelia. Her outfit is simpler this time: a soft gray jumpsuit, her hair not styled but pulled into a high ponytail. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, as if she’s just woken up and hasn’t fully accepted that she’s supposed to be up already. She barely manages to sit down before she draws Riven into a conversation about today’s training.

Sage sits across from them. She stays quiet. Eats slowly, without tasting anything. Something pale and soft is on her fork — maybe pear, maybe oatmeal. She doesn’t even know. Her eyes keep drifting to Riven, then to Cecelia, then back to her plate.

Cecelia’s words bounce off her like off glass, and Riven’s occasional chuckles sound oddly unfamiliar. Sage reaches for her water, takes a sip. Stares into the glass as if it might hold something important. Silence gathers in clumps and then falls apart again. And beneath it all — a strange tension. As if everyone senses it: this morning is, in truth, the first. The beginning.

Alcyon is late but finally appears — in pajamas with golden buttons — and declares:

“What a lovely morning, if you close your eyes and pretend it’s evening. I do hope the coffee is strong enough to resurrect not only myself, but also my faith in humanity.”

Sage doesn’t smile but her gaze does lift. Alcyon glides into his seat with the grace of a cat, shrugging off a silk robe and draping it over the back of his chair like a cape.

“Darling,” he says, only now seeming to notice her, “you look like there’s a metaphorical blanket curled up inside you and refusing to uncurl.”

She tilts her head, unsure how to respond.

“It’s that kind of morning,” she says. “Or not quite morning—just… no longer night.”

Alcyon pauses, then snaps his fingers to summon a waiter.

“Didn’t understand a word of that,” he says cheerfully. “But noted: we’ve got a poet this year. Get her some coffee before she starts composing haikus about her longing for oatmeal.”

He pushes the milk jug toward her and, with a soft, almost careless motion, breaks off a piece of some honey cookie and places it between them. Without a word. Just like that. Sage looks at him — wary, but not hostile.

“Have you… always been like this?” she asks suddenly. “Or does it come with age?”

“Like what?”

“Well… glamorous.”

He chuckles — not offended, but pleased. As if the word is a compliment to him, on par with talented or handsome.

“Oh, my sweet thing,” he says, leaning back effortlessly in his chair. “This doesn’t just happen to someone out of the blue. It’s a conscious choice.”

He makes a theatrical sweep with his hand — a wide arc, as if tracing an invisible halo around himself.

“The Capitol is a city of freedom, but only for those who know how to choose. Everyone else just shines by inertia. As for me — I knew since I was a child that I wanted to be brighter than sunrise in the Central Station’s waiting hall. I wore gloves that didn’t match the weather when I was ten. And by fifteen I understood: if life is going to be theater anyway, then I’d rather be the costume designer, not the prop. And if I’m being honest… glamor is the least painful form of self-expression humanity has ever invented.”

Sage frowns slightly, but doesn’t get a chance to reply. A moment later, Paisley slides into the seat beside her. She’s wearing a thin gray shirt, no makeup, her hair still a little tousled, and she smells faintly of mint toothpaste and cold morning air — as if she stood by an open window until the last possible second. Sage notices, almost with surprise, how her shoulders ease just a little at the girl’s presence.

Paisley sits quickly but quietly, as if afraid of disrupting a rhythm, and turns to her at once.

“You and Riven are going to the training center at ten,” she says quietly but clearly. “The shared one. All Districts, all Tributes. You’ve got three days to pick up whatever you can. You won’t learn much, but you can get a feel for the basics.”

She takes a sip of water, like she’s rinsing the thought before speaking further.

“You’re quiet,” Paisley adds, not as a judgment, but as an observation. “That’s not a bad thing. People don’t notice quiet ones. Especially if you don’t want to be noticed. You might want to try the stealth stations. Hiding, camouflage, observation. Most tributes skip this, think it’s not important. And then they get found by the one they didn’t see coming. And that’s it.”

Sage nods slowly. Her throat feels dry again.

“Next — you’ve got good coordination. And grip. You hold on tight, I can tell just by how you sit. Try to learn something new: knives, hand-to-hand. You can try other things too — clubs, spears, arrows — but start with the knives. You won’t catch up to the ones who’ve trained for years, but basics will help. And it’s better to make your mistakes here than on the arena.”

It feels like Paisley has said more in the last five minutes than in all their previous conversations combined. And for the first time, Sage really sees her — not a face on a screen, but someone real. Composed. Calm. Adult. Survived.

She nods again, a little too fast, and something tightens in her stomach — like a sudden overload. She realizes she’s gripping her fork too hard — her fingers have gone white, knuckles jutting. Slowly, she loosens her hold.

She has three days. Three days to become someone she’s never been. It feels like being handed a costume several sizes too big and told not just to wear it — but to run in it all the way to the edge of the Capitol. No tripping, no stumbling, and make sure you finish first.

“I’ll try,” she says hoarsely, not even sure if anyone hears her.

“Next — agility. Climbing, balance. You’re light, they won’t notice you as long as you stay out of the way. Focus on precision. Don’t make noise. Don’t fall. Don’t cry.” A pause. “And take a look at the traps. I don’t know what kind of arena you’ll get, but history remembers more than one tribute who survived hunger thanks to the simplest traps. It won’t hurt.”

Paisley takes another sip. This time her voice softens slightly:

“If you find something you’re especially good at — don’t show it off to everyone. Save it for your private session.”

Sage listens, and with each word, her chest feels tighter. Not from fear — fear has become familiar by now. This is something else. Heavy. Muffled. Like wet sand packed tight inside her ribs. Responsibility. Or maybe realization.

To keep her hands occupied, she picks up a glass. Carefully, like even the smallest movement might spill the fragile balance she’s still barely holding.

“What if…” Sage hesitates, eyes drifting to the edge of the table. “What if I’m not good at anything?”

Paisley doesn’t answer right away. She just looks at her — and there’s no judgment in that look, no comfort either. Only steady, calm attention.

“Flora made you into an unfinished portrait. An invisible girl. She understood the assignment,” she says at last. “Invisibility is a weapon too. If you can’t scare them, make them forget you. Let them think you’re not a threat. Sometimes that saves you better than a knife.”

Sage says nothing. The words fall into her mind like stones into a backpack. One by one. Soft thud. And the weight — it’s immediate.

“And remember,” Paisley adds, almost cheerfully now. “None of them know who you are. Not even you — not yet. Because everyone changes in the arena. And that’s a surprisingly useful position to be in.”

She pushes her glass away, straightens up, and for a second her face goes blank again — calm, slightly tired, almost indifferent. As if everything she just said didn’t really matter.

Sage doesn’t know where to put herself. Her hands won’t settle — she twirls her glass, sets it aside, picks up her fork. She chews, but the hunger is long gone. There’s a dull, pulling ache in her chest, like something inside is stretching to make space for a feeling she doesn’t recognize.

Three days, she thinks again. Funny. She certainly won’t become a killer in three days. But maybe, for the first time in her life, she’ll learn how not to be herself — or how to be someone else. Or, if Paisley is to be believed, maybe she’ll finally become who she truly is.

“Thanks,” she says quietly.

Paisley gives a small nod. And says nothing.

***

The corridors leading to the training center grow narrower and darker as they descend. The floor changes — from polished marble to rougher gray concrete, as if textured on purpose, so no one slips while panicking. The light grows colder, as if morning itself is following them underground — still there, behind their backs, but no longer warm.

Riven walks slightly ahead, silent, barely glancing back. Sage tries not to fall behind. The walls around them are smooth, windowless, with the occasional plaque and evenly spaced ceiling lights. Everything here seems designed to erase the sense of time. No sun. No clocks. Not even ambient noise. Only footsteps — steady and muffled.

The training center opens abruptly. The door doesn’t creak — it slides aside. And suddenly, they’re inside.

It’s enormous.

The ceilings are high and vaulted, steel-gray. The air smells metallic, sharp, almost sterile. To the left — a close combat zone, rows of training dummies wrapped in rubber and cloth. Farther down — sections for agility, camouflage, climbing, even a simulated weather zone. Along the far wall — weapons. So many weapons. They hang in neat rows: knives, bows, throwing darts, clubs, and some bizarre contraptions made of ropes and hooks, whose names Sage can’t even begin to guess. Everything gleams. Everything looks dangerous. Foreign.

And most importantly — there are people. The other tributes. All twenty-two of them.

Sage stops at the threshold. They’re standing in clusters — some already talking, others just watching everyone else with cool, appraising eyes. Nearly all of them look older, taller, stronger. Especially the tributes from Districts Two and Four: already in uniform, confident, with straight backs and sharp, focused stares.

Sage swallows. Riven says something — she thinks — but the words drown in the hum of the center. She only shrugs, eyes never leaving the crowd.

Some tributes frown. Others smile far too widely. Two of them — probably from District Ten — stand back-to-back, like they’re already expecting an ambush. Someone is already testing the running track. The room buzzes with scattered motion — until it doesn’t.

The head trainer enters. He’s short, gray-haired, with skin that looks like it’s been stretched thin over his bones. In his hands — a tablet. His voice — sharp, metallic.

“Attention,” he says. “You’ve got three days. Use them wisely. This room has everything you might need in the arena. Sections are as follows...”

He reads off the list — clear and loud:

“...Close combat: knives, clubs, spears. Ranged: bows, slings, darts. Throwing, precision. Next — traps: setting, disarming. Survival: water filtration, fire starting, navigation. Climbing. Camouflage. First aid. Poisons and antidotes. Everything is labeled. Instructors are at their stations. Begin.”

He doesn’t even wait for a reaction—just steps aside. The space of the center begins to move.

Sage stands with her arms pressed to her sides. Her gaze latches onto the weapons wall. She’s too scared to even approach it. Her eyes jump from object to object: something that looks like a pitchfork, but with a thickened end. Next—something like a folded flat boomerang. Tridents, metal rings with sharp spikes, even heavy chains. What is this for? How do you hold it? What do you do with it?

Her palms are sweating. Her heart isn’t pounding in her ears anymore—it’s pounding in her throat. “I don’t understand. I really don’t understand what I’m supposed to do with this.”

For a moment, she feels like everyone is about to turn, notice, and realize she’s the weakest one here. But that doesn’t happen. Everyone’s busy with their own thing. No one’s watching. A girl from District One tosses a knife at a mannequin mid-stride, without even looking—it sinks in almost to the hilt. Sage flinches.

Riven leans slightly toward her.

"You don’t have to choose now," he says quietly. "Just walk around. Look. Things will start to make sense. In time."

Sage isn’t sure. But she steps forward anyway. One step, then another. As if she’s walking on fragile glass.

The camouflage station is tucked into a corner, in the neutral space between the combat and survival zones. It’s quiet here. The floor is strewn with artificial moss, pieces of burlap, clumps of grass, charred branches, and oily paint in cans. Mannequins, half-covered. Scraps of fabric mimicking forest, sand, snow.

The instructor is a woman around forty, hair slicked back, sharp-faced. She doesn’t smile.

"First time?" she asks curtly.

"Yeah."

"Good. Let’s see what your instincts are like. Here’s the mannequin. Here are the materials. Your task is to disguise it so that it can’t be immediately spotted from five meters away. No extra questions. Time starts now."

Sage looks at the mannequin. A basic figure, a little taller than she is, with rough outlines. Around it—a mess of fabric, branches, some plastic scraps. She has no idea where to begin. After a moment, she grabs some burlap. Tries it. Too light. Switches to a darker piece. Adds grass. Too much—removes some. She works silently, carefully, slowly. Her hands are shaking—but they obey. It’s like Sage is piecing together a puzzle. Or someone’s skin.

The instructor watches without a word. After a few minutes, she walks over, circles the mannequin, examines it from all sides.

"Average," she says. "Visible here. And here. But it’s workable. Try again. Change the materials. Experiment. The goal isn’t to disappear completely, but to distort perception. Got it?"

Sage nods. She really does get it. For the first time all morning, it feels like she’s doing something useful—and she keeps working.

She stays at the camouflage station for a while, trying other materials: muddy brown strips, gray-green fabric fragments, pieces of spongy rubber that could be attached to look like tree bark. She doesn’t really think—just does. Automatically, like brushing her teeth or folding laundry. And at some point, she realizes—she’s stopped trembling.

While she works, her gaze keeps slipping to the side. From the corner of her eye, subtly, unnoticed—just like she learned back in the district. There’s that girl from District One: tall, solid, with pale hair and very fast hands. She flips a spear from hand to hand as if it were a stick. The boy from Two, with chiseled cheekbones and forearms wrapped in bandages, swings an axe like it’s made of feathers.

The pair from Three are still sticking together. They aren’t strong, but they’re taking notes. They whisper now and then, never once smiling. And then there’s the loud boy—perfectly styled hair, probably from One—laughing, exchanging snide comments with a girl from Four. Theatrical, deliberately laid-back. Trying way too hard to seem fearless.

Sage keeps working. Watching. Memorizing. When the instructor silently nods and turns to another tribute, Sage knows: time to move on. Her pulse is steadier now than it was that morning. But there’s still that hollow feeling in her gut.

Next up—weaponry. Sage doesn’t know where to start. She approaches the rack of knives. Small ones, medium-sized, all with different handles. One feels light—she picks it up. Tries to throw.

The knife drops. Just hits the floor with a dull thud. Someone nearby scoffs loudly. She looks away.

Next—a hatchet. Too heavy. Pulls her arm off-balance. Cuts the air, nearly hitting a mannequin. Jaw clenched, Sage tries again. And again. The strikes are clumsy. The throws—crooked. It even hurts to hold these things.

"Not your thing," says the instructor suddenly, watching from the side.

His face looks like it was carved from stone, with two dull eyes wedged in at random.

"I know," Sage replies quietly.

She tries a sling—no luck. Picks up a spear—it keeps tipping forward. Looks at a bow, draws the string, but her fingers tremble, and the arrow slips, not even making it halfway.

At some point, Sage just steps aside. Leans against the wall. Hides her hands in her pockets. Watches another girl—probably from Nine—throw darts with a precision that slices through her pride.

Sage just stands there, shoulder blades pressed to the wall. Her fingers start to tremble again. Her head is blank, filled only with a rising, buzzing shame. Like her whole body’s covered in paint, and someone’s slapped a big sign on her: Cannon Fodder.

“Wanna try something else?” a familiar voice says.

She turns her head. Riven.

He’s standing just off to the side, like he happened to be nearby. In his hands, a coil of wire and a few small parts she can’t quite make out from here.

“Traps,” he explains. “Don’t need strength. Sometimes not even hands. Just your head.”

Sage hesitates. Then pushes off the wall.

"Only if you promise you won't make fun of me," she says with a smile, already walking towards him.

They walk along the edge of the training center, past the stations. It’s loud here—clashing metal, shouts, impacts. Sage spots someone casting a weighted net—and a second later, their partner dodges, laughing like it’s a game.

The trap section looks almost peaceful: wooden frames, wire, hooks, rods, springs. All laid out in boxes or pinned to display boards. Riven crouches down and, without looking, hands her a pair of thin toothed plates.

“Let’s try a basic snare. Look, they already explained it to me. Here’s the anchor stick, and this—this is the tension mechanism. Step on it—it triggers.”

He pauses, giving her a moment to take it in.

“Kind of like my brother,” he adds. “He goes off the moment you touch him.”

Sage lets out a barely audible chuckle.

“My sister’s the same. Always on edge. Sometimes I think she was born screaming. Mom said the midwife was scared to hold her because Iris bit her right away. Not really, of course. But she’s had attitude since diapers.”

Sage gives a crooked smile, eyes still fixed on the knot. The branch has to be anchored just right—tight enough to stay under tension, but not slip free.

“How old is she?” Riven asks.

“Twenty-five. She’s the oldest. Basically raised us. Then there’s Marigold—she’s twelve. And Rose, she’s only five.”

“My brother’s name is Glenn. He’s eight. Almost nine. Thinks I’m old and boring,” Riven squints as he carefully pulls the wire taut. “He broke my nose last year for taking his cat on a walk without asking. Still swears he was right.”

Sage glances at him, narrowing her eyes. For the first time, she notices—his nose is a bit crooked. Broken.

“And even then… I still miss him. Even when he’s yelling. I bet he’s pretending he doesn’t care right now, but really? He’s probably freaking out like always.”

Sage took a deep breath.

“My Mari… I think you two would get along. She’s smart. Loves reading, plans everything. I bet she already has a strategy worked out for how I should act to win. Too bad she can’t send it to me.”

She gives a small smile, but there’s more sorrow than humor in it.

“And Rosie… she’s too little. Just looked at me with these huge eyes. I think she’s expecting me back by dinner.”

She swallows and looks down. Her fingers keep moving, but the motions are mechanical now. The trap is nearly done: the trigger’s set, the loop snaps into tension just right.

“You’re a good sister,” Riven says quietly.

Sage snorts—not in anger, but like she doesn’t buy it.

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think… maybe it’ll be easier for them when it’s all over. At least they won’t have to sit around waiting for the coffin.”

Riven shakes his head, still focused on securing the hook in place.

“That’s not true. You just can’t see it from here. But I bet they’re counting the days till you win. Maybe even the hours.”

Sage slowly draws in a breath. Her face barely changes, but something in her shoulders softens. She watches silently as he checks the tension of the snare, then grabs a second hook and passes it to her—without looking, in a natural gesture, like they’ve been working together not for ten minutes, but their whole lives.

“Looks like it works. Wanna make another?” he asks.

Sage nods slightly.

“Yeah. Let’s.”

They keep working, and suddenly, Sage realizes how easy things feel when it’s not an enemy beside you, or a mentor, or a stylist, not even a shadow of a camera. Just a person. With real hands, a tired smile, and a voice that doesn’t sound like a sentence.

She tries not to think about how, by the end of the month, at least one of them will be dead.

Chapter 8

Day three begins quietly.

The training center is just as loud, but Sage feels as if someone has stuffed her insides with layers of thick cotton. It seems like the exhaustion builds not in her muscles, but somewhere deeper. Her eyes sting a little. Her thoughts drag. She keeps listening, memorizing, trying.

Today — plants. The station is nearly empty. Apparently, most tributes think it's unimportant. Or just boring.

On the tables — plastic containers with numbered samples. Leaves, berries, stems. Some fresh, some dried, some crushed. Beneath the glass — roots and mushrooms, each with a short note on a metal plate.

Sage leans over one of the containers: dark green leaves with pale veins.

Grows in damp shade. Lethally toxic when heated. Symptoms: numbness in limbs, convulsions, respiratory failure.

"Never eat anything purple if you don’t know what it is," mumbles a boy next to her, from District Ten. Tall, dark-haired. "Or red. Or green with spots. Honestly, just don’t eat anything."

Sage nods faintly. But her fingers still reach for the next card — the one showing a cluster of very appetizing-looking berries.

Prolonged contact causes burns. Ingestion leads to hallucinations. Death possible.

The instructor — a silent woman with a weathered face — occasionally approaches and asks questions.

"Name three plants you can use to treat wounds."

"How do you tell edible moss from poisonous?"

"What do you do if you’ve been poisoned, but you don’t know by what?"

Sage doesn’t always answer right away. But she answers.

Time begins to blur. Someone laughs near the back exit. Someone drops a spear. Somewhere, hand-to-hand combat with an instructor — sharp thuds and heavy breathing echo. But here, in this quiet corner — silence. Deadly, like poison in the roots. Sometimes Sage catches herself just studying the textures: cracks in the leaves, rusty threads on the stems, spiked seeds. Beautiful — if you didn’t know it could kill you.

She starts noticing the other tributes. From afar. Slowly begins to pick up patterns. The boy from District One is always laughing like nothing’s wrong — but laughs a bit too loud to not be covering something up. The girl from District Six moves like a cat, too smooth. Some don’t seem to notice anyone. And some do nothing but watch. At times, it feels like the space widens — the tributes pass by without looking, and the silence wraps around her like a shield. No one seems to notice. And that, for now, is a mercy.

Sage lowers her eyes. Then returns to the card.

Applied to an open wound — death within two minutes.

“Sage. Hey.”

The voice is quiet, but cuts the air like a snap. She turns. Riven stands a little off to the side, hands in his pockets like he’s trying not to draw attention. His cheeks are damp with sweat, hair mussed at the back. He must’ve just come from combat training.

“Alcyon wants you. Me too. Time for lunch.”

Sage pulls back from the table. Her fingers linger on the card longer than they should — as if holding tighter might let it reveal just a little more. Then she lets go. Slowly. Stands up.

“All right. Let’s go,” she says, not looking at Riven, just turns. He walks beside her, half a step behind.

The training hall hums and breathes behind them like a living beast — grumbling with metal, wheezing with breath, beating in its heavy, rhythmic life. But beyond the door — silence. The corridor feels colder than it did in the morning.

Earlier today, Alcyon told her that after lunch, the private sessions would begin. That moment is almost here. This is when she must decide. What she’ll show. What she’ll choose. Who she is in the eyes of those who will decide how many points she gets. Those who won’t see a person — but an investment.

Sage feels a thin string stretch in her chest. "What am I good at?"

She runs through everything she’s tried. Traps? Good. She and Riven had spent the most time on it. Her hands remember the movements. Close combat? Awful. Accuracy? Average. Camouflage? Better. She even managed to vanish into fabric a couple of times when the instructor wasn’t expecting it. And then, poisons. The cards, the smells, the seeds. She memorized, touched, absorbed. It came easier, almost naturally. Just sit and learn.

But is it enough? What will they see in her? Boredom? Mild curiosity? A dismissive “next”? Or… something more? She has to think. Has to choose. Has to do it before they say time's up.

In the corridor, Alcyon is already waiting. He leans against the wall like he’s just resting, but his businesslike smile is a little wider than usual — and, she thinks, maybe just a little more forced.

"There you are! Right on schedule," he says brightly. "Well done. Told you you'd slip into the rhythm in no time. So, impressions? First blood? First epiphany? First bout of paranoia? Learned a lot already?"

He winks, but Sage doesn’t answer, just shrugs. Riven shifts awkwardly behind her. Alcyon turns and walks ahead, gesturing for them to follow.

"You should’ve seen yourselves from the outside," he goes on matter-of-factly. "So focused. Like little soldiers. Though one of the instructors did complain that the girl from District Five tried to set him on fire during the incendiary section. He’s not thrilled. But it certainly added some color to our morning. Just don’t tell anyone I told you that."

Sage walks, listening to the click of Alcyon’s boots on the floor, the sound of Riven breathing beside her. And the thin, taut thread thrumming inside her, like before a school exam — only this is much more important. Infinitely more, and far more complicated.

"I spoke to some high-ranking people today," Alcyon strides quickly and confidently, as if heading straight into the arms of those very high-ranking people. "If it were up to me, you’d already be drowning in Panem’s riches. Granted, I’m just getting started, but by the time the Games begin, you can count on a sponsor or two. Especially you, Sage. You’re starting to look like a walking pamphlet on toxic substances. So focused, such… a charming little threat in your eyes. I adore it. You’re the cherry on our poisonous cake."

He turns mid-step, walking backward with ease.

"And you, Riven? Knocked anyone over yet? Or is that still in the planning stage?"

"Still in the planning," Riven replies quietly.

"That’s smart too," Alcyon nods. "Don’t show everything at once. Let them think you’re harmless. And then, boom! Like I always say: it’s all about timing. Well, timing and looks. But timing comes first."

The elevator arrives with a soft chime. Alcyon steps in first, leans back against the wall, eyeing them with a narrowed look, like he’s sizing them up. The walls are made of translucent glass — below them, the massive training hall recedes. Riven glances down, frozen, as if memorizing the layout.

"Here’s my advice. Whatever you're feeling right now, don’t hide it. Remember it. Sort it all out, like a closet. Panic — here. Pain — there. Anger — that drawer, well sealed. Everything might come in handy. Especially at the private session."

He shoots Sage a glance, sharp, dissecting.

"You’ve decided what you're going to show, right?"

She lifts her chin slightly and doesn’t even pretend to be listening — just stares at the elevator panel, as if willing it to move faster. She has no time for chatter. Somewhere under her skin, that same tension coils. The decision hasn’t come yet. Everything’s tangled: the scent of poisons, scraps of fabric, strange faces, voices, cold eyes. And the question — sharp as the needle Iris used to hem the cuffs. What will they see? A person? A contender? Easy prey? A potential killer? Or — worse — no one at all?

"That’s the spirit," Alcyon nods, as if she said yes. "Confidence is half the score. Don’t panic, and the rest will follow."

Riven’s mouth twitches — maybe a half-swallowed laugh, maybe a gasp of the wrong air.

"Anyway," Alcyon continues, pushing off the wall and rubbing his hands together, "now that you’re both looking all mysterious and potentially deadly, it’s time to show a little… humanity. I mean, shower, food, maybe attempt a smile, so your face muscles don’t atrophy. And then come the sessions. Fun, thrilling, catastrophically important little interviews where you both try to convince the Gamemakes that you’re more than skin and bones. That you’re investment material."

He pauses theatrically.

"Though don’t worry. Sometimes just not falling on your own spear is already a win. Standards, you know, are low."

The elevator stops, doors slide open. Alcyon steps out first, as if he hasn’t just said something deeply ominous.

"See you in thirty minutes," he calls without looking back. "Be so kind as to convince me you can pass for respectable humans."

He waves a hand and vanishes around the corner, leaving behind a faint trace of cologne. Sage suddenly catches herself wanting to run and bang her head against a wall. The decision hasn’t come yet. But soon — it will have to.

For the next thirty minutes, Sage tries in vain to pull herself together. She steps into the shower, turns on the water almost automatically — scalding hot at first, then a little cooler. She stands under the stream without moving, while the drops run down her neck, shoulders, collarbones, washing away not so much the sweat as the stretched-out tension of the past few days. But her head still hums with the same noise: What to choose? What to show? What to say with her body, her eyes, every movement? What do they want to see? And what can she give them?

Once dressed, she joins the others at the table. The lights are bright, the smells sharp — but almost familiar by now.

“Have you decided what you're going to do?” Paisley asks, breaking off a piece of bread.

Sage shakes her head and sits down across from her.

“Maybe you could try playing hide-and-seek with them?” Paisley offers. “When you showed us, I honestly couldn’t figure out how you did it. Alcyon’s already told half the city his new protégé knows how to do magic.”

“I just… pick where to stand,” Sage says quietly. “I look at the shadows, where the light hits from the side. I get into places people don’t usually look — behind the couch, near the vents, stuff like that.”

She pauses, gives a small shrug.

“If you stand in the right spot and stay still, people don’t notice you. Especially if you’re wearing something neutral. People notice bright colors, movement, noise. I just act like I’m not there. Shame they dyed my hair, blondes glow like New Year's trees. But the main thing is to breathe slowly. And not stare. People don’t notice what they’re not expecting.”

“Exactly,” says Paisley. “And they’re definitely not expecting someone like us to turn invisible without tech.”

“I don’t know,” Sage whispers. “It’s either stupid or pointless. Either no one will get it, or I’ll make a fool of myself.”

Paisley gives a small smile.

“If you’re going to bet on something, bet on what you do best. Even if it sounds boring. Just do it well.”

Sage nods, slowly. Maybe she’s right. It’s not about impressing them, it’s about convincing them.

“And besides… maybe you’ll get lucky with the arena and won’t have to do anything at all, just sit quietly and wait for the others to cut each other’s throats. There was a girl who did just that about twenty years ago. She’s sweet. Wiress. I’ll introduce you someday.”

***

Sage sits on a hard-backed chair, hands clasped in her lap. The room smells of metal, conditioned air, and some kind of universal disinfectant. The walls are white, with barely visible texture—too smooth, too clean. The silence is nearly complete, broken only by distant footsteps in the corridor and the low hum of the ventilation system.

She’s seated in a row with the others. Someone fidgets. Someone pretends to nap. Someone picks at a fingernail with studied indifference. To her left is a tall boy from District Seven, hair clipped short, fresh scratches along his cheekbones. Did he get into a fight, despite the rules? He’s staring at the floor, shoe tapping softly against the tile. To her right — a girl from Eleven, pale, elbow sticking out awkwardly, her lip twitching with nervous tics. She looks like she might cry at any moment, but she’s holding it in. For now.

Sage forces herself to breathe slowly. Evenly. Not to twitch. Focus. She lets her eyes drift over the room, reading gestures, expressions, postures. Some are clearly anxious. Some are faking it. The boy from One is laying toothpicks across his knee, mocking the very idea of fear — but it works. No one’s looking at him, and yet he owns the room.

She tries to imagine what each of them will show the Gamemakers. With the Careers, it’s obvious. But the others? Acrobatics? Climbing? Shock value, the terrified girl suddenly landing an axe into a dummy, or the silent boy slicing through a steel rod with clean precision?

It’s all been done. They’ve seen it before.

And her performance?

No. Don’t think about that yet. Not now. First, observe.

She glances around again. Someone bites a lip. Someone rolls up a sleeve to inspect a bruise. Someone whispers to themselves. The silence is thickening, the way it does when the Hunger Games start airing and everyone’s already gathered around the screen, waiting with dread for the show to begin.

Her heart gives a solid thump. Somewhere behind, a door snaps open. One of the Peacekeepers — bored, but polite — calls the next name. Not hers. Not yet. Just Riven.

Sage exhales softly when she hears it. Not from relief — but from knowing that she’s next.

She watches him rise — slowly, almost lazily, like it’s no more than a trip to breakfast. His footsteps are soft, barely audible even in the dead quiet. He doesn’t look back. Just pauses at the doorway, like he’s tasting the air. Or memory. Then he vanishes.

What will he show them?  He’s not the type to throw spears, shout slogans, or pretend to be a hero. He’s not the type to pretend anything. Maybe agility? Speed? Cleverness?

Sage lowers her head and closes her eyes for a moment.  Somewhere else — in a different world, one without this chair, these white walls, these armed uniforms — her sisters are probably already home. Sitting in the kitchen, a thin soup simmers on the stovetop, while Sage stuffs herself with delicacies.

Iris is probably glued to the news, tracking every word, every camera angle, her face tight with analysis, as if each frame were a forecast of what’s to come. Marigold, most likely, is clinging to her shoulder, watching through her fingers, as if blinking less might keep Sage alive longer. Or maybe the opposite, maybe she’s pretending she doesn’t care, furiously sketching something dark and angry in her notebook, or outside in the courtyard, hurling pebbles at a wall, furious at the fact that she can’t change a thing.

Rosie… Rosie might be hiding in the linen closet, the way she used to during thunderstorms.

Sage opens her eyes. The silence is the same. Her knees are shaking, but it’s manageable. She knew this moment would come. But knowing and living through it are not the same. Right now, she’s not a person, she’s a product, something that has to make an impression. She has to prove she’s worth a bet, attention and investment.

A thought flashes through her mind: maybe she could put on a show with poisons. Demonstrate that she knows how they work, how fast, how to make them under pressure. And then, unexpectedly, a memory comes: a morning back in the district, when Rosie was sick and wouldn’t lie down until Sage wove a doll out of dry herbs and told her it would chase away the illness. Her voice had been calm, quiet, but Rosie believed her. Because Sage spoke like she knew — even if she didn’t. That’s what she has to do now. Speak like she knows.

She swallows. A Peacekeeper opens the door. Her name is called.

Sage tries to get up quickly, but it comes out awkward — her knees are still unsteady. But she takes a step. Then another. And another. At some point, she realizes she’s walking on her own now, no longer dragging herself forward out of sheer will. Just walking — as if she were heading to the apothecary.

As they lead her inside, Sage barely glances around. She knows what these training halls look like: standard sections, racks of weapons, dummies, sand, nets, metal beams crisscrossing the ceiling. And — just above, behind tinted glass — the viewing box where the Gamemakers sit. You can’t see them. But she knows: they’re watching, every step, every movement.

She stops at the center of the room. Hands by her sides, breathing still uneven — but gradually steadying. She’s alone. She has fifteen minutes. Or a little more. Or less. It doesn’t depend on any timer — it depends on when they decide they’ve seen enough.

A sound rings out, sudden and dull. Metallic, almost. Like the voice isn’t coming from a mouth, but from the building itself — from the ceiling, the walls, the floor. Cold, even-toned, it pours from unseen speakers all around her.

“Tell us about yourself.”

Sage doesn’t answer right away. She lifts her gaze — not to the glass, but slightly above it. As if somewhere behind it, their eyes might be watching.

“Sage Bradbury,” she says. “Seventeen. District Eight.”

No rustle in response. No chuckles. No whispers. Just silence. Clean. Predatory.

“I don’t know how to fight, if that’s what you’re asking. But… I’m quiet. I can move without being noticed.”

Sage exhales — unsure. And takes a step forward. A foolish idea. Time to show them something. Anything that might count.

She turns toward the equipment racks. Walks past spears, swords, throwing knives — none of that is hers. Her fingers brush against a thin wire, almost transparent. Nearby: simple hooks, fabric scraps, stakes, cords, tangled mesh. Everything she needs.

She gathers it quickly. No rushing, but no hesitation. Each movement sharp, practiced.

Sage finds one of the artificial beams. Pulls herself up easily, hooks her legs over. Settles into place like she’s done it a hundred times — which is almost true. Back in their building in the district, there used to be old fire-safety bars stretched between upper floors. No one ever took them down. The kids climbed them like monkey bars. But Sage climbed higher. Quietly, when no one was looking.

She never liked being watched. Especially not the kind of admiration that came with being seen. It made her want to disappear even further — to melt into the wall. So she climbed to where they couldn’t see her. To exist and not exist. To vanish.

And very soon, she’ll have to do exactly that. Only this time — while being watched.

First, the wire. She stretches it between two outcroppings, fastening it with a small stone. Then — a nylon loop, hidden under a scrap of cloth. She picks the mannequin herself — average height, not too large. Not a soldier. Not a child. Just someone who might walk by. She sets it in place, nudges the support, measures the angle. Her fingers move faster than her thoughts.

The truth is, Sage has no real idea what she’s doing. What drives her now is instinct — and Riven’s voice in her head. The instructor had shown them the mechanism, and then they made each other practice it a dozen more times. Tie the knots. Measure the length. Again and again. At first everything collapsed, tangled, slipped. But by the second day she already knew how to stretch the wire tight so it didn’t sag, and how to cover the loop so the cloth wouldn’t bunch up. This morning, she still wasn’t entirely sure — but the trap had worked three times in a row. For something this primitive, that was enough.

Once everything’s ready, she climbs down. Steps back a few paces and... picks up a small piece of plastic from the table, tossing it toward the trap. It lands near the loop — doesn’t trigger it.

Silence.

So she — as if by accident — takes a step where a real person might have walked. A plastic snaps. The sound is amplified by hidden speakers, making sure everything can be heard. The mannequin sways slightly — like moved by a passing breeze. Then — suddenly, almost silently — the trap springs. The mannequin shoots upward, suspended in the air, head tilted, legs hanging limp. Everything is about balance: no loud click, no dramatic motion.

Sage turns. Looks up. To the dark glass. To where they are sitting.

“It's a trap,” she says, awkwardly. As if that weren’t already obvious. She doesn’t know what else to say. “For those who follow.”

Above — movement. Someone says something. Rustling, barely audible. One of the observers leans forward — light catching just the line of a shoulder. Are they writing? Discussing? No. She can’t think about that now.

Sage stands still a moment longer. The mannequin still dangles in the air — like a warning that this isn’t just a demonstration, but a rehearsal for someone’s real end. Her chest pounds. Not quite with fear — more like her inner pendulum is out of sync.

Still no sound from above. Just that motion. That shape leaning closer to the glass, as if trying to catch the tremor in her hands.

Sage shifts from foot to foot. Her fingers start to itch — that familiar urgency to do something. Straighten a sleeve, scratch her nose, rub off imaginary dust. Anything but just stand there under this watchful, mute pressure. But she doesn’t move. She stands. She breathes. She waits.

“That’s all,” says the voice. The same one cold, even, indifferent.

She blinks. Nods slowly. Turns around. Not running, not striding with pride. Just walking. One foot after the other, like stepping out of someone else’s dream — one that never really belonged to her.

Her ears burn. Not from heat, but from shame, tension, quiet rage at herself. It feels like she looked ridiculous. Too awkward. Too restrained. Too much like Sage Bradbury, the girl no one ever remembers in the stories.

But the door clicks shut behind her. And the air — for better or worse — finally feels real.

She did it. And would save everything else for later.

***

While there’s still time before dinner, Sage paces back and forth through the apartment, chewing shrimp and avocado sandwiches the food machine hands her: all she has to do is say the name of the dish, and a plate slides out as if from nowhere — clean and perfect, like it belongs in a display case. Everything comes out impeccably fresh, slightly warm, with a subtle aroma of lemon and spices she can’t even name.

She eats too much. Maybe it’s the nerves, or maybe it’s the thought that this might be the last time in her life she gets to taste food this good. Not food just to keep going between fights — but food that makes your eyes roll back from the first bite. Food that seems designed to mute all other feelings, just for a moment.

She’s never eaten anything like it before. Everything she knew about taste was bread, water, canned meat. Sometimes porridge. Sometimes overcooked scraps of fish. And sometimes, if she was lucky — underripe berries. But this — this is flaky bread with a crisp crust, soft avocado, shrimp that taste like they’ve just come out of the sea, and a light, sharp tang in the sauce.

With every bite, she feels a strange, heavy warmth spreading through her body. And still, she can’t stop.

By the time Flora appears in the apartment — heels clicking as if to announce her arrival in advance — Sage is standing in front of the machine, quietly trying to convince it to give her a peach. A real one. Ripe. Her first ever.

She stands in front of the sleek panel, a little sheepishly, like she’s coaxing someone into committing a crime.

“Peach,” she says. “Just one.”

The machine hums, considering the request — and a moment later, slides out a white plate from the wall, with a single fruit on it, like something you’d see behind glass in a fancy shop: round, velvet-skinned, with rosy cheeks as if someone painted it delicately with watercolor.

Sage looks at it like it’s magic. She imagines it feels warm to the touch — like living skin.

“Never tried one,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

And then, behind her, a voice:

“Then start the right way. Don’t bite. Smell it first.”

Flora’s already in the room, leaning casually against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised and a half-smile on her lips, as if she’s just caught someone doing something private — but has no intention of laughing. As always, she’s in heels, with a flawless hairstyle and a golden bracelet that later taps softly against on the glass table as she takes the seat across from Sage.

She's wearing a dress the color of half-ripe raspberries — not bright or flashy, but soft, dusty, and velvety. It has a boat neckline, long translucent sleeves that gently hug her wrists, and a layered skirt that looks as if it were woven from petals. A thin belt with a pearl buckle accentuates her waist, and her lips are the shade of deep crimson. Tiny glass hearts dangle from her ears, catching the light with every movement. The straps, fine as threads, shimmer as she moves. The whole image is almost otherworldly — like something out of a fairytale.

Sage blinks. She’s never seen anyone look so… pink. Like a drop of jam on white porcelain.

“Well?” Flora says, leaning back like they’re just gossiping. “How was it?”

Sage blushes. The air in her lungs suddenly feels drier than it did a minute ago.

“Quieter than I thought,” she says. “And kind of strange. Like being in a room where no one sees you, but everyone’s watching.”

Flora smiles. Not broadly — just at the corner of her mouth.

“Great description. I’d put that in the press release: Sage Bradbury — modesty that turns into threat. A web instead of a sword. Sounds good?”

Sage flinches a little. Then she remembers the peach still sitting in her hand, warm, impossibly soft, with that faint give beneath the skin. She lifts it to her nose, just like Flora said, and inhales. The scent is rich and golden, like sunlight trapped in fruit, sweet and a little wild.

She hesitates for only a second more before sinking her teeth into it. The skin yields with a delicate pop, and the juice rushes over her tongue — sticky, lush, overwhelming. Her eyes flutter shut. For a moment, nothing else exists.

“Did you make a camouflage?”

“No. I showed the trap.”

“And?”

“It worked.”

“Did you say anything?”

“Just explained it’s a trap.”

Flora freezes for a moment, then smiles again — this time, warmer.

“You do realize how that sounded?”

“How?”

‘“It’s a trap.”’

“…Yeah. That's what I said.”

“Exactly like: ‘Hi, look, this is my knife. It cuts.’ Or: ‘This is fire. It burns.’”

Sage lets out a small, almost involuntary laugh.

“Well, I didn’t know what else to say.”

“That’s the strength,” Flora winks. “You don’t overshare, sweetheart. That’s practically in vogue now. Almost philosophical.”

She adjusts her hair with the confidence of someone holding all the winning cards.

“I can just picture them, behind the glass: Oh my god, how subtle! Such depth! She said “it’s a trap”, and now we’re all thinking about the structure of society!”

Sage suddenly laughs — just barely. Even though deep inside, she wants to say she’s not a sweetheart. That the trap wasn’t a joke. That her voice had trembled, and her back was slick with sweat. That the quiet, clingy anxiety never really left, it’s just crouched somewhere under her ribs now. But Flora isn’t the enemy, and right now, the last thing she wants is to hurt her.

“What if I just meant, like… an actual trap?”

“All the better,” Flora leans back in her chair, victorious. “The best lines are always accidental.”

Sage doesn’t reply. Not because she doesn’t want to—she just doesn’t get the chance. The next second, Riven and Cecelia emerge from the next room, walking close together, voices light and animated, carried by the thrill of something well done. Cecelia looks proud, Riven is joking about something, and both of them are glowing with quiet satisfaction.

He heads for the table, gives a barely noticeable nod, and sinks into the seat next to Flora.

“How’d it go?” he asks.

“She was brilliant,” Flora answers for her, picking her fork back up. “And silent. As usual.”

Riven lets out a short snort—not quite a laugh, more like a sound of agreement. Sage doesn’t react. Instead, she suddenly notices the slight tremble in her fingers under the table and quietly folds her hands out of sight.

“She showed the trap,” Flora adds, calm and casual.

“What about you?” Sage asks, eager to change the subject.

Riven shrugs, ordering a plate of goose sandwiches.

“Climbing. I showed them how to scale the frame without a harness, then move along the ledge. They’d set up this fake ridge, a kind of platform for acrobatics. I didn’t fall, so that’s already a win.”

He glances off to the side, pauses.

“Then I figured I’d throw a couple darts. Make it flashy. Dart in the bullseye, look up at the ceiling…” he smirks at himself. “First one missed. Second, too. Third bounced off the edge of the target like it had someplace better to be. Ended up with six out of ten.”

“Not perfect, but good enough,” Cecelia comments.

Flora snorts softly, but there's the tiniest smile at the corners of her lips.

“The ending was weird though,” Riven goes on. “I just stood up, bowed, and walked out. Like it was a school play.”

A pause.

“Not enough for an eight or a nine.”

“You don’t need a twelve,” Cecelia explains sweetly, settling beside them. “Score too low, and no one pays attention. Score too high, and everyone pays too much. It’s all about balance.”

“They’ll give me a five. Maybe a six.”

“Six or seven is perfect. Not too high to spark envy, not too low to be forgotten.”

Flora picks up an empty glass from the table and dramatically lifts it above her head.

“A toast to the golden mean. Safest place to be.”

It’s silly. But still, Sage feels a small warmth blooming in her chest. For the first time since the session, the tension in her ribs loosens just a little. It doesn’t vanish completely—but the trembling in her fingers eases. Just a bit. As if someone wrapped her in cloth—not hers, not familiar, but warm nonetheless.

The door opens almost soundlessly, but Sage feels it right away: she’s here. Paisley enters softly, like the rustle of grass — wearing a light jumpsuit, her hair pulled into a bun, and a tired but sincere look in her eyes.

“Hi,” she says quietly.

“Hello, Sage,” Paisley replies, giving a barely noticeable nod without sitting down. “If you’re not too tired, I’d like to speak with you. In private.”

Sage gets up almost instantly, without thinking. Her hands still tremble a little, but it’s less noticeable when she’s moving.

“Of course,” she says.

Paisley waits by the door. And when they leave, she doesn’t speak right away. They walk down the hallway — not quickly, not slowly, step in step. The carpets muffle their footsteps; the walls are smooth, as if carved from a single piece. The silence between them isn’t heavy — it’s calm. The kind that only exists between people who don’t expect too much from each other.

“Tell me,” Paisley says, stopping near a large window.

Beyond the glass, the city sparkles like a scattered necklace.

For a moment, Sage feels her mouth go dry, as if all the words she needs to say are stuck somewhere in her throat. But then she starts — slowly, with pauses, like she’s mentally stepping back into that room:

“I… just built a trap. Set the line, hid the snare, placed the dummy. Same as in training. It worked.” She blinks. “Not on the first push, but on my step. It launched…”

Paisley doesn’t interrupt. She only tilts her head slightly, her gaze still on the window.

“No one said anything,” Sage lowers her eyes. “Just ‘that’s all.’ And I left.”

She swallows again. Her teeth clench without her noticing.

“I think it wasn’t… impressive enough. Or maybe too simple. I should’ve tried poison. Or maybe practiced more with the knives.”

Paisley nods, head tilted slightly, and only then turns her eyes from the window to Sage. There’s no anxiety in them, no excitement — just clear attention. The kind that comes not from a mentor, but from a comrade.

“You know how many tributes did a ten-point show and died the first day?” she says calmly. “The dangerous ones are those who know when not to show off. You did the right thing.”

Sage listens in silence. She doesn’t nod, doesn’t frown, doesn’t fidget. She just stands there, looking at Paisley’s face like she’s trying to stitch every word into herself.

“Scores aren’t a sentence. You can get a six, or five, even four — and still make it to the end. Because scores aren’t predictions,” Paisley continues. “They’re signals. For sponsors. For the audience. Sometimes they work. Sometimes they don’t. The most dangerous tributes often get average scores, because real strength isn’t always visible at first.”

“But how…” Sage hesitates. “How am I supposed to show it?”

Paisley smiles — just slightly, head tilting to the side.

“You don’t have to shine right away. And you don’t have to act like a warrior. That’s not your style. You’re not about strength, you’re about caution. About being where no one expects you. Quiet. Fast. Invisible. People like that are harder to detect, harder to track. And harder to kill.”

Sage lowers her gaze again. Her hand tightens around the hem of her shirt almost involuntarily.

“But I’ll have to…” she swallows. “You know. For me to survive… others have to die. So sooner or later, I'm going to have to run into someone sooner or later. At least when there are two of us left.”

Paisley nods slowly.

“Most likely, yes,” she says. “But you’ll have hours, days — maybe even weeks. To hide. To watch. To distract. To mislead. To make sure others run into each other before they ever find you. You’re not the only one they’ll be hunting. In your case, the question is more about how to stay safe long enough. Until the right moment.”

“What if someone finds me?” — Sage’s voice is quieter. “What if he or she is faster? Stronger?”

“Then strike first,” Paisley replies. “It doesn’t have to be with a knife. Sometimes the first thing that saves you is fear. Sometimes it’s resolve. And sometimes it’s just a handful of dirt in their eyes.”

Paisley steps back a little. Sage remains silent.

“Everyone’s afraid,” Paisley says — gently, but firmly. “Even the ones who pretend to be brave. Even Cecelia was scared, back in the day. And I definitely was. That doesn’t make you weak.”

She pauses. Then, softer:

“Use the fear as fuel. Let it burn inside you while you move forward.”

Silence. And suddenly, Sage realizes she doesn’t want this conversation to end. Because for the first time since the Reaping, it seems like surviving might not mean becoming someone else.

Maybe it’s possible to stay yourself. At least a little.

Paisley watches her for another couple of seconds, as if measuring something. Then she turns her gaze back to the window, where drops of condensation are trickling down the glass, and her voice is calmer now:

“There’s still time before dinner. If you want, we can start right now. Think about what you’ll do in the first few hours. Where to hide, where to go, what to avoid. Tomorrow you and Riven have a full day off, but Alcyon said he plans to turn you into social butterflies — and I’m afraid he’ll sabotage any attempt to do something actually useful.”

Sage nods slightly, almost unconsciously. Something stirs in her stomach — not fear, not hunger. Like a tiny mechanism clicking into place, starting a clock. A ticking inside her. Not loud, but unstoppable now.

“Then let’s do it,” she says.

Paisley nods, as if she was expecting this answer.

Outside, the city glows with lights. Towers shimmer like crystals, airships drift slowly through the sky, glowing from within. It’s beautiful — and completely foreign. For a moment, Sage imagines the rooftop of her house in District Eight. No neon signs there, just rusty vents and cracked shingles. But the wind smelled of smoke and wet concrete, not the synthetic perfumes that tingle her nose here.

In the hallway, silence reigns — broken only by short questions and equally brief answers. Beside her stands someone who doesn’t give orders but explains. And for the first time, things feel — even if just a little — like they might make sense.

Notes:

sometimes you just gotta text your hunter uncle at 4am like
“hey what kind of traps can someone realistically learn in a few days”
to write your silly little thg fanfic

Chapter 9

Dinner is loud. Waiters flit around, arranging dishes as if the food were part of an exhibit. The white tablecloths are impossibly smooth, the glasses shine like freshly shed tears. In the air — the scent of caramelized roots, fried fish, lemon oil, and something floral that may or may not be related to food.

The meal seems to drag on endlessly. Riven jokes more than usual — maybe to break the tension. Paisley stays silent, picking at her food, though every now and then she casts brief glances at Sage. Artemis recounts the latest Capitol news, proudly mentioning that an actor friend of hers raved about the outfits from the opening ceremony.

Alcyon pours everyone more wine and unsuccessfully flirts with Flora. Cecelia, meanwhile, slices her fish with all the solemnity of someone performing surgery, clearly focused on that alone and in no mood to argue. Occasionally, the waiters bring more dishes, as if trying to smother the awkwardness with luxury. Sage eats almost nothing. Her stomach is tied in a knot. Every laugh at the table sounds false — like the clink of porcelain.

Finally, dinner ends, and they all gather in the common room — on couches and in armchairs. Riven perches on an armrest, one leg propped over his knee, rocking slightly as if to shake off the tension. The lights are dimmed, the screen is on, the channel is selected. Alcyon has poured himself something golden and gone quiet. Cecelia sits at the edge, tense and composed, as always. Even Flora has stopped smiling.

Sage sits between Riven and Paisley. She feels her mentor’s hand touch her elbow — almost by accident, almost reassuring. Everyone’s eyes are on the screen, as if the verdict might fly out of it at any moment.

As expected, the Careers get between eight and ten points. No surprises. Volunteers, strong, dramatic, same story every year. Most of the others get around five, with a few exceptions: the boy from District Six only scores three, and both tributes from District Seven get more — the girl receives seven, the boy eight.

A familiar face flashes on the screen — a sudden cut, then a close-up. Riven. All the photos were taken before the opening ceremony, but his is clearly unfortunate: he’s slightly squinting, the light hits him at an odd angle, and it makes him look like he’s glaring up from under his brow, as if judging someone himself.

Beneath the photo:

“Riven Alden. District Eight. 7 points.”

Sage notices Artemis raise her eyebrows.

“Seven,” she murmurs. “Pleasantly surprised.”

Cecelia nods faintly, not looking in Riven’s direction. The corners of her mouth twitch in a satisfied smile.

“Well done,” Paisley says shortly. “That’s a strong start.”

“I’d give both of you tens,” Alcyon mutters, sipping his drink. “Purely for aesthetic reasons.”

The next frame — fade to black. Then another photograph. This time — hers. Sage.

Her own face on the screen looks unfamiliar. Her head is turned slightly, chin lifted. At first glance, she appears calm, but a closer look reveals something else: the tightness in her lips, the slight raise of her shoulders — like someone trying to stand tall while their spine wants to collapse. Her gaze is wary, as if bracing for the first stone to be thrown. She looks older than she is. Her blond hair is slicked back behind her ears — neat, almost severe.

“Sage Bradbury. District Eight. 6 points.”

"Six," Paisley says quietly. "Better than half the others. And honestly, better than I expected, considering the look on your face all evening."

Sage doesn’t respond right away. The number just hangs in the air, settling somewhere beneath her ribs — not like a splinter or a wound, but something denser. Six. No thrill, no disappointment. The golden middle.

She exhales — silent, nostrils trembling slightly. Somewhere under that number, relief is hiding. Embarrassed, uncertain, but real. Six isn’t a failure. It’s not a disgrace. It’s not a three. Not a two. It means she’s not completely hopeless. She’s in the middle. In the shadows. Right where she knows how to be. Not too high, not too low. Enough to be noticed — not enough to be expected.

Perfect.

"Not brilliant," Cecelia says at last, glancing up, "but not a disaster either."

Riven leans toward her and brushes her shoulder with his. Smiles — a real, quick smile that says, We did it. And in that moment, while the screen shifts to another pair from District Nine, Sage feels — for the first time all day — that she can actually breathe. Not because it suddenly got easier. But because now, she knows where they stand on this chessboard. And the next move feels a little less uncertain.

Riven offers his palm toward her — not looking straight at her, just holding it there. Sage blinks, then realizes what he’s doing, and slowly smiles — just a twitch at the corners of her lips — and taps his hand with hers. No force, but precise. They don’t look at each other. They don’t need to. The touch says it all.

"You did good. " "You too." " So far, not terrible."

"Ooooh," Alcyon croons, voice as always half-sigh, half-stage whisper. "How touching. A rating, a high five, a drop of relief. It's like a family gathering."

He takes a sip from his glass and closes his eyes with dramatical flair.

"But alas, my sweets, the day after tomorrow, you’ll be performing for all of Panem. Which means we’ve got work to do."

He emphasizes the last word and sets his glass down with a dramatic clink on the nearest surface.

"So off to bed. Rest. Recharge. Visualize the light, the camera, the stage — and of course, yourself, swirling in the divine vortex of attention."

He claps his hands — once, like a conductor cueing his orchestra — and nods.

"Tomorrow I turn you into stars. Or at least into people no one wants to throw tomatoes at within the first thirty seconds. And believe me, that’s already a miracle."

But almost no one is listening. His words drown in the rising hum — everyone’s talking scores. Paisley, as usual, doesn’t say much, but the quiet pride in her eyes is visible: her tribute didn’t flop. And that’s already a win.

Even Cecelia nods approvingly. The smile on her face finally seems real. She sits cross-legged with a glass in hand and, for the first time tonight, her face shows not fatigue, not irony — but genuine relief.

"Don’t worry — six is very good," she tells Sage, her voice softer than usual. "It’s like background music: doesn’t distract, but sounds nice. Everyone will think you’re not a threat. And then you — bam — still alive."

Sage doesn’t answer. But for the first time all day, she doesn’t want to sink beneath the surface.

When the wine is gone and the praise has run its course, Cecelia rises first. Quick, wordless, adjusting the sleeve of her jumpsuit like she had it all scheduled — even the act of resting. Riven follows, nodding cheerfully as he goes. His footsteps sound unexpectedly mature — steady, almost grown-up.

Alcyon mumbles something about the "great and terrible day ahead," reaches for his glass, then theatrically changes his mind, yawns, and sweeps out, leaving behind a faint trail of perfume and exhausted glamour. Flora slips away almost on tiptoe; Artemis nods — silent as ever — and disappears through the door.

Sage stays by the couch. Her fingers still rest on the armrest, as if clinging to the edge of a stage while the curtain falls. What’s in her chest isn’t relief. Not joy either. It’s something else: warm, heavy, like melted wax. She didn’t fail. Didn’t make a fool of herself. And yet something inside still trembles — from the tension, the lingering fear, the dawning realization that this was only the first act. The hardest parts are still ahead.

Her body seems to register the exhaustion only now. Her shoulders ache, her breathing grows a little deeper — but not freer. There’s an emptiness in her stomach, not from hunger but from emotional overflow. Like something had been boiling inside all evening, and now only foam remains.

She notices her fingers are trembling and quietly curls them into a fist, holding it against herself. Not from shame — from the need to hold on to some scrap of control. This wasn’t a disaster. But it wasn’t a victory either. Just one step, one of many waiting for her in the arena. And right now, all she needs is to not rush the next one.

Paisley approaches — not right away, but slowly, as if careful not to break the moment.

"You did well," she says. "I believe in you."

Sage blinks slightly. She doesn’t know how to respond. There’s a knot rising again inside her, but this time not from fear — from something closer to gratitude. Calm. Deep.

"Thanks," she breathes, almost inaudibly.

Paisley nods without adding anything more. Just brushes her fingertips against Sage’s elbow — the lightest touch. And then she leaves too, letting Sage stand alone for half a second. But no longer lonely — just in a silence where she can finally breathe.

Sage stands up and walks to her room. Hesitant, but steady.

The Hunger Games can wait. So can tomorrow.

She enters, and the door closes behind her with a soft click, like the world has finally allowed her a moment alone. No cameras. No eyes. No need to keep her spine straight.

She stays in the dimness, not turning on the ceiling light. Just the faint glow from above and the diluted colors of the city in the window — like wet paint. The room is still foreign: too clean, too polished, too expensive, too unfamiliar. But it doesn’t matter now. She doesn’t notice the dust lining the desk, doesn’t hear the low hum of the filtration system. Everything is muffled by one thing: the silence inside her — for the first time since the Reaping.

Sage undresses slowly. First, she pulls off her shoes — carefully, as if afraid to wake the floor. Then lifts her shirt over her head, letting it fall like a shed skin. Silently, she walks to the bathroom. Inside: soft white light, steam curling delicately in the air. Sage turns on the water. Cold at first, then warmer.

She doesn’t wait for it to be perfect — just steps in. The water hits her shoulders, the back of her neck, her face. She doesn’t flinch. She stands still, letting her hair soak and cling to her skin, the water tracing down her spine like it’s washing away the day — the words, the scores, the fear. Especially the fear.

She stays under the stream for a long time, feeling herself become lighter. Like someone is carefully untying knots — the kind she’s carried under her ribs since morning. She washes her hair silently, mechanically. Then her face. Her shoulders. Her arms. The warm lather smells faintly of citrus — not overwhelming. Her eyes are closed most of the time. For a moment, she feels like she could dissolve — into the steam, into the light, into the water. Become something soft, weightless, unheard.

When she steps out, her body feels unfamiliar — too light. She puts on a simple nightshirt and towels off her hair. Doesn’t bother to dry it fully. Doesn’t comb it. Just walks to the bed.

The blanket is soft, nearly weightless. The pillow is cool. The sheets smell like the same synthetic scents as everything else in this building — but somehow, tonight, they don’t bother her. She lies on her side, knees tucked up, arms folded over her belly. Her breath is even. Her palms warm. Her heart quiet.

At first, it feels like sleep won’t come. Too many thoughts. Too many expectations. But instead of anxiety, there’s emptiness. Not the scary kind — the kind that soothes. Like a blank page after a very long letter.

And she falls asleep. Almost suddenly. Without twitching, without tension, without coaxing herself into it. A calm sleep, without dreams, without voices, without fleeing. For the first time in a long time.

***

“Sit down, my long-suffering children,” Alcyon announces the moment he steps into the room.

His robe, the color of watered wine, billows behind him; rings glitter on his fingers, and his voice thrums with barely restrained excitement.

“What’s about to happen,” he declares, “is somewhere between a confession, a dress rehearsal, and a rescue mission.”

Sage and Riven, already seated on the couch, exchange a look. He seems mildly skeptical. She looks like she’s writing her will in her head. Which is fair, considering Alcyon had practically dragged them out of bed that morning — full of jasmine-scented determination and, as Artemis put it over breakfast, 'the energy of a celebrity agent and the ruthlessness of a vacuum cleaner' — to rehearse their interviews.

“Interviews, my beloved birds,” Alcyon says, spreading his fingers like a fan and pausing for dramatic effect, “are not just chatting on a couch under applause. They are your initiation. Your first — and sadly, last — chance to make an impression before people start trying to kill you.”

He spins sharply, snatches a gold-handled cane from the table — which was clearly placed there solely for this moment — and points it at Sage.

“You. Your face looks like a sick owl’s. You need to be a mystery. Delicate. Fragile. Unreachable. Every old man watching should think, ‘Oh, what a sensitive little girl, let’s send her a silk handkerchief and a box of chocolates.’ Every woman should think, ‘God, how is she even holding it together? I’d be dead of terror by now.’ And every teenager should think, ‘Man, I just wanna hug her. Just hug. Probably.’ Clear?”

Sage blinks.

“Let’s say yes,” she replies cautiously.

“Not ‘let’s say’!“ Alcyon snaps his fingers. “It’s your magic. Your role. You’ve got...” — he sweeps his arm like he’s plucking the word out of the air — “aura. That’s your tool. And stop blinking like someone hit you with a spoon. Eyes down. Look soft, not empty. You’re not a lamb. You’re a forest fox pretending to be a lamb. While everyone’s watching, you’re knitting traps.”

He whirls toward Riven.

“And you. You’re our tragic hero. You need suffering. Romance. Dramatic pauses. When you’re in that chair, you need to give off Sad Prince energy. Not threatening, but people should sense it — ah, he has a secret. Maybe he’s seen death. Maybe he is death. In a good way. Unless you start grinning again like in that photo shoot where you looked like a child trying alcohol for the first time. You smiled with teeth. This isn’t a carnival.”

He straightens and drives the cane into the carpet with emphasis.

“I will make you legends. A duo they’ll talk about. ‘They’re so different, and yet…’” — he rolls his eyes to the ceiling — “We’re playing contrast. The fragile enigma and the sorrowful knight. Mist and steel. Softness and strength. Poetry and restrained fury.”

He points at them in turn with the cane.

“You — say little, but make it count. You — speak confidently, but say absolutely nothing. No one likes people who answer questions directly. This is an interview, not an interrogation. Let the audience invent your depth. We’ll just drop hints.”

He claps his hands.

“Now. Run-through. Camera. Lights. You—” he gestures to Sage — “look just above my left eyebrow. You—” he nods to Riven — “sit like your past is classified. But scoot a bit, you’re crushing the poor girl’s skirt with your elbow.”

They shift obediently. Sage sits the way he told her to — straight-backed, hands on her knees, eyes soft but not vacant. Riven tilts his head, furrows his brow, attempts a look of tortured introspection. Alcyon dramatically places a hand to his forehead.

“My stars, my puppets on the finest threads! We can do this.”

He inhales dramatically.

“Now speak. Improvise. Let’s start with the question: what did you feel when the incomparable Alcyon Corvella said your name?”

Sage says nothing. For a moment, even her face forgets how to express anything. Then she slowly turns her head toward him.

“At first I was confused. And then I felt horror,” she says honestly.

“Excellent!” Alcyon claps his hands. “Now say it again. But with a touch of reverence. Like you’re being led to a ball, not a slaughterhouse.”

Riven snorts. Sage rolls her eyes but obediently nods.

“Horror,” she repeats, a little softer. “And... a slight suspicion someone was playing a very bad joke.”

“There it is! Much better,” Alcyon nods, satisfied. “Sarcasm with a hint of innocence. As per the textbook. Now, an important question. Life-or-death important.”

He suddenly looms over her like a storm over a tent.

“Can you walk in heels?”

Sage blinks again.

“Is that... required?”

“It’s an art!” Alcyon exclaims, pointing his cane at the ceiling. “A step into eternity! Inches of power! The thing that separates you from the frenzied crowd! You don’t want to get trampled, do you?”

“If I wanted heels,” Sage says calmly, “I would’ve been born taller.”

Riven coughs into his hand, covering a laugh. Alcyon puts a hand to his forehead like he’s been betrayed.

“Fine. We’ll teach you. We’ve got the whole night and a couple bottles of champagne before the interview. Just don’t break your neck. The rest you’ll perform.”

He squints at them both like a tailor measuring cloth.

“Though with a face like yours,” he nods toward Sage, “you could go out in slippers.”

They rehearse all day.

First, poses. Alcyon makes them sit “like legends,” then “like tragic ballad characters.” Then “like people who might die tomorrow but politely avoid mentioning it.” Sage sits as instructed, but with each hour, her back aches more, and her outfit starts itching in the worst places. Riven holds up better, though he drops his gaze a few times without permission and once even yawns — right as Alcyon is waxing poetic about “the magic of eye contact.”

Then come the tones.

“You talk like you’re apologizing for existing,” Alcyon snaps his fingers at her. “And you,” he points at Riven, “stop pretending to be a hologram. I want the tone of someone who keeps ghosts in the attic of their chest, not a toothpaste commercial.”

And back again: sit, speak, pause, look, repeat. Alcyon waves his cane, claps, rolls his eyes, and gestures encouragement like a factory boss with only two workers — neither of whom wants to be there.

By evening, Sage’s feet are throbbing, and a phrase — “a smile with a hint of death” — pulses in her head. She’s not sure if Alcyon made it up or read it somewhere, but he’s repeated it four times already. Riven’s shoulders sag; his voice drops to a tired whisper.

“Break,” Alcyon finally announces, with the weary satisfaction of a dramatic hero. “You’ve earned it.”

Sage gets up, her feet aching even though she’s been barefoot the last few hours — after Alcyon made her walk across the whole apartment twice in heels until she finally tripped and broke a vase. Riven steps forward and pauses to rub his temples. Both move with the careful exhaustion of a day that was pointless but also somehow vital — as if it might actually earn them something. Like the chance not to die stupidly.

But it’s not over yet. After Alcyon’s lecture, the mentors are waiting.

Cecelia greets Riven with a tablet and iron resolve. Paisley — lips neatly pressed, her gaze unreadable — gives a small nod as they walk in and says to Sage:

“Sit down. We need to define your angle.”

Sage drops obediently into the chair. Her shoulders tense, arms crossed over her knees. Fatigue creeps toward her temples — sticky, like elevator heat. She looks at Paisley, trying to guess what’s expected of her now.

“You’ve figured out by now,” Paisley continues, “that interviews aren’t about truth. They’re about what’s easy to watch. People want someone they can root for. Or at least someone they can gossip about. No one cares what’s really in your head if your character is charming enough.”

She pauses. Not theatrically, like Alcyon — just to find the right words.

“Your strategy is to be sweet. A little naive. A little out of it. The kind of girl people want to protect. Or at least don’t want to hit first. Got it?”

Sage blinks slowly.

“You mean act like an idiot?”

“I mean give them a reason to think you’re not a threat,” Paisley replies calmly. “Even better — make them think you’re funny. Or touching. Or strange in a way that’s kind of charming. The trick isn’t to look dumb. It’s to look safe.”

Sage exhales, eyes dropping to the floor.

“It’s not hard,” Paisley adds. “You don’t talk much anyway. Just don’t stare straight at the camera. And smile. Ignore Alcyon’s advice. Don’t glare at the lens like it’s the Capitol’s fault. Just glance toward the viewer now and then. Softly. Like you’re looking at someone, but won’t say who.”

“Like I know a secret?”

“Or like you forgot what you were going to say,” Paisley tilts her head. “That’s even better. Ambiguity works. They like that.”

Sage lets out a dry little laugh — barely audible.

Paisley flips through a notepad — clearly, she already has outlines, pitches, strategy drafts. Then she looks at Sage.

“Say something about the Capitol. Casually. Like, ‘everything’s so beautiful,’ or ‘I’ve never seen so many lights.’ You know — wide-eyed girl from the districts, a little overwhelmed. But not too fake.”

Sage tilts her head slightly.

“Got it.”

“Tell a personal story. Something touching. About your sister, maybe. Or about being afraid of something as a kid, and then… getting over it somehow. Doesn’t matter if it’s true. It’s the feeling that counts. People love stories with a little pain, and then a little hope. Understand?”

Sage nods. She does. Maybe too well.

“And,” Paisley adds, almost offhand, “mention that you have a boyfriend. Say he was devastated when you got picked. Or — better — say he didn’t say goodbye.”

“He loves me,” Sage says quietly, barely lifting her head.

Paisley pauses, then raises her eyebrows — somewhere between surprised and patronizing.

“Fine. Then say he was upset. Don’t say he left. Say he didn’t make it in time. Or that you didn’t want him to see you off. Say you were protecting his feelings.”

Sage says nothing. Henley would never have left. Never looked away. He held her hand until the very last moment, and even then, looked at her like he was trying to memorize every detail. She’s not going to lie about him. Not turn him into a coward, not twist the truth into something tragic just because it sounds better. He’s real. He looked at her like he still believed this was a nightmare he could wake up from. And then he kissed her forehead and said he’d wait.

She won’t say he ran. Because he didn’t.

“You can make up something nice about your goodbye,” Paisley mutters, scribbling something into her notebook and rubbing her temple. “Anything. Especially if it sounds like something unfinished. Let the audience fill in the rest of the love story. That’s the point. That’s the show.”

Sage scoffs a little, but stays silent.

“So yeah,” Paisley goes on. “You can even flirt a bit if you want. Just don’t flinch every time someone compliments you. Let them think you’re used to it.”

Sage nods silently. Memorizing. Inside her — a strange mix of guilt and… something like relief. As if, finally, someone had called things by their real names and said: now it’s just a game. A very dangerous one, but still — a game.

“We’ll start with facial expressions,” Paisley says, picking up a mirror from the table. “Show me: ‘I ended up here by accident, but maybe I’ll stay.’”

Sage looks at her own reflection. One cheek in shadow, eyes slightly tired, lips pressed together. She tries to change something — lifts an eyebrow, relaxes her mouth, shifts her gaze to the side. Paisley watches carefully.

“Close. Just not like you suspect someone stole your lunch pie. More… uncertainty. But warm. Imagine you’ve been invited to a party where you don’t know anyone, but it’s beautiful, and it smells like something delicious.”

“I’ve never been to a party where it’s beautiful and smells delicious,” Sage replies calmly, but the corners of her lips twitch with the beginnings of a smile.

“Perfect. Then imagine the smell of pie. Or soap. Whatever works for you.”

The next hour is spent rehearsing “expressions.” Paisley calls them soft adjectives — cautious curiosity, polite confusion, genuine gratitude you don’t quite know how to show — and Sage obediently imitates. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. When it doesn’t, Paisley offers corrections — subtle but precise — and they start over.

Then come the questions. The simple, predictable kind.

“What was it like to be chosen?”

“What did you feel when you first saw the Capitol?”

“What would you say to your family if you could?”

At first, Sage answers plainly, honestly. Then she learns to add pauses. To insert phrases like “it’s hard to describe,” “I still don’t fully understand what’s happening,” “I just hope I can be proud of myself.” To smile, but not too broadly. To lower her voice in the right places. To glance slightly to the side, as if afraid to reveal just how much the question means.

Sometimes Paisley jots notes in her notebook. Sometimes she just watches. Once, she asks Sage to stand and walk — not like a cover girl, but like someone searching for a familiar face in a crowd. Then the opposite — like someone who wants to be noticed. And then again — like someone trying not to be. Sage does everything she’s told, and at some point, she catches herself: the movements are becoming easier. Not natural — but manageable. As if she’s slipped into a new skin and is learning how to wear it.

Paisley gives a small, approving nod.

“We’re not finished,” she says. “But you’re getting there.”

By evening, Sage’s voice is hoarse, her lips dry, her cheeks burning as if she’s been walking in wind all day. They take a break — on Paisley’s insistence. Sage drinks water, wrapped in a blanket, perched on the windowsill. Her mind still spins with rehearsed lines: “I just want them not to worry back home,” “If this is my chance, I’ll try to take it,” “He promised he’d wait.”

Then another hour. Less performance, more reinforcement. Repetition. Delivery. Inflection.

“You don’t have to become someone else,” Paisley says quietly at the end, resting her hand on the table. “Just show them yourself. Only… the version that doesn’t scare them. That doesn’t beg for pity. Just a little sympathy. A little hope.”

Sage nods — and doesn’t ask which version of herself is the real one.

When the door finally closes behind Paisley, Sage stands frozen in the middle of the common room. For a while, she just stands there, staring at the stillness: the couch with its perfectly arranged cushions, the dusty-blue curtains, the golden stripe of streetlamp light across the floor. Her head buzzes with empty static, broken by fragments of rehearsal: “At first I was confused,” “It’s hard to explain,” “He promised he’d wait.”

She doesn’t know how many minutes pass before she suddenly turns toward the kitchen unit and calls up the service menu. Her fingers tap the commands almost on their own — as if her body already knows what it needs.

“Order food. No — flood the room with it.”

Sage chooses things she’s never tried before — not out of hunger, but just to feel something new. Lavender and goat cheese pie. Breadsticks with pumpkin dip. Spicy rice balls wrapped with herbs. A bowl of noodles in a sauce called “moon pepper” — whatever that means. Cold clementine juice. Two slices of lemon cake. Another one — with fig. And a basket of something that looks like fried ice cream rolled in coconut flakes.

By the time the machine dispenses everything, she’s already in a robe — white, fluffy, trailing almost to the floor, a little scratchy at the neck. Her hair is up in a messy bun, with wisps constantly slipping out.

She carries the food to her room and locks the door behind her. Not for any real reason — just to know that no one will walk in, no one will see.

She spreads a blanket right on the bed, arranges the food on a tray and sets it in front of her. Turns on white noise — soft rain against glass — just to muffle the rest of the day still echoing in her head. Then she starts to eat.

Slowly. Without rush. Without needing to prove anything, explain anything, or smile. Just because the food is warm — and oddly, that feels good. The pie is soft and fragrant. The noodles tickle her tongue. The rice balls burn a little more than they should, but her mouth bears it. The lemon cake is far too sweet for something called “lemon,” but she eats it anyway.

At some point, she notices her breathing has deepened. That her shoulders have relaxed. That the spoon finally sits in her hand like a spoon — not a weapon. And that she isn’t thinking — not about the cameras, not about the phrase “charmingly odd,” not about how much time is left before the arena.

Just an evening. Just food. Just a strange city and a locked door.

When most of it is gone, she leans back against the pillows, holding the sticky remains of a clementine between her fingers. Sugared breath. Sticky palm. Her eyes start to close slowly.

Maybe tomorrow it’ll be terrifying again. But right now — it’s not. Right now, she’s allowed to be a person. Even if only for an hour.

And then — someone knocks on the door. Quietly, almost apologetically.

At first, Sage thinks she imagined it — the knock is too soft, too unsure, like someone tapping their own chest instead of the door. But it comes again. Two short taps, a pause, one more — as if the person on the other side isn’t sure whether to continue.

She doesn’t move right away. Just opens her eyes and lies still, feeling the weight of dinner settled in her stomach, and the faint vibration of white noise in the air. Inside her — irritation, that familiar prickly thought: I just started breathing again. And next to it — caution. And still, a reluctant flicker of curiosity.

She gets up slowly, tightening the belt of her robe, and walks to the door barefoot. Pauses at the peephole — just in case. Then opens it.

Riven stands there in his usual — almost uniform — posture: hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly raised, like he wouldn’t mind disappearing into his collar. His hair sticks out in all directions, like he’s been running his hands through it trying to decide whether he should even come.

“Hey,” he says softly. His voice is rough, maybe from exhaustion or nerves. “Sorry if it’s… late. Or if I shouldn’t be here.”

He falls silent, blinking a little, glancing past her shoulder — probably catching sight of the empty boxes and cake crumbs on the tray.

Sage doesn’t answer. Not because she’s angry or scared — but because it’s still too hollow inside her to pick a reaction right away. The question floats out on its own:

“Did something happen?”

“No,” Riven shakes his head quickly. “Well… not really. I just…” he hesitates. “You looked tired. I thought… I don’t know. Maybe you’d want to talk. Or just have someone sit nearby. Quietly, if that’s better.”

A pause. Then he adds, almost in a whisper:

“I brought mint tea. Real one. It’s… a bit bitter, but it helps. Helps me, anyway.”

He pulls out a thermos from behind his back — white, shiny, with the Capitol channel logo printed in the center. Sage looks at him for another moment, then opens the door wider.

“Come in. Just don’t step on the ice cream box.”

Riven steps inside carefully, like he’s afraid to disturb the silence hanging in the air. He immediately notices the scattered containers — empty noodle boxes, a spoon stuck in melted ice cream. Sage catches his glance and blushes slightly.

“Sorry. Rehearsals either work up an appetite or just erase all sense of shame.”

She sits back on the bed, tucking her legs under herself and pulling the robe up to her knees. Riven sits down at the edge, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be that close — he looks too tall and out of place among the pillows and the blanket, with a drop of sauce on the corner. Then he picks up a mugs from the table, pours the tea from the thermos, and hands one to her, then another for himself. The scent of mint quickly fills the air — sharp, piercing, like a morning in a garden that doesn’t exist.

For a while, they drink in silence. Not the awkward kind — the kind where you can actually breathe.

Finally, Sage says:

“Are you scared?”

Riven doesn’t answer right away. He raises the mug to his lips, takes a small sip, winces — the tea is bitter, slightly astringent, but warm.

“Yeah,” he says. “Most of the time. I just… try to act like I’m not. Makes it easier.”

“For who?”

He gives her a tentative smile.

“For me. And maybe for you. And for the people rooting for us.”

Sage lets out a quiet snort. Then she leans back, propping herself up on one elbow, staring at the ceiling.

“I get scared in a different way. Not when I think about the Games. When I forget about them. Sometimes I catch myself just… eating. Or thinking I’d like to sleep in. Or that I should probably wash my hair. And then it hits me. All over again. You’re still here. This is still real.”

She goes quiet. Then adds:

“And then I’m scared that when it actually starts… I won’t be ready. Because I’ve spent too long pretending it’s fine, pretending there’s still time to learn — so I’ve just been putting it off.”

Riven nods slowly. Then says:

“I’m scared of pain. Not death — that’s too abstract. But pain. That it’ll be long. Or pointless. Or that someone else will be hurt because of me.”

He turns toward her. Quietly:

“I don’t want to become someone else. In there. Even if I make it out.”

Sage studies him for a moment. She understands. That thought burns her too — like a coal that’s rolled out of the fire.

Then she says:

“One way or another, we’ll both be someone else. Alive or dead. But maybe we won’t change completely.”

“Sometimes I envy you,” Riven says. “You look like someone who’s struggling, but hasn’t given up.”

Sage shakes her head.

“Don’t mistake that for bravery. I’m just… always waiting for it to be over. Doesn’t matter how.”

“You’re still here, though.”

“Did I have a choice? Let’s see — I can’t jump out a window, the building’s secured. All the sharp things are either dulled or stored with the stylists. I couldn’t even hang myself properly — the only scarf I have is silk. So yeah, I’m stuck flailing.”

Riven presses his lips together, says nothing. He stares into his mug, then — quietly, almost shyly:

“Can I stay? Just for a little while?”

Sage doesn’t reply right away. But then she shifts over a bit, making space for him to lie down. And murmurs:

“Only if you give me your blanket later. I saw it — yours is warmer.”

Riven smiles, almost like a kid, and lies down beside her — carefully, like he’s afraid to disturb the delicate balance of the evening. He sets his mug on the bedside table, pushes aside some empty boxes, and lies on his back, folding his arms behind his head. Sage stays sitting, watching as he squints up at the ceiling like it might hold some kind of answer.

“Your ceiling is weird,” he says softly.

“My whole life is weird,” Sage replies, yawning.

They fall quiet for a while. Just the sound of breathing — steady, warm, comforting. Tiredness wraps around her not like an enemy now, but like a blanket. She slips off the robe, down to her tank top and pajama shorts, tucks her legs under her, and lies down beside him on her stomach, resting her chin on one hand. Watching him from the side.

This boy isn’t dangerous. He’s not trying to be a hero, not pretending to be someone else. And that’s what makes being near him almost… not scary. Almost.

“Are you asleep?” she whispers.

“Almost. You?”

“I think so.”

“What are you thinking about?”

Sage closes her eyes for a moment.

“That maybe, right now, we look like normal people. Like we’re just having a bad day. Or week. Not… all this. We’d make good siblings.”

Riven turns his head toward her. Their faces are close now. He smiles — sadly, like it’s not a compliment but a sentence.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “We’d be the weird kind. A little prickly. The kind of kids who always get kicked out of class and forgotten after school.”

“And always feel like the grown-ups aren’t telling them something,” Sage adds, lips twitching. “Because, come on, reality can’t be that dumb.”

He snorts, but barely. And for a second, it really feels like they could have been friends — if things had turned out differently. If the world weren’t so cruel, so hungry, so soaked in blood.

“We could live in an old house,” Riven murmurs, eyes half-closed. “Our own place. With creaky stairs and cobwebs in the corners.”

“And a dog,” Sage says. “A stupid, shaggy one.”

“A cat,” he insists. “Super offended all the time. Tolerates only us.”

“And a little bit the neighbor, because she feeds him fish,” Sage agrees with a small smile.

They fall quiet again. Just imagining it. Like casting a spell from another world. Not one that saves you — but one that warms you.

“We’d fight all the time,” he says. “You’d grumble that I use too much water, and I’d complain that you eat at night.”

“Because you never finish your food,” Sage replies. “That’s just how you are. You start something and then drop it.”

“Not true,” he opens his eyes, turns a little closer. “Sometimes you just need a break.”

And suddenly, she feels almost physically sick. Her heart thuds dully under her ribs, and everything becomes too quiet, too close, too real. Breathing gets hard. Like the air has thickened — too dense, too sweet, like syrup you’re drowning in.

It hits her. Riven really does remind her of Marigold. The same thin hands, too animated for such a tired body. The same sideways glances, like he’s always checking if it’s safe to be himself. The same fragile tremble in his voice when he talks about things that matter too much to say out loud. He’s nothing like her — and yet something about him feels like home. Like that home, the one she lost.

And it hurts.

“Riven,” she says. Not because she has something to say — but because her voice rises on its own. Because the pain inside needs a way out.

He looks at her again, more guarded now. Slowly sits up, pulling his legs close, waiting.

“You remind me of my sister,” Sage says. “Not in how you look. Just… the feeling. Do you get that?”

He doesn’t speak, but nods. Slowly.

“When you’re quiet. When you smile like you don’t quite believe you’re allowed to. When you say things like ‘take a break’,” she swallows hard, her voice falters. “Marigold always said, ‘let’s just sit a bit, then we’ll figure it out.’ And we’d sit. Sit and think about how to keep going. And now…”

She doesn’t finish. Something gives way. Slowly, silently — like fragile glass cracking in her hands.

Her eyes fill with tears, and suddenly they’re just there. No warning. No hysteria. Just warm, salty, real.

“Sorry,” she breathes out, but Riven is already sitting beside her, gently, like he’s afraid to disturb her.

He doesn’t hug her. Just places his hand next to hers. Not touching — just close.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says. “It’s okay.”

Sage covers her face with her hands, but cries quietly. Not from fear. Not from exhaustion. From the impossibility of going back. From someone being too close — and too real.

“I don’t want her to see me,” she whispers through the tears. “If I die out there, on camera. Or even if I survive, but become someone she wouldn’t recognize.”

“She’ll remember you just as you are now,” Riven says. “And if you get out… you’ll tell her yourself. You’ll say you just took a break and decided not to give up.”

Sage sniffles, a little softer now. And without a word, leans her head on his shoulder. They sit like that, in silence, until the tears run dry — backs turned to reality, faces tilted toward something that’ll never be, but still matters.

“Just don’t die before me,” she murmurs with dry sarcasm, lifting her head and looking straight into his face. “You’ve got the higher score. It’ll be super awkward without you in the arena.”

“I promise,” he whispers back. “Maximum awkwardness, full tragic flair.”

Sage lets out a quiet laugh. Then slowly, gently, rests her head against him again. And they lie like that — in the dim light, surrounded by empty boxes, a blanket, cooling tea, and the terrifying future already pressing at the door.

Notes:

me: let’s write a silly goofy chapter
also me: emotional devastation™ anyway. enjoy :)

Chapter 10

Notes:

special guest star: haymitch “human speed bump” abernathy (one paragraph only)

Sage stands in front of the mirror, barely breathing. The room is quiet, with only dust swirling lazily in the shafts of light. Her hands hang stiffly at her sides, as if she's afraid to disrupt the perfect symmetry of what she’s become. This isn’t just clothing anymore. It’s a piece. A performance. A costume for the final ball.

Flora’s done too good a job.

The dress on Sage looks like it’s spun from air and thread. It clings to her body like a second skin, tracing every curve, but somehow it doesn’t feel vulgar. The fabric is thin as spider silk, woven from dozens of threads shimmering in soft greys, beiges, and washed-out pinks — the colors of raw wool, boiled cotton, unbleached silk. The eye can’t quite settle on it: you see the girl, but always as if through a mist. Her shoulders are bare, save for one slender strap that has slipped slightly, as if by accident. A narrow belt cinches her waist, woven with tiny spools of leftover thread — part adornment, part message.

At the hem, there’s hand embroidery. Fine stitches seem to grow straight out of the fabric and crawl upward — across her legs, her ribs, her collarbones. The design mimics plant roots at first glance, but if you look closely, they’re threads wrapped around fingers, like puppet strings. Almost invisible, but intentional.

Her hair is braided into something intricate — messy, but purposefully so, as though someone began styling it in a rush and never quite finished, though Flora’s assistants spent over an hour on it. Loose strands escape the braid — real threads of linen and silk, looking accidental but clearly placed with care. In hues of beige, rust, tobacco, and coal. And at the crown, like the thinnest diadem in the world, one golden strand glints — the kind of detail you don’t notice at first.

The makeup highlights the paleness of her skin and an almost sickly translucence. Her cheeks are gently flushed, as if from the heat of a spinning wheel. Her eyes are shadowed in smoky hues — subtle, but dark at the corners, making her gaze seem both sharp and tired. Her lips are the color of overripe pomegranate, like the stain of crushed berries on a fingertip. It’s not an image of wealth. It’s an image of labor, of longing, of a threadbare kind of hope caught on the tips of her lashes.

Sage stares at her reflection and doesn’t recognize herself. She looks like a girl from a painting — one that hasn’t been made yet, but will be, a hundred years from now. The way it works is terrifying.

"I’m begging you, it’s genius," comes Flora’s voice behind her. "Do you see this? I told you — no pure whites, no pastels, no softness. Only the shades of raw fiber. That, and her. God, I’ve got chills."

"Mmm, I seem to remember you saying last round that 'if we don’t bleach her platinum, it’s all going to fall apart,'" Alcyon adds lazily, a hint of a smirk in his voice. Sage sees him in the mirror, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed. "But I’m willing to admit you were right. Mostly."

"Mostly?" Flora whirls around, sparks in her tone. "You do realize I could strangle you with a ribbon right now?"

"I’m merely leaving space for your artistic growth." he smiles, tilting his head just slightly. "Professional generosity, nothing more."

"Sycophant." Flora mutters, but there’s no real venom in it.

Sage stays silent, still staring into the mirror. She doesn’t know how to feel about this whole performance — about how easily they chatter, as if they’re talking not about a living girl, but an idea. As if her body is just clay they’re molding. And yet… something stirs inside her. Something almost warm. Almost like pride.

She exhales slowly, and for a second, it feels like the reflection isn’t quite her own. Like someone else — someone with smoother skin, with a sculpted collarbone, with a glint in her eye — is looking back from behind the glass. But it’s still her. Just… different.

She has never felt this beautiful before. The dress accentuates everything she used to think was wrong about her: the sharp slope of her shoulders, the length of her neck, the angles of her knees. She always saw herself as too bony and too messy. But now, those angles feel like weapons. The fabric wraps around her like a quiet truth: you are worth being seen.

And more than anything, she feels grown. Truly. Not because of the heels or the makeup. But because she knows no one is coming to save her. This is just her body. Just her gaze. Just her steps onto the stage. She will walk out there, and no matter how it turns out — she will be someone who’s been seen. It’s terrifying. And intoxicating.

So this is what growing up looks like, she thinks distantly. Becoming someone you never expected to meet.

“Well? Say something,” Flora’s voice turns toward her again. “And don’t even think about saying it’s too much. This is exactly what it needed to be. Trust me.”

“It’s… beautiful,” Sage says quietly. Then, softer, more to herself: “I just don’t know who that girl in the mirror is.”

Flora smiles gently. She steps closer and touches Sage’s shoulder — light as thread sliding through cloth.

“That girl is you. Just… a little ironed out.”

Alcyon gives a soft, amused snort, but for once doesn’t make a quip. He only nods — barely — like he’s acknowledging that yes, tonight they really have created something more than just a look.

Flora adjusts one of the dress’s thin straps, then brushes away an invisible speck of dust. Her movements are soft but focused, like she’s tuning an instrument.

“If you get even a little dirty on this dress, I will kill you,” she says flatly, like she’s discussing the weather.

“You’re so nurturing,” Sage mutters sarcastically.

“I am nurturing. Just in a very specific form,” Flora shrugs. “You’re my masterpiece.”

Alcyon pushes off from the doorframe, folding his hands behind his back as if pretending none of this concerns him.

“Let’s hope you don’t say that about every tribute you dress.”

“Only the ones who might actually make it back and give me another moment of glory,” Flora retorts, then suddenly throws Sage a glance — quick and almost maternal. “In that dress, you’ll get the attention you need.”

“The rest is up to you,” Alcyon adds.

Sage nods — slowly, with no smile, but no fear either. Suddenly, she realizes: both of them believe in her. It's strange — a crooked kind of faith, almost accidental, but real.

“Alright, enough of this sentimental crap,” Flora claps her hands. “Time. Let’s go.”

They step out of the dressing room and walk down a long hallway, softly lit by wall lamps. The floor is carpeted, and the echo of Sage’s footsteps is barely audible — only the whisper of fabric and the faint tapping of Flora’s heels behind her.

Paisley stands by the elevator, leaning casually against the wall. She’s wearing a dress the color of cold gold, laced with delicate veins that look like cracks — not the destructive kind, but elegant ones, like the glazing on fine ceramic. Her lips are wine-stained, her eyelids brushed with shimmering bronze. Her pale hair is styled in sleek waves, and everything about her suggests a threat carefully hidden beneath polish and poise.

Cecelia is a different story entirely — bold, dressed in a watered-pomegranate tuxedo, a black bow tie worn just slightly askew, on purpose. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail, adorned with a pearl pin. She doesn’t look dangerous — but she does look like someone who has dangerous people on speed dial.

A little further down the corridor, clustered around the elevator, is Artemis and her team — as dazzling and loud as ever. Standing near them is Riven, and for a fraction of a second, Sage freezes.

He’s wearing a black shirt, fitted perfectly to his frame, matte buttons catching just a thread of light. Over it, a charcoal-gray vest embroidered so subtly it looks almost woven into the fabric itself — like faint stitchwork or the grain of tightly pulled thread. His trousers are simple, precisely tailored, and his shoes shine with a muted sheen, like polished leather softened by wear.

No bright accessories, just a ring on his pinky — smooth, black, without a stone. His hair is combed back, though a couple of strands slip forward anyway, giving his face — focused, composed — a softer edge. Riven looks handsome, but still familiar. Still him.

Sage realizes she’s been staring too long.

“Well, hello, pattern prince,” Flora murmurs with a satisfied half-smile.

Riven blushes but doesn’t drop his gaze.

“Artemis hasn’t shut up about how you two turned out to be masterpieces,” Cecelia says, giving them both a once-over. “And you know what? I have to agree. This year we actually have a pair worth showing off.”

“Thanks,” Sage replies automatically, though her voice trembles a little.

“If you start to panic,” Alcyon whispers, “just pretend it’s not really you. Pretend you’re actors.”

“Or mannequins,” Artemis adds. “Beautiful, but with personality.”

“Mannequins that bite,” Riven snorts.

“In Sage’s case,” Flora says proudly, “mannequins that bite without smudging their lipstick.”

“Are you ready?” Paisley asks. Her voice is soft, but there’s steel in it.

“The cameras are set. You’re going live in ten.”

Sage nods. So does Riven.

Paisley presses the elevator button. The doors open — revealing soft lighting, mirrored walls, reflections of lights. They step inside, one by one. As if surrendering themselves to the world, or becoming someone new.

“So,” Sage says quietly, looking at her reflection in the mirrored elevator wall. “Here we go?”

“Here we go, my star,” Flora replies.

“And no meltdowns,” adds Alcyon.

The elevator begins to move.

Almost immediately, they reach the stage. The air is thick with heat from the lights. Huge spotlights blast from every angle, and everything feels too bright, too loud to be real.

Sage walks carefully, like stepping onto ice — knowing if she slips, it won’t just be the heels that fail her, but the whole fragile image they’ve built. One wrong move, and she misses the role. Misses the expectation.

Everything here looks even more expensive, even cleaner than the rest of the Capitol. The round stage is slick and glossy, reflecting the hem of her dress and her feet in delicate heels. She can barely feel her fingers. They seat her on a tall, velvet-padded stool — thank God. Her legs are shaking so badly she wouldn’t last standing.

The audience is just ahead. The front row — stylists. Laughing, squinting, clicking their rings and fans like it’s a fashion gala, not a parade of the almost-dead. Then, higher up — the Gamemakers’ box. And above that — the cameras.

Everywhere.

Clinging to her every move — her fingers, the tilt of her chin, even her gaze. Even when Sage doesn’t look directly at them, she feels them. It’s like they see right through her.

Other tributes are already taking their seats around her, and each one is a show of their own. Some move with practiced confidence, like they’ve been waiting for this moment all their lives. Some smile stiffly, mimicking ease. And some, like her, sit just a little too straight, trying not to betray the trembling. But all of them are curated personas. Performances crafted by stylists long before the cameras rolled.

It takes Sage a moment to realize she’s breathing too fast. At first, she’s simply watching — the fabric, the faces, the gestures — and then it hits her, sharp and sudden: all this time, while Flora was tugging at her zippers, while Alcyon was shaping words into her mouth, while Riven nudged her into the right look, everyone else was going through the same thing. Some longer. Some rougher. Some, maybe, even believing in what they were becoming. And now here they are — bright, polished, poised like finely tuned dolls, each with their own backstory, their own tone of voice, their own built-in sympathy trigger.

Something inside her shifts — barely — like the legs of her self-control were made of thin sticks, and one just started to buckle. Stupid, but somewhere deep down she had believed she’d walk onto the stage as someone special. And only now does she fully realize: her life is weighed against twenty-three others, each packed with their own private storms.

Suddenly the stage explodes in light — and Caesar Flickerman steps into the center with theatrical ease. His hair is blazing orange, glossy enough that Sage squints on instinct. His grin stretches across his whole face. Rings flash on his fingers. His suit sparkles like it was sewn from television static.

“Good evening, Panem!” he booms, cutting through the last of the silence.

The audience roars.

Caesar throws out a few jokes — smooth, automatic. Laughter ripples through the room. Cameras catch the tributes’ reactions — who laughed, who froze, who overacted right away. Sage doesn’t move. She just breathes.

“And now... let’s begin!” he announces. “You’ll each have three minutes. Three minutes to make sure all of Panem remembers your name — or at least your smile.”

The first tribute rises.

It’s Opal, the girl from District One — in silver that clings like liquid metal. She’s got the kind of chest people envy, teeth like an ad, and a smile that could be a slogan. She talks fast, easy, flirts with Caesar, and her voice cuts off mid-sentence when the bell chimes. Time’s up. But she’s owned the spotlight while it lasted.

Her partner is the opposite. If she’s predatory grace, he’s effortless charm. His name is Emerald — like his parents picked it for the Capitol merch before he was even born. Which they probably did. His skin is smooth as polished wood, his eyes warm and amused, almost too clever. He smiles like a secret and says, “I won’t let you down.” The room applauds, not because he promised victory, but because he made the promise beautifully.

The girl from Two, Nemesis, hasn’t changed since Sage saw her in the Reaping footage. Still sits straight-backed, hands on her knees, chin tilted up. When they call her name, she rises like a soldier responding to a command. She’s wearing a muted charcoal dress with a metallic sheen, her hair cropped short, and the scar under her eye catches the light like a deliberate accessory. She doesn’t flirt, doesn’t play. Her answers are clipped, efficient. Her voice is dry, confident, a little bored.

Her partner, Oberon, is serious too, but without the coldness. He wears a severe suit with a heavy collar and a military cut. He doesn’t smile, but he speaks more gently than Sage expected. There’s fatigue in his voice, but not weakness. He answers questions like he’s taken this test a hundred times. When Caesar cracks a joke, Oberon just nods slightly, not giving in to the moment.

“I know what’s expected of me,” he says. “And I’m ready.”

District Three comes next — and the contrast with the previous tributes is stark. The boy — Sage recalls his name: Vector — steps into the center of the stage, nearly stumbling on the way. He’s wearing a neat dark blue suit with silvery inserts. They’ve taken off his glasses, apparently replacing them with contacts, but he still looks like he’s just escaped from a school library. He smiles too widely and too often, each time slightly stumbling over his words, like they get stuck somewhere between his mind and throat. Still, there’s something about his earnestness that stirs sympathy.

The girl, Gadget, is tiny, skinny, in a graphite-colored dress that almost blends into the background. She sits as quietly as possible, eyes still cast downward, lashes throwing long shadows across her cheeks. She speaks calmly — no excitement, no fear, as if she's rationing every emotion. And yet, there’s something in her that makes Sage wonder if it’s shyness… or arrogance. The thought brings an unexpected sting of jealousy. Flora had been right — there is something mysterious about silence.

Ripley, the boy from District Four, wears a dark blue jumpsuit with shoulder straps and a wet sheen to the fabric — like he just jumped off a fishing boat, shook himself off, and walked onto the stage. His hair is tousled in a way that looks less like styling and more like wind off the bay. He’s funny, cracking a joke about mistaking a shoe brush for a toothbrush once, and Caesar laughs louder than he needs to, throwing his head back. The audience joins in. His grin is infectious, his voice has a raspy edge — like someone who’s spent his life yelling over crashing waves.

He’s so effortlessly charming that Sage briefly forgets how he lifted two mannequins at once in the training center — and how confidently he held the harpoon, like he’d been born with it in his hand.

The girl from Four — Marina — barely changes on stage. She doesn’t walk out like a tribute, but like a storm that’s simply been given time and space. She wears a mesh crop top and a skirt resembling a net dotted with seashells, like she’d been hauled from the ocean with it. Too revealing — but she wears it like armor, not an accessory.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t lean on charm. Just sits there, arms draped across the armrests like it’s not an interview, but an interrogation — and she’s not the accused, but the one deciding who gets to live. When Caesar asks if she’s afraid, she doesn’t answer right away. Just turns her head and raises an eyebrow.

“I know what I’m good at,” she finally says. “That’s enough.”

District Five — a duo in acid colors. The stylists clearly aimed for matching outfits, but the result is less synergy, more chaos: an explosion of neon feathers, holographic ribbons, and glowing add-ons. Sage’s eyes actually ache from the glare. At the Reaping, the girl — Maxine — looked crushed, but now she giggles, flirts, interrupts Caesar mid-sentence. The boy is simple and calm, telling a story about how, if he makes it home, he plans to propose to his girlfriend. It’s touching — and awful, because the outcome is almost certainly already written.

Velo, the girl from Six, has her hair tied up and wears a gray-violet dress. As she speaks, the audience starts to yawn. Her partner, twelve-year-old Newton, is the opposite — turning the charm up to full volume from the start. He grins, waves at the audience, tosses out jokes, and even manages a little spin like he’s walking a runway. He’s the youngest of them all, but acts like he’s done this a hundred times — answering questions with rehearsed ease. His laughter is bright, his speech fast, and when the three minutes end, the crowd seems genuinely disappointed that it’s over.

District Seven brings a jarring contrast. Daphne steps out with defiant confidence, as if the stage belongs to her. She wears a short raspberry-red dress and heavy boots — a combination that somehow works. Her hair’s a mess, lips curled in a sly smile. Her tone is bold, even teasing; she talks to Caesar with ease, not fawning, but holding her own like they’re playing the same game on equal terms.

And then there’s Cedar — a brooding, broad-shouldered guy with the look of someone just dragged out of a field. He wears a dark shirt, plain trousers, sturdy boots. He barely speaks. Answers shortly. Doesn’t look at the audience, only the floor — or Caesar. His voice is low, husky, weighted with something heavy. But real.

Finally, the bell rings, and Sage’s name is called — drawn out, melodic, like Caesar is tasting it on his tongue. There’s a soft rustle in the hall. Someone coughs, someone shifts to get more comfortable. The camera follows her as she rises and straightens up, and for a moment, her legs feel like jelly. But she smiles — just a little, at the corner of her mouth. Just like she practiced.

She walks onto the stage, pulling on the most pleasant expression she can muster, and shakes Caesar’s outstretched hand.

“Good evening, Sage,” he says, beaming as always. “You look… well, like someone you could really have a heart-to-heart with.”

Sage tilts her head slightly, feigning shyness, and sinks into the brightly lit chair beside him. Her dress slides after her like a well-trained shadow. The stage lights blind her a little, but she keeps smiling.

“Thank you,” she says. “I was hoping that’s the impression I’d give.”

Her voice sounds surprisingly steady. Almost clear. It must be the adrenaline. Or denial setting in.

Caesar laughs — soft and Capitol-smooth.

“Oh, I’d be happy to talk with you all night! But I’m afraid we’re on a schedule. And we’ve got twenty-three other heroes to meet.”

Sage widens her eyes in mock offense — almost childishly, a little exaggerated. She pictures how Flora would’ve done it: a dramatic sigh, a toss of the hair, an eye-roll sharp enough to slice anyone’s ego in half. Sage mimics it from memory, barely believing it works.

“I’m not unique? Shocking. I was counting on being the exclusive.”

Laughter from the audience. She feels the artificial warmth of the lights building under her skin. Too bright. Too much air. Too exposed. She crosses her legs, baring just enough knee for it to look playful — not provocative. Just a game. Just a girl in a dress, hoping to survive.

“Tell us, Sage,” Caesar continues, “what went through your mind when you heard your name at the Reaping?”

She sighs. Theatrically. Lifts her shoulders.

“Honestly? My first thought was: ‘Seriously? I just washed my hair.’”

Another chuckle. She relaxes a little. Or learns to fake it better.

“And then,” Sage goes on, “I looked at my sister. And the only thing I could think to say was, ‘Well, who’s going to make your porridge now?’”

She pauses, tilts her head slightly.

“When we were little, we used to pretend I was the main cook in the family. But that’s not true, obviously. Iris is the one who takes care of everyone. I mostly just complain.”

She tries to imagine how it sounds. A simple girl. A little clumsy. A little sweet. Not too clever. Not a hero — but maybe someone you’d remember.

Caesar smiles, nods, makes all the right encouraging noises. He knows how to draw the story out. She knows what she’s supposed to give him.

“You still have family, don’t you?” he asks. “Not just your sister?”

“Three sisters. Iris is the eldest. Marigold had her first Reaping this year, but she already thinks she knows how the world works. And maybe she’s right. And Rose. Rosie. Just a little kid. She’s five.”

“And your parents?”

“Gone. A long time ago.”

Caesar lets out a theatrical sympathetic sound — a mix between a sigh and a dramatic gasp. But barely a moment later, he brightens again, smoothly moving on to the next question.

“But still, you seem so cheerful! Where does all that light come from, Sage?”

She shrugs — light-heartedly, almost with a smile, as if her whole life really does fit into a few sad lines but hasn’t felt like a tragedy in a long time.

“I don’t know… Maybe because someone has to be the light, right? Especially when it’s dark.”

“And who designed your outfit?” Caesar smoothly changes the subject. “I look at you and see fabric magic! Is this a nod to your district?”

Sage giggles — deliberately. A little higher, a little brighter than necessary.

“Yes! My stylist, Flora, says I’m a ‘living thread.’ Or maybe it was ‘a thread woven through other people’s expectations.’ I can’t remember exactly. She always talks in poetry. She’s so talented.”

Sage theatrically scans the audience, pretending to search for someone important — and finds her. She blows Flora a kiss, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to do while wearing a dress that looks like a silk cocoon. Inside, everything clenches — from embarrassment, from awkwardness, from the sheer volume of attention — but she pretends to enjoy it. Almost like Flora would’ve done.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Caesar asks with a sly squint. “Or do our viewers still stand a chance?”

Sage pauses. Her smile falters just a little. But she recovers.

“Well…” she sighs. “There was something.”

Caesar leans in, attentive. The audience quiets.

“His name is Henley. We… used to take walks. Sometimes. He’d bring me scraps of beautiful fabric they were throwing out. I made pillows from them. And one day he said, ‘If you ever end up in the Games — you’ll survive. Because you’re too beautiful to die.’”

Pause. She gazes past the crowd, lifting her chin just slightly — with a look meant to read as tenderness.

“And now I’m here. Testing his theory.”

Of course, Henley never said anything like that. He hated talking about the Hunger Games. Always winced at the word Reaping. He’d sit next to his brothers but never looked at the screen when they showed the Games. Said it made his head spin. Sometimes, when the anthem played at school, she’d just silently hold his hand, and they’d both pretend the world ended right there — at the edge of their shoulders.

But on stage, truth doesn’t matter. Only the story does.

Caesar claps. So does the crowd. Someone gasps. Someone laughs. Sage smiles, but inside, there’s a grinding sound — like metal on enamel. She wasn’t made for lying. She doesn’t like twisting memories. She doesn’t like turning real people into glossy shadows that say the right lines.

It’s starting to feel like the more she lies, the more real faces blur — and Henley becomes not the boy she hid with in the school corridors, but just another polished soundbite for the show. Just another part of a narrative meant to move the audience and make them pay. But there’s no other choice.

Either you tell a story — or you become someone else’s. Then invisible. Then forgotten. Then dead.

“Do you think he’s watching now?” Caesar asks, tilting his head with a perfectly rehearsed touch of concern. The question, of course, was pre-approved — but it’s asked like he genuinely wants to know.

Sage pretends to think for a second, then smiles — warmly, a little shyly.

“I hope so,” she says. “Otherwise, who am I showing this dress off for?”

She lifts her hand and waves brightly, looking into the stage lights — where no faces or cameras are visible, only the white, blurry cosmos of the spotlights.

“Hi, Henley,” she says. “I’m still here. For now. I’ll try to stay that way.”

And for a moment, something drops inside her. Because if he is watching — and she knows he is — then he’s not seeing her. He’s seeing what she’s pretending to be. And that’s an unbearably painful thought.

But her gaze stays calm. Her voice — steady. And the crowd applauds again.

“Ah, young love,” Caesar sighs, as if truly moved, and the hall hums with pleasure. “Have you always been this romantic? Or is that… a recent discovery?”

Sage once again tries to imagine how Flora would act in her place: with perfect posture, a half-smile, as if the entire world were just a slightly absurd dream in which she is the main character. So that’s how it has to be.

“You think I’m romantic?” she says, mock-surprised. “Must be the dress. It’s nearly impossible to look stern in it. I tried, honestly! But in the mirror, I still looked like a fairy-tale character. One of those, you know — with a tragic backstory.”

The audience laughs. Caesar nods, pleased.

“Well, you really do look like the embodiment of tenderness. But tell me — setting romance aside… are you afraid?”

For a second — a dangerous pause. A pause where the truth could slip out. But Sage knows the rules. She plays along.

“Afraid?” she echoes with a fake laugh. “Of course! I’m afraid I’ll forget which hand to wave with. I’m afraid my hair won’t stay in place. I’m afraid Flora will kill me if I step on the hem of this dress.”

Laughter. Cameras. Lights.

“But seriously…” she softens, gaze growing just a bit hazier. “I have three reasons not to give up. Iris, Marigold, and Rosie. My little flowers. I promised them I’d come back. And I always try to keep my promises.”

And again — applause. Somewhere, someone in the audience sighs. Sage keeps smiling, her expression unchanged, even as something inside her seems to quiver like steel. She wants to hide. Crawl under the stage. Rip the dress and run barefoot. But she stays.

“What would you like the audience to remember about you?” Caesar asks.

Sage blinks, pretends to think, then slowly spreads her hands.

“That I didn’t trip on my way up here. Though it was a very real possibility.”

Applause. Somewhere, someone pats their knee in delight. Caesar laughs—either genuinely or so convincingly that you can’t tell.

“Is that all?” he teases.

Sage shrugs, a half-smile tugging at one corner of her mouth:

“Well, if someone also remembers that I like sewing pillows from scraps… then the evening wasn’t wasted at all.”

And right after that—the saving fanfare. The interview is coming to an end. Sage stands up, bows. Flashes pop, hands clap. Inside her, there is a buzz and emptiness. As if she just sold something that had belonged entirely to her. Her fingers itch, like she just held something and finally let it go. A hum in her chest. Emptiness in her ears. She smiles out of inertia, turns, and, lifting the silk hem, leaves the stage, feeling like each step is not quite hers. As if her body is moving separately.

When she returns to her seat among the tributes, her fingers tremble. Her knees buckle. She sits down next to Daphne—without even looking, just by memory. Only here does she realize: she’s burning. Not from shame, not from embarrassment, though that is gathering somewhere between her collarbones too. From anxiety, a temporal, scorching, almost festive anxiety.

“How did I even do that?” Everything felt like underwater. Like it wasn’t her. Not her mouth. Not her dress. Not her life.

And on stage, they’re already announcing the next one:

“Riven Alden, District Eight!”

Sage sits quietly, barely breathing, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She tries to collect herself—take a deeper breath, release the tension from her shoulders, wipe the remaining smile from her face. But her gaze still draws to the stage like to a flame.

Riven steps out confidently. Not ceremoniously, like someone trained, but genuinely, naturally. As if he just walked into the light to say hello. He tilts his head slightly, bows with a soft, almost shy grace. Immediately catching the wave of applause. The host smiles, and Riven smiles back—not too broadly, not forced. Precise. Warm. Almost like at home.

“Hi,” he says, his voice even, calm, slightly husky. “Thanks for having me.”

The audience laughs—lightly, gratefully. As if he isn’t a tribute, but a guest on an evening show. Sage feels her breathing gradually even out. He’s doing everything right. And all in his own way.

He talks briefly about his family—concise, without excess pity. Mentions how as a child he sewed clothes for dolls from fabric his mother brought home from the factory. He says it without irony—just as something ordinary. Says later he started sewing for people. Sometimes it even turned out beautiful. Sage doesn’t know if it’s true or not, but it’s a good line: the audience somehow loves it.

Caesar jokes—about time, about fate—and Riven catches the rhythm: laughs in the right places, raises his eyebrows slightly as if surprised by the attention. Once, he’s genuinely confused when receiving a compliment about his eyes. And that only makes him more charming. Suddenly Sage realizes: he doesn’t speak about himself for a second as a hero. Nor as a victim. Nor as a fighter. He’s—as if just a person accidentally on stage, trying to be polite. And that disarms.

When the interview ends, Riven stands up, bows again, tilts his head slightly toward the audience—and Sage feels something soften inside her for a moment. As if someone quietly turned on a nightlight beside her. As if in this strange theater full of knowingly false roles, he is the only one who remains familiar to her. Not a hero, not a martyr, just a person. And that scares her even more. Because that is something truly real.

And then everything blurs together.

The next eight interviews pass by her like muffled sound underwater. Sage sits with a straight back, trying to keep a neutral face, but she’s not listening. Just waiting for it to end. Every clap feels like a pulse. Every flash like a blow to the eyes. She feels neither time nor her own hands. Only the trembling in her legs and a dull echo from the fact that something inside her has grown smaller.

When the last tribute—Suki Nobara from District Twelve—finally finishes, she flinches. Doesn’t immediately realize where she is. She stands up, falls into line with the others. The Panem anthem sounds like mockery, as if the whole country is applauding itself for what it’s done. The light blinds her. Cameras follow. And then—movement. They head toward the elevators.

The crowd comes alive. The hall floods with mentors, stylists, assistants, security, cameramen, peacekeepers, broadcast crew — everyone talks, gestures, some laugh, some smoke, some shout to keep hold of their tribute. Sage walks ahead without looking down, trying not to breathe too deeply — it feels like if she takes a full breath, she’ll start suffocating.

She almost loses herself in the hustle, and for a moment wonders if it’s possible to run away now, if only she wanted badly enough.

At sone point her shoulder sharply hits something hard — she turns and sees the mentor from District Twelve. He swears, and Sage opens her mouth to apologize, but doesn’t get the chance.

“Found you!” Alcyon says loudly, relieved, gripping her hand. His fingers are cold and sticky with sweat. “Sweetheart, you have no idea how much stress you caused me! Everyone into the elevator! Quick, before the journalists grab you.”

He doesn’t so much lead as drag her through the crowd. Sage doesn’t even resist. She has no strength for that. Only at the very last moment, when the elevator doors are almost closing, she turns on impulse—and sees Riven. He’s walking behind, next to Artemis. He manages to catch her eye. There’s still a faint, tired smile on his face.

Sage looks down and steps into the elevator.

Tomorrow—the arena.

Notes:

well, well, well… look who’s finally entering the arena. ten chapters of plot—and now it’s murder time, baby!

Chapter 11

It’s quiet in the hovercraft. So quiet that Sage can hear her own breathing—too shallow, too fast. Somewhere behind her, the engine hums, and beneath the floor the air seems to vibrate, trembling like the surface of stretched fabric. Through the rounded, slightly blurred window, clouds drift by—white and thick, like cotton. She once used fabric like that to make something soft. Except this cotton doesn’t hide warmth—it hides death.

She sits strapped in, which, if you think about it, is pretty ironic. Her back is slightly hunched, her hands clenched into fists on her knees. Riven was sent to the arena separately; mentors don’t travel with the tributes—their journey ends in the Capitol. So now, the only one beside her is Flora. Calm. Impeccable. Her eyes are fixed on the glass, her lips pressed into a line—not with sorrow, but with focus. Her fingers twitch slightly, as if she’s mentally adjusting seams, fixing something, adding the final touch.

“You’ll be fine,” Flora says, without turning her head. “You’re a miracle. You did beautifully.”

Her voice is smooth and warm, like silk—but inside, Sage feels nausea rise stronger. And what exactly did she do? Sell herself? Entertain the crowd? Promise to survive and not kill anyone—while fully intending to lie, steal, hide, and, if lucky, strike first?

She doesn’t respond. Not because she’s angry, but because if she starts talking, she might fall apart. Instead, she looks at her hands. Her palms are slick with sweat. Her throat is dry. There’s water all around, but drinking it feels impossible. The air in the cabin smells metallic, scrubbed clean. And something else—Flora’s perfume. Soft, powdery, almost dusty. Like dried flowers forgotten between the pages of an old album. Will Sage ever smell that scent again?

She thinks of her sisters. Of how Rosie falls asleep hugging the stuffed sheep they sewed together. Of how Marigold can pretend she’s not scared. Of how Iris used to make up lullabies when they were little. They’re far away now. But that doesn’t matter. Because the next time she sees them—if she sees them—will be later. After. First—there’s the arena.

And Henley is somewhere out there too. Maybe he’ll watch the Games, at least the first day. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe he can’t, even if he wants to. That thought makes her angry—and strangely comforted. Because if he is watching, it means he’s still with her. And if he’s not, then maybe he can still keep living while she dies.

She doesn’t know what kind of place it will be. No one does. The scenery changes every year. Only one thing stays the same: only the victor walks out.

Flora finally turns and takes her hand. Her skin is cool, her nails polished to a shine. The hovercraft tilts slightly. Somewhere, a signal clicks. Time to put on armor. Or in her case, a mask. Because she has no sword, no shield. Only thread. Only a needle. Only a name that now the whole country knows.

Sage looks out the window and imagines the clouds below are the ground, that if she jumps, she’ll fall into fluff, like a pillow. That she can fall asleep and wake up in another world, where no one watches her from above, waiting to see how she dies.

But the moment passes, and the hovercraft begins its descent.

The arena is waiting.

Upon arrival, everything happens fast, unnaturally smooth. The hovercraft hovers, trembling slightly, and then the hatch opens with a soft click. Someone unstraps her, lifts her gently by the elbow—like a porcelain doll being moved to a shelf. No one says a word. No glances, no gestures—only the crunch of boots on the metal ramp and wind that smells of cold and concrete.

In the catacombs, everything is sterile silence. No windows, no clocks. Everything white, smooth, indifferent. It doesn’t feel like she’s being taken to the arena. It feels like she’s about to be dissected. Sage is led into her cell. A small room—tiles, a bench, a shower, a locker. A closed door. Emptiness. A hum in her skull. The kind of silence where you can hear your own fingers crack as you unclench your fist.

Flora lingers for a moment — a rare thing, almost a miracle. She places a hand on Sage’s shoulder.

“You’re stronger than you seem. And more beautiful than they deserve.”

Sage manages something like a smile. It’s hard to speak. The words feel stuck in her throat.

“You forgot the part about ‘keep your back straight, look at the camera with your left eye, and don’t stain the outfit.’”

“That goes without saying,” Flora replies gently. “Now off to the shower. Otherwise, when you get back, we’ll have to wash you with a firehose.”

Sage doesn’t argue, and a few seconds later, the water is running. Hot at first. Then cold. Then hot again — hot enough to scald her shoulders. She scrubs away the remnants of her old life. Her hair sticks to her temples. It hurts to breathe — not because of the temperature, but because of the knot in her chest.

For a moment, she wants to stay under that water. Until someone forgets she’s there. Or until she melts away, like in that old story.

But she steps out. Slowly. Pulls a standard tribute uniform from the wardrobe: dark gray, close-fitting, like a second skin. Jacket, pants, boots. No silk, no provocative transparency — just dense, light fabric with a soft lining, meant to hold warmth and wick away sweat. The cropped jacket fastens with hidden clasps, the fitted pants hug her legs without restricting movement. The soles of the boots are flexible, ridged, nearly silent. Everything is precise, functional, like it was tailored for someone who actually knows how to survive. It’s not an outfit. It’s gear.

She changes. Braids her hair into two tight plaits. Her movements are steady, but they feel foreign — like they belong to someone else. Like she's watching a stranger go through the motions.

She sits on the bench. Looks at her hands.

Tiny white scars from needles and scissors.

District Eight.

A seamstress.

Scraps and patches.

Pillows made from leftovers.

Survival from nothing.

Now she doesn’t even have that. No thread. No needle. Just herself. Her body. Her fear. Her name.

And yet… it’s no longer terrifying. There’s still a hard lump of nausea forming in her stomach, but the numbing dread is shifting into something else. As if her body has finally accepted: there’s no way back. Only forward. And only down. Down, into the hungry maw of Panem.

She wonders how long she has left to live — fifty minutes or fifty years?

Sage inhales deeply. Not for calm, but just to remind herself she still can. And when the voice crackles through the intercom — flat, mechanical, precise — she’s already on her feet, like clockwork.

“Rise. Thirty seconds.”

Sage walks toward the capsule. She doesn’t look back. Takes one step, then another, until there are no more left. When she steps onto the metal disc, Flora gives her a quick once-over, like she’s checking the seams, the fit, the silhouette. Then she nods.

“You’re ready,” she says.

“I’m not sure.”

“I am. And that means you are too.”

Sage wants to say something like “thank you,” not just for the dresses, but for being here all this time. In her own way, but still here. But the words stick in her throat.

“If I die ugly, I’m sorry,” she manages to force out instead.

Flora smiles faintly.

“You won’t die,” she says simply, adjusting the collar of Sage’s jacket. Quick, precise — as if that one small gesture could somehow protect her. “I think I already told you before the interview: mindset is everything. So chin up.”

Sage lowers her eyes. The words still won’t come. It’s like her mouth is full of cotton.

Flora hesitates for another moment, then straightens.

“That’s it. Time to go.”

They look at each other for one last second. The metal beneath their feet begins to tremble. The lights dim. Somewhere above, a mechanism clicks.

Sage takes one final breath.

“If you can, tell the others…” she begins, but the words won’t follow.

Flora shakes her head gently.

“Just come back,” she says.

And the platform rises.

***

When the light hits her eyes, for a moment, Sage thinks this is all a dream. Or maybe the afterlife — because for a brief, very brief minute, everything is so quiet, so warm. No pain. No fear. Nothing tearing her apart, burning her alive, or drowning her in freezing water. Just light, like a summer morning, and air that smells of dust.

But the dream ends the moment she feels metal beneath her feet — trembling, alive. The platform no longer rises. It’s stopped. Which means, it’s begun.

Sage opens her eyes.

For the first few seconds, it feels like home.

In front of her — factories. Massive, looming like giants. Echoing skeletons of workshops, grey facades, black gaps where windows used to be. Rusted rebar sticks out from the walls like bones. Dust hangs in the air — heavy, almost warm. Somewhere far off, the crash of a collapsing roof. No birds. No animals. Just echoes. And the wind, pushing scraps of old tags, burned fabric, and bits of plastic across the asphalt.

Sage stands in the middle of it all, on a wide concrete square between the buildings. Overhead — the twisted frame of an overloaded crane. Beneath her feet — cracks filled with harsh weeds. And everything feels painfully familiar: like the streets of her childhood, where she and Henley used to hide, play tag between the stacks and reels, collect scraps and dream of another world.

But this isn’t District Eight. This is the arena.

And if it’s home, it’s a cursed one.

The Cornucopia is built right into one of the central warehouses — a grey, dome-shaped hangar with doors that roll open sideways. When they screech apart, a metal floor is revealed inside, bathed in yellow light. The weapons and supplies aren’t arranged on stands but tossed into scattered crates — some lids flung open, some dented, as if someone already tried to break in. Everything looks like the forgotten remains of a final workday.

Even from here, Sage can make out a lot. Weapons, sacks, canisters, rolls of fabric, masks, ropes, crowbars, food. So much food, it could feed all the tributes for a week. But most of it will probably go to the Careers.

The Arena is vast and imposing. Along the perimeter — rows of buildings stretching for miles. Some rise three, four stories high. There are elevator shafts, staircases, basement levels. Somewhere, remnants of old electrics still blink — red, uneasy light. On the rooftops — ventilation outlets, holes, nests of something that maybe, once, had been birds. A dusty maze, full of shadows and false refuge.

Sage glances around.

This year, the Gamemakers outdid themselves. Probably trying to redeem last year’s failure, when the arena was buried in snow and half the tributes froze to death in the first two nights. These Games are about whispers behind your back, about footsteps on metal, shadows in the corridor. About the moment you turn a corner — and never return.

And yet… there’s something comforting in that.

Sage knows buildings like this. Knows how the hinges creak. Where staircases might be. Where water hides. Where floors collapse. How to move in darkness. How to breathe through dust.

One minute left.

Sage doesn’t move. She just stares ahead. At the concrete. At the gates. At the chaos inside the hangar. At a new life. At death — hers or someone else’s — it doesn’t matter yet.

The fabric of the world is pulled tight. And if it snaps — it’ll hurt.

Sage turns her head, slowly, as if afraid to startle the fragile moment before the storm. Her gaze slides across the circle of tributes — twenty-three unfamiliar faces, shaded, tense, changed in small, unreadable ways since the start of training. Someone’s breathing too fast. Someone stands like they’re already dead. Someone squints, already calculating who’ll run for the Cornucopia first — and who’ll bolt for the ladder by the wall.

And then — Riven.

He’s standing to her left, maybe five meters away, in the shadow of a steel beam. Dark hair. A face scrubbed clean of emotion, but his fingers are clenched at his belt. He sees her.  And she knows it even before he gives the slightest tilt of his head — barely noticeable. Their eyes meet. No smile. No gesture. But everything’s already been said.

They’re both thinking the same thing.

Now they actually have a chance.

A chance that one of them might live through this. That death might skip District Eight — not twice, but maybe just once. That maybe, just maybe, it won’t all be for nothing.

Sage exhales. Slowly, silently. If luck turns its face toward them — one of the two might hold on.  Just a little longer than the rest.

The platform beneath her feet shudders. And in the next second—

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the 68th Hunger Games begin!”

The gong sounds like a gunshot to the skull. Dull. Predatory. As if something metal deep in the ground has finally woken up.

Sage flinches — not with her body, but with something deeper, something primal, the part of her that screams run long before her mind catches up and realizes — she’s already running.

She doesn’t look at the Cornucopia. That’s the first rule Paisley drilled into her again and again: Don’t look. Don’t count. Don’t think. Just leave. Everything you need — you already have on you. Don’t be a hero. Don’t you dare reach for a weapon if someone faster is nearby. Your goal is to survive, not to shine. Life is worth more than any gear.

Sage jolts backward, curving away just like she was taught. While the others lunge for the center like moths to flame, she bolts in the opposite direction. The ground is cold concrete, layered with moss and dust. Around her — metal, rust, thick cast-iron beams. The factory complex towers above her: broken-windowed spires, lift skeletons, pipes reaching into the sky like black veins.

Some tributes scream.

Someone falls.

Someone charges forward, a bag over their shoulder.

Something red flashes.

Something sharp flashes.

Footsteps thunder.

Someone chokes.

Someone stops breathing.

Sage doesn’t look back.

She spots a break in the wall and slips into the shadow, sliding between two rusted-out containers and slipping into the factory. Inside — a dark corridor, damp, choked with metal debris. Rusting chunks of old machines. Rotten rolls of fabric curled up like dead snakes. Wreckage. All of it familiar, all of it hers — and all of it wrong.

It smells almost like her father used to smell coming home late from work: dust, engine oil. And yet — death is closer here.

She presses herself against the wall. Listens. Breathing — hers, and someone else’s. Or is it just in her head? But there are no footsteps. So — they didn’t see her.

Trickery over strength, Paisley had said. You’re not a hunter, and you never will be. You’re a shadow. People don’t kill what they can’t see.

Outside the windows, the sky is still bright. Too bright. Fake. Above the arena, the dome — hiding the cameras. The watchers. The counters of the living. Sage draws a breath through her teeth and keeps moving.

Stairs. Rust flakes off the railing. The metal groans. She moves slowly — like a cat — barely letting her feet touch the steps.

At the top, she finds a maintenance floor. Sheets of metal. Frayed cables. Hatches. Covers. She slips into a gap beneath a crooked ventilation fan. It’s narrow, but bearable. The main thing — no noise. No sneezing from the dust. No giving herself away.

She freezes — becomes a thing, a fragment, lying curled up in a metal crevice like she’s back on her narrow bed by the window. Only now, the blanket is rusted steel that scrapes her through her jacket, and instead of her sisters’ dreaming whispers — screams echo from the street outside, where someone is dying.

Sage closes her eyes.

Don’t think. Don’t imagine. Just breathe. Wait.

It’s not fear. It’s waiting. That tense, bracing stillness before a gunshot. Like the world’s already started to fall — but hasn’t hit the ground yet.

Thin slits in the metal let light through. It shifts. Which means — someone’s moving nearby. Maybe they came in right after her.

Sage goes utterly still — not even her eyelids twitch. Her breathing is shallow, like she’s asleep. She learned to breathe like that in childhood, hiding from the neighbors’ shouting — and sometimes from burst pipes that exploded in the night. It’s a habit. Like swallowing down a cry.

Footsteps. Closer.

A boy. District Ten. No weapon, but twice her size — he could crush her skull with any scrap of iron if he wanted to.

He walks right past — less than a meter away. If her breath had been even a little louder, he’d have heard it.

For a moment, he pauses.

Sage’s heart stalls.

Please go.

Please don’t say you smell me.

Three heartbeats pass.

He mutters something under his breath, turns, and walks away.

He didn’t notice her.

The sound fades.

She’s alone again.

Sage doesn’t move for a minute. Then another. When she’s sure enough time has passed, she slowly flexes her fingers. Checks her limbs. Hands — intact. Legs — intact. But she has no canteen, no food, no weapon. Only herself and this concrete world. She needs to decide fast.

She crawls out, brushing her hands lightly along the ribs of the fan. Rises, but not fully upright — in case someone else found the way in. She ducks behind the nearest column. Glances up.

The towers look empty — but it’s a lie. She’s sure cameras are embedded in cracks, in beams, in lights. They see everything. And worse — everyone sees her. Millions of them. Every step, every breath.

Let them watch.

She slips forward — from column to column, shadow to shadow. No running. No noise. Just a flicker — a suggestion of motion — until at last she stumbles on a hole in the floor. A descent into an underground section.

It’s darker there. The pipes are thicker. There will be places to hide.

She pauses — wondering how many others are used to absolute darkness.

One last scan of the room. No one. Or no one moving.

There’s no ladder—only broken metal beams and dangling cables, like vines in a scorched wasteland. Sage carefully tests one of the beams—it bends, but holds. Her weight shifts automatically: she moves like a cat that has no time for fear, only for sensing, for calculating.

She descends into the breach slowly, knees half-bent, as if the ground below isn’t concrete but thin ice. It’s darker down there—much darker. The smell changes: no longer rust and dust, but burnt residue, rot. And something else. Hard to explain. As if the air has already been exhaled by someone else.

Sage pauses. Breathes.

It doesn’t just smell like death.

It smells like life. Not hers. Close.

She creeps along the wall. A rustle—up ahead. Someone’s moving. Cautious, like her. Or, the opposite—loud on purpose, to show they’re not afraid. Sage freezes behind a rusted panel, curling into herself like a cocoon. Then, finally, she crawls toward the opposite wall, where a utility room yawns open—a crack in the concrete, half-filled with debris. Paisley once said: remember hiding spots while others remember names.

Inside, it smells like mildew and old rags.

But it’s dry. And cold. And safe. For now.

Sage huddles into a corner, listening as the rustling draws closer. Her heart pounds louder. Every muscle pulled taut like a string. And then a shaft of light, slipping in through a narrow gap above, catches a massive shadow in the dark.

It’s not a person.

It’s a rat. Huge, black, and hairless, with glinting eyes that almost glow in the dimness. Its claws scrape against rusty metal, and its teeth grind loudly as it tears something soft in the corner. The rat moves slowly, inspecting the space like it’s hunting for food or shelter.

Sage exhales quietly, trying not to move. She knows this creature is far less dangerous than any person with a weapon. For now. She presses tighter to the wall, ready to wait until it’s gone. Then she’ll keep going—silent, unseen, and, most importantly, still alive.

The basement smells like an animal that’s lived too long: heavy, stale, muffled. Metal rusts even where it shouldn’t—moisture seems to seep into more than just the walls. Sage freezes, listening, waiting for her heart to settle back into her chest.

When the rat disappears, she moves on through the factory floor. Carefully, like she belongs here—a forgotten piece of machinery. One step—pause. Another—listen. There are no windows, only cracks near the ceiling where pale, yellow light filters in. It gives no warmth, no comfort. Just shows how much debris is left behind.

Old crates—empty. Bags—rotted, moldy. A broken lantern, a dried drop of something dark on the floor. Torn boots. A ripped jacket. Nothing worth taking.

Sage stops at a battered crate—filled with coal, maybe, or soil—it’s hard to tell. Moisture has seeped through the cracks, turning the contents into black sludge clinging to the sides. She stares at it for a moment, then reaches in with careful fingers. Smears it across her cheek, her forehead. Her arms. Runs her fingers through her hair like she’s combing with dirt. Her bangs stick to her skin now, but the pale blonde strands are gone, like they never existed.

Her eyes sting, but she only blinks. This is better.

This is safer.

For a second, she feels a strange satisfaction. Like she’s erased not just the color of her hair, but the version of herself the Capitol created—and become something else entirely. Just a shadow on a dusty wall.

Ahead — a space with awnings. Something like an old tech storage: beams, hanging cables, lidless canisters. The acoustics here are particularly harsh. Every sound echoes, and Sage begins stepping on the outer edge of her foot to avoid the usual thud of her boots.

Under one of the awnings is an old perforated metal door. No lock. Just a chain, pre-wrapped and broken. Sage eases it open — the screech is awful, like prying open a rusted ribcage. Behind it — a small room, likely for storage. Nothing useful. Just empty hooks, shards of something glass, and an old tag swollen from the damp:

“#7 – Ventilation System / External Access – Closed.”

Sage raises her eyebrows.

Ventilation. But there’s no way through: rivets, a sealed grate. Just a label, then. Still, if there’s a #7, there must be others.

She stares at the tag a moment longer, as if it might morph and offer a clue. But no — just soggy letters, the smell of mildew, and the trace of old industrial logic. Sage steps back out from the closet and pauses again under the awning, listening. The same silence — thick and slick, like cold oil. Somewhere far above — maybe a floor up — something heavy clatters. Or maybe she imagined it. It’s too quiet here to trust even herself.

She keeps moving — past the canisters, the collapsed beam, another heap of twisted metal. Everything around looks broken, not by time, but by rage. Or worse — by neglect.

Sage thinks about how little lives here. No grass. No mold on the walls. Even the rat — an accident. The arena might be convenient, but that’s the biggest problem. Nothing grows here. And if nothing grows, nothing breeds. And if nothing breeds — hunger. Real hunger, if she’s unlucky. And hunger is the worst kind of ally. It breaks people slowly. Methodically.

In her mind, Paisley's voice echoes:

“Food is a matter of timing. Water is survival. If you find a drop — remember the spot. If you find a source — learn to hide near it so no one suspects.”

Sage stops, frowns, and looks at the floor. At the dust, the stains. Is there any condensation? Do any pipes drip? She scans for shadows. Cold means moisture. Maybe there’s a sub-basement. Or utility tunnels. Or even a hidden tank near the ceiling — for the clever ones.

She walks on, slowly, staying in the shadows, becoming one herself. She listens. She sniffs the air. Now she knows what she’s searching for. To calm her racing heart, she counts in her mind:

One. Morning. I was up before anyone else.

Two. Iris asked if I had a nightmare.

Three. Riven. He’s here too. Somewhere.

Four. Don’t die on the first day. Please, don’t die.

Five. I got lucky with the arena. Maybe luck will stay.

Six. It’s only just beginning.

Seven. Silence. Not a single cannon shot.

So someone’s still fighting at the Cornucopia. And the Capitol still hasn’t finished counting the first-day dead. If it’s dragging on this long, she can forget about scoring any leftovers.

Sage halts at a stairwell. Overhead — shreds of wiring, torn plastic, rusted framing. Below — emptiness. She doesn’t climb, just listens: clanging? Footfalls? A scream? Nothing. Maybe that’s worse.

She takes one more step. Into the dark.

Eight. I don’t need everything. I just need not to be seen.

Notes:

sage really said ✨"fight? no thanks, i’ll be hiding in this moldy tech closet, please and thank you"✨
also me @ the career with the axe: sir this is a wendy’s

anyway! pls hydrate and consider not dying in the first five minutes of a government-mandated murder event <3

Chapter 12

Sage moves along the wall, her fingers brushing the roughness of the concrete. It’s colder here. The airflow is thin, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. That means an exit is nearby — and any moment now, someone else might find it. She barely breathes. Her steps are slow, like every movement doesn’t belong to her, like she’s here on borrowed time.

It smells like iron. Not fresh rust, but old, ingrained metal — like places where machines once stood or pipes were stored. And it also smells like plastic. Burned. Synthetic. Her throat itches slightly. Probably the dust. Or fear.

To her left — a doorway with no door. Just a black slit in the wall. She peeks in: empty. A storage room or maybe a locker room, hard to tell. Trash everywhere. Scraps of fabric. A broken plastic crate. A single boot lies on the floor, the sole split open. Inside — mouse droppings.

Sage walks past but makes a note of it: if she finds nothing better, this might be a place to spend the night. Filthy, but hidden.

She hears a click. Sharp. Her heart pounds harder. Click — again. Not close. The echo drags the sound from above. Or to the side. Or… no. Silence again. Too deep. Almost total. Not a city silence. Not industrial. Dead. The kind where even your own footsteps sound like betrayal.

She moves on. Passes a twisted air vent. Another staircase leading downward — she doesn’t risk it yet. Too open. Too damp.

She stops by something that looks like a valve. Not a water pipe — industrial. A massive handle, thick with dust. Sage tries to turn it — nothing. Dried in place. Fused. Just in case, she checks the wall for rust trails, for signs of dripping. Nothing. Dry. Completely.

She keeps going. Past a smashed fuse box, past cables hanging from the ceiling. One brushes her shoulder — a dull spark pops. Sage flinches. But the wire’s dead. Long disconnected. Or mostly. Would the gamemakers really pass up the chance to fry a tribute?

She’s looking for anything. A sign. A drip. A hint. Something that tells her — yes, you can survive here at least a couple of days. But so far — just concrete. Emptiness. And the sound of blood in her ears.

Sage turns a corner. It’s darker here. The smell shifts — musty, sharp, like in a forgotten closet. She takes another step — and suddenly hears a rustle.

Sharp. Alive.

Tiny footsteps. Two. No — three. Not toward her. Just beside her.

Sage freezes. Her heart jumps to her throat. Her eyes squint into the half-dark. Slowly, she crouches and peers under a shelf stacked with dusty crates. Movement. Fast. Quivering shadows. Rats. Not one — a whole nest. Small bodies, flickers of eyes, twitching tails.

And — the smell. Not just trash. Something rotting. She stares deeper — among the rags and plastic bags — something lies there. Too big for a rat’s dinner. Too still.

Sage clenches her fist. Steps back. One step. Another. Careful. Silent. They don’t flee. They don’t hide. They’re feeding.

Her nails dig into her palm. A wave rises inside — not fear, not even horror, but that specific revulsion when your body hasn’t accepted it yet, but your brain has already understood.

They’ve only been on the arena a few hours. Less than a day. So if there’s a body — that means someone else is nearby. Someone who did this. If the body showed up this fast, this isn’t just her territory.

Sage feels a sharp nausea rise. She leans against the wall, covers her mouth. This is wrong. Anything that moves should be afraid of you. But the rats aren’t. Because they’re already used to corpses.

She looks at the pile again. The edge. A sleeve? Or just a torn rag?

No… Just fabric. And next to it — a chunk of greasy foam, gray and slick.

Sage squints. Refocuses.

Shit.

It’s not a body at all.

It’s just a rotting piece of an old mattress, stained with some unknown liquid, and lying on top of it — a chewed-up doll, staring lifelessly at the ceiling with a single glass eye.

Sage exhales. Slowly. Almost with relief. Her legs are still shaking, but the panic begins to fade.

“Just trash,” she whispers to herself, unable to hold it in. Then, more bitterly: “Sick, stinking trash.”

But the rats keep eating, and that’s more than enough reason to get away from here.

Sage wipes her palms on her pants. Breathes deeper, louder than necessary. Not on purpose — her insides are still clenched.

“If there are animals,” she remembers Paisley’s words, “then there’s either warmth nearby, or moisture. Maybe both.”

She looks up. To the beams, where drops might be forming. Then down. Then sideways — to where the rats are heading, dragging the piece of mattress with them. And suddenly she understands: they’re not afraid. That means no one else is here.

Sage straightens up. The unease lingers in her gut, but her steps are steadier now. Maybe following the rats will lead her to water. Or something worse. But worse than the nest? Unlikely. Though…

She walks slowly, carefully, as if becoming part of the old warehouse itself, a shadow slipping between seams of metal. Beneath her boots — shards, scraps of fabric, a strip of tape hardened with dust. Everything crunches. Even the silence.

Sometimes she thinks she hears something besides her own steps. But when she stops, there’s only silence.

She finds another staircase, leading downward. A real one, not emergency — thick handrails, peeling paint. Below — near total darkness. The ceiling lights haven’t worked in ages, but there are cracks where dim, murky light leaks through. It makes everything look like it’s underwater — greenish gleams, shifting shadows.

This isn’t just storage anymore. It looks more like a utility level. Thick pipes run along the walls. Some are coated in frost. And Sage feels it: cold. Not air flow — temperature. Icy moisture. She steps closer and places her hand on the pipe. The metal trembles. A vibration under her fingers. Faint, barely noticeable — but real. Something’s moving inside. Something flowing.

She exhales — softly, but with such relief it’s as if she’s been holding her breath this entire floor. She circles around. The pipe runs along the wall, disappears into the floor at some points. Farther ahead — a joint, a seam, maybe even a valve or a filter. Anything she could cling to. Even if she has to gnaw it open with her teeth.

Sage presses her cheek against the metal, as if listening. The cold seeps into her bones, but she doesn’t care. This pipe — it’s her chance. Maybe, if she stays quiet enough, she won’t even need to leave this place until everyone else is dead. It’s almost too good to believe.

Almost — because she can’t break the pipe. Yet. But even almost is better than emptiness.

She taps it. Once. Twice. Listens. Not the sound — the sound is dull, coffin-like. But the moisture responds. Dew on her fingertips. A tiny crack in the seam.

Perfect. Not salvation, but a crutch. Something to hold on to when the thirst comes.

“I’ll come back,” she thinks. “I’ll find something to break you open.”

Sage takes a step back and slowly, reluctantly, turns away from the pipe. She knows: if she stays longer, she won’t leave at all. And right now, she has no canteen. No container. Not even a bag. But she has a place she can remember.

She steps away from the pipe — and freezes. The corridor is still silent. No footsteps, no creaking metal. Only her breathing — and even that sounds too loud.

And then, muffled notes of the anthem.

After them — a shot.

Muffled, distant, but hitting her chest like a punch. Not from a cannon — from the sky. From the announcement system embedded in an invisible hovercraft. Even here, beneath layers of concrete and metal, it can be heard.

Boom.

"First," Sage thinks, folding one finger.

The sound doesn’t come again immediately. Between the first and second, maybe a second passes. Or an eternity.

Boom.

"Second."

She steps back — and then again. No longer looking at the pipe. She listens. Counts, holding her breath.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

And that’s it.

Silence. As deep and dead as a grave.

Sage exhales — but feels no relief. Only emptiness. All ten fingers are folded.

Ten out of twenty-four. Counting herself, fourteen remain. So this is just the beginning.

She squeezes her eyes shut. For a second, the thought appears in her mind that each of those ten people had been someone’s child, someone’s sibling. But Sage pushes it away before it has a chance to become pity.

She’s fine. Now she has a rough plan, water — almost, shelter — sort of. Most importantly, she’s alive. For now.

She spends the next few hours below — in the basement, among pipes, cracks, and damp concrete. Time breaks into segments — from corner to corner, corridor to staircase, one strange sound to another. It’s hard to navigate in the dark; everything looks the same. Moss-covered walls. Wires hanging down like dried-out veins. Rust that looks like old blood.

But Sage quickly learns — or remembers — how to tell the difference. Where the concrete is drier. Where the steps crumble underfoot.  Where the air thickens, like before a storm.

She tries to memorize her path — sketches a map in her mind: two left turns, then a breach in the wall, then a gray door with a crack, then the corridor that smells of mildew and oil. Sometimes she marks the walls — tiny symbols in the dust: a cross, a dot. Not reliable — it could get her tracked. But better than getting lost.

In one of the rooms, Sage finds a cluster of empty plastic containers — peeling, some cracked, but two still hold their shape. She takes one. In another, she spots an old filter — or maybe part of a ventilation unit. Next to it — a nest. Bundles of cloth, blackened with age, and in the center — a pile of bones. Small. Rat bones.

But even that is knowledge. If rats were here — she’s close to water.

In another wing — a hole in the floor. She peers down: darkness, thick as black syrup. Nothing visible. Only the sound of dripping. Rhythmic. Not from the roof, not from a pipe — as if something down there, in the deep, is breathing.

Farther on — a long hall filled with crates. Some are broken; others contain only junk. Scraps of plastic, bits of cloth. Nothing edible. But she finds a bent iron rod. Sage takes it — not as a weapon, but as a tool. She could use it to pry open the pipe. Or defend herself. Or at least keep the rats at bay.

Sometimes it feels like she’s being watched. Not by someone specific—no footsteps, no shadows. Just a feeling, like someone’s staring into her back. She turns around, freezes—but nothing. Only the old dark and the cold.

She finds another pipe—different from the first, but humming just the same. The metal is rimmed with frost. There’s water here. And now, she has a container.

Sage crouches down by the wall, letting her back fall against the cold concrete. Down here, the air is damp and heavy, like underground—but after so many hours, it’s almost comforting. Her pulse has stopped racing. Her stomach’s still empty, but it no longer growls like it did in the morning, when she skipped breakfast because she thought she might throw up. She knows where the water is. She has a container. A route. Almost a shelter.

Almost. But in the Games, ‘almost’ is a luxury.

Sage closes her eyes for a second—as if testing whether she can let herself shut down. Her muscles ache with tension. Her legs feel heavy, like she’s knee-deep in mud. For the first time all day, her head isn’t ringing. Everything around her is still—old machinery locked in place without electricity, just like she is—trapped without an exit.

She wraps into herself: chin to chest, arms curled around her stomach, forehead against knees. Just for a minute. Maybe even lie down? Here, behind the old crate, you can’t be seen from any entrance. Even sound doesn’t echo—it’s that muffled. Safe. Or… yeah, almost.

She’s thinking it when—

A footstep.

One. Then another. Somewhere to the left, behind the pipes.

Sage straightens instantly, as if struck by lightning. She freezes, breathless. Her blood hammers in her ears.

A step.

Human. Not an echo. Not hers. Not a rat. Heavy. Too heavy.

Sage reaches for the iron rod she’d left beside her on the floor. Her fingers tremble. The steps are slow, but getting closer. Not running—walking. Like whoever it is wants to be heard.

Her throat goes dry. Even her thoughts are muted, like gunshots underwater. And still, she doesn’t move. Doesn’t retreat. She just stares into the dark, where the sound is coming from.

Step.

Another.

Silence.

Sage doesn’t breathe. She grips the rod tighter, feeling the metal cut slowly into the skin between her fingers.

No more steps.

Only that swollen, dead silence, the kind that comes before an earthquake.

She creeps closer to the pipe, trying to stay hidden in the shadow. If the person is looking for water—they could be dangerous. Water isn’t just a resource. It’s power. And power rarely has allies.

A creak.

Not a step. Something else, like someone brushed against a metal grate or nudged a piece of debris.

Sage leans a little closer to the ground.

Now she hears it—breathing. Muffled, uneven. Too heavy for someone uninjured. Or… too close.

She listens harder. A faint sound—as if someone just leaned against a wall. Another step. Very close now.

Sage darts behind the corner, barely letting her boots touch the floor. Her back melts into the cold concrete. She’s trying, truly, to become a shadow, because she knows:

If the noise keeps going, she still has a chance to stay hidden. But if they freeze too—then she’s in trouble. It’ll mean a fight. Or a wait. And waiting means trembling. And trembling means giving herself away.

Another step. Slower this time. As if… sniffing her out.

Sage freezes. The metal rod is pressed to her chest. Her breathing is shallow. She’s ready to strike — or to run. Or both.

“...who’s there?” a hoarse voice calls out. Deep, raspy. Not a girl’s. Not quite confident either. Like someone who’s not afraid, but hoping he’s wrong. Hoping he’s alone.

She doesn’t answer. The voice comes again, louder this time:

“I know I heard you.”

Sage presses against the wall, waiting.

Then — a flash. Not bright — a dim glow around the corner, like from a handheld flashlight. But it’s enough: shadows jump across concrete and pipes. Movement.

He’s close.

Sage slowly slides along the wall, keeping in the blind spots. Her heart is hammering somewhere in her throat, her blood louder than his footsteps. The light gets closer — dim, yellowish, trembling. Probably a battery flashlight. Or a torch wrapped in cloth. Both are bad: it means he didn’t get lost, he came prepared for the dark.

She hears him breathing heavily. Like he’s dragging something — or just finished dragging it. Maybe a backpack. Maybe a body.

“If you’re not gonna slit my throat, I won’t touch you,” he says again. Too fast. Too loud. That means he’s nervous.

Good. That could work in her favor.

Sage sees him for just a second — between two archways, as he turns. Tall. Broad-shouldered, but moving awkwardly, like after an injury. Can’t make out his face. His flashlight hand shakes. In the other — something like a pipe or a crowbar. Not a crossbow. Not a knife. So, close combat. That means she might have a chance to run.

She retreats deeper into the gap between two rusted cabinets — maybe a utility closet or storage. Her back hits a solid wall. No better place to hide.

The light skims across the floor. Then the wall. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t check behind the cabinets. Yet.

“I heard you breathe,” he says, softer now. “I know you’re not a rat.”

Sage grips the rod tighter. A thousand thoughts flash through her head. Say something? Distract him? Strike first?

Just as she’s about to inhale — he stops. Right in front of her.  Only a few meters away — a cabinet, a shadow, and the trembling cone of light between them. He turns his head. Right toward her.

“You’re a girl, right?” he asks, in a completely different tone. Light. Almost cautious. And there’s something odd in it. Not threat. Not fear. Curiosity.

A pause.

“If you’re from Twelve...” he says slowly, “maybe we don’t have to... go for the throat. You guys — you mine coal, right? You’re not the crazy ones.”

Sage goes still. Twelve? Is he guessing? Trying to bait her?

She slowly pulls her hand away from the wall and shifts her grip on the rod — like a knife. She’s ready to strike.

“I’m from Eight,” she answers finally. Her voice is hoarse, quiet, but firm. “So you guessed wrong.”

Silence. Then a soft sound — he takes a step back.

“Shit,” he exhales. “Sorry.”

A pause. He lowers the flashlight toward the floor. The beam settles on the dusty concrete between them.

“I’m not gonna attack. Seriously,” he says. “I just... I thought you were that guy. From the roof. Near the exit. He hit me. Or tried to. I couldn’t tell. But he dropped his flashlight, and I grabbed it.”

He hesitates, coughs. The air down here is heavy.

“Whatever. Just... I don’t want to fight. Not unless I have to.”

Sage stays silent, weighing whether to believe him. She takes a step out of the shadows, rod still in hand. Looks him straight in the face.

“You’re from Three,” she says slowly, studying him. “Yeah. I remember you.”

He flinches — barely — like he didn’t expect anyone to remember him. Or didn’t believe anyone had even looked at him back in the Capitol. Now he looks completely different from what he seemed to her in the dark. Medium height. Lean. He used to have glasses — now he doesn’t. A cut on his cheek, dried blood under his chin. Dark hair, messy. And his eyes... not like a hunter’s. Careful. Waiting.

"Vector," she says, like she's tasting the name.

He nods. A little tensely.

"I didn’t lie to you," he says. "You see, I don’t even have a real weapon. Just this."

He carefully lifts the crooked piece of metal in his hand.

"And you really thought I was a guy?" Sage asks. There’s no surprise or offense in her voice. Just curiosity.

"You walked like him," he replies. "Too quiet. And I only saw a shadow. You know how it is here—everything gets mixed up. And that sound... I just thought maybe he came back for me."

He closes his eyes for a second, covering them with his hand, like he’s erasing the memory or trying not to show his exhaustion.

"What did he do?" she asks.

Vector shrugs.

"Kicked me in the side. Then disappeared. I’m not even sure it was him. Could’ve been a hallucination. I couldn’t eat properly for two days before the Games. What an idiot I was! The food there was so good. Wait... no, if the flashlight’s real, then I guess it wasn’t a hallucination. You see it too, right?"

Sage says nothing. She looks at him. Then — at the pipe behind her.

"You can wait here. For a bit," she says slowly. "But if you're lying..."

"I'm not. And yes, I know that’s exactly what a liar would say."

She doesn’t reply for a long time. Then slowly lowers the rod, but doesn’t put it away. She just holds it by her side, like a warning.

"Fine. But you sit over there. On that side. See? By the wall."

He nods. Walks slowly to the spot she pointed at and sinks to the floor. Leans his back against a rusted panel, pulls his legs in. Silent. Staring into space like he's trying to count how many hours it's been since the arena started.

Sage stays in her place. A little closer to the pipe. She sits too — not with her back to anything, but turned sideways, so she can see him. So she can listen. The rod is still in her hand. Just in case.

Every step downward feels like a blow to the chest. The stairs are metal, covered in dust and sticky grime. The silence grows thicker, as if the air itself is pulling her backward. Or downward.

A heavy stillness settles between them, thick as the damp basement air. Sage listens — to herself, to him, to the pipe behind her. Water pulses somewhere inside it. Alive, just like they are. For now.

Vector carefully pulls a piece of cloth from his pocket — the faded pattern makes it clear it’s a scrap torn from one of the rolls strewn across the upper floor — and begins wrapping it around his hand. Maybe he scraped it. Maybe he just wants to keep his fingers busy. They’re long, uncertain — like someone who’s always written more than fought.

Strangely, it stirs something in Sage. Something close to pity.

She doesn’t look at him. Just says, softly:

"Are you alone?"

"Yeah. From the start. There wasn’t anyone near me even at the launch."

He pauses. Then adds:

"I ran away instead of going for weapons. Dumb, maybe. But I thought if I left right away, I’d last longer."

"It’s smart. That’s what my mentor told me to do."

Sage tries to keep her voice low, so no one hears them — but she can’t make herself stop talking. She needs someone to speak. To drown out the things she fears in her mind: screams, cannons, Riven. She doesn’t know if he’s alive. And if he is — is he looking for her?

"I’m not looking for allies," she says slowly. "But that doesn’t mean I don’t need them. For now."

Vector looks at her — not directly, but slightly to the side. Respectfully. Cautiously.

“I feel the same,” he says. “I don’t have anyone. I don’t know how to do it, like the others. All that… negotiation. Manipulation. Smiling.” He shrugs. “I just know wiring. And soldering. And a bit about ventilation.”

Sage gives a faint smirk.

“Ventilation might come in handy. I was just planning to crawl into it.”

Then, quieter:

“But if you’re planning to betray me later, better do it quick. I’m serious. I’m a girl without a weapon. Might as well get it over with.”

“I’m not planning to,” he whispers.

Silence again, but it no longer feels so hollow. Sage rotates the metal rod in her hand slightly, listening to a distant, almost imagined dripping behind the wall, and glances at her container.

Okay. For now, Vector isn’t a threat. For now, he might be useful. And maybe, for now, she isn’t completely alone.

She gives a sharp gesture, a quiet signal that cuts off the conversation. Then nods toward a pipe:

“Come on. That way. Careful — the floor’s slippery.”

Vector doesn’t ask unnecessary questions. His footsteps are light, as if trying not to disturb the silence. Sage appreciates that.

The corridor narrows. Strips of wire hang from the ceiling, and old lamps are coated in the grime of years. The pipe — the same one — runs along the wall, rusted, marked with pale patches of frost. In the corners — clumps of webbing, scraps of insulation, black spots that make her want to look away. She’s seen this before, in the district — in the bathroom corners. Black mold. That means she was right. There’s moisture here.

Sage presses herself to the wall, breathing shallow. Good. If there’s mold, there’ll be water — eventually. It couldn’t have formed otherwise. Squinting into the darkness, she examines the pipe more closely. The ceiling here is low, partially collapsed, twisted bits of metal jutting from the structure. And that’s what gives her hope. Because even old, rusted systems lead somewhere.

One part of the ceiling is more caved in. Chunks of concrete, rebar, a humming emptiness beyond the breach. Sage drops to her knees, peeks inside. Dark. But the smell is different. Not dust. Wet steel. Water?

“You sure it’s worth going in there?”

“No. But it beats sitting still and waiting to see who gets hungry enough to hunt first.”

“…alright. But if I die in this hole — don’t claim my share of the water.”

“Deal,” Sage replies dryly, and, taking one last breath, begins crawling toward the breach.

She feels along the wall — rough, peeling paint like the flaking skin of an old animal. No rails. No lights. Just the occasional gap between the panels, where emergency beacons might’ve been. She edges closer, touches the floor. In the cracks of concrete dust — tiny veins of dampness. Barely there. But enough to make her breath catch.

Then she sees it. At the bend where the pipe dives beneath the floor — a faint seam. And a tiny crack, from which a single drop trickles down. At first it looks like condensation. But if you look closely — no. It moves.

One hand pulls her container toward her. She places it beneath the pipe. A few seconds pass — drip… and the first drop lands inside. Then another.

“Slow,” she says, without looking. “But we can speed it up.”

She snatches the cloth from Vector’s hands and twists it into a tight roll. Presses one end into the crack, the other into a broken tin. The fabric darkens — slowly drawing in water like a wick.

“Capillary effect,” Vector mutters. “Smart.”

“Better than nothing,” Sage replies.

He suddenly makes a strange noise, kneels beside her, and almost yanks the container from her hands.

“Hey!” she hisses.

“Sorry. I have an idea,” he says. “I can make a funnel from a lid.”

He shows her a broken cap with jagged edges.

“If we set it over the crack, the water will collect faster. Cleaner, too.”

Sage narrows her eyes.

“You sure?”

“Totally.”

“Then do it. Just don’t break the pipe. We’ll need it later.”

They work in silence. Vector fits the improvised funnel, slides the container beneath it. Sage watches the drops gather — slowly, but steadily. Plastic glistens. At some point, he grins.

“Don't we have anything to boil it up with?”

Sage looks at him a beat too long.

“You figured out the funnel but didn’t consider that a campfire in the middle of a factory might not be the best idea?”

“…oh.”

The container is nearly half full. Clean, almost clear water. It’s more than just liquid. It’s time. A chance to stay underground. To wait. To think. To survive.

Sage wipes her hands on her pants. Then brings her fingers to her mouth and tastes a drop. Cold. Slightly salty. But not murky.

“It’ll do,” she says.

Vector stays silent. Just watches the water drip, and there’s something strangely calming in the rhythm. For the first time in a long while, Sage feels like at least one thing in her world obeys a law. A real one. Not the Games. Not the Capitol’s rules. But a law of the universe. Just gravity. And water.

Sage sits down against the wall, legs stretched out in front of her like she’s trying to rest, but her eyes aren’t relaxed. She’s watching Vector. He sits a few meters away, legs crossed, elbows resting on his knees. His flashlight lies beside him, angled to the side, so his face is barely visible — just a silhouette. He’s fiddling with the strap on his pants, like he just needs something to do with his hands. Or maybe he’s hiding nervousness.

Maybe he’s scared of her too. Sage isn’t sure if that thought comforts her — or makes it worse.

“Thinking of staying here for the night?” he asks softly, barely turning his head.

She doesn’t answer right away.

“It’s quiet. We’ve got water. Probably more than most.”

A pause.

“You injured?”

“Just my shoulder. Nothing serious. Banged it running.”

Sage stays quiet, eyes drifting to the pipe. The water is still trickling. Slowly. Stubbornly. She feels sleep tugging at her — not suddenly, but thickly, like the weight of the day is finally pressing down on her shoulders. She hasn’t slept more than five hours total since the private sessions.

She calculates. If she falls asleep… Vector’s right there. He might keep watch. He might leave her alone. Or he might quietly get up once she’s out — and just… wrap the strap around her throat.

She watches his hands. Not very strong. No calluses. He doesn’t look like a fighter. More like a egghead, as Henley would say. Yeah. Smart, maybe even careful. But fear can turn people into monsters. Who would know about this if not Sage.

“We can sleep in shifts,” he says suddenly, like he read her mind.

Still not looking at her. Still messing with the strap.

“Two hours for you. Then me. Or the other way around.”

Sage narrows her eyes. It’s a reasonable offer. Too reasonable. What if he doesn’t wake her? What if he just leaves, with the water, with her stuff? Or waits until she’s exhausted — and strikes from behind?

“Would you trust you, if you were me?” she asks.

Vector finally turns to her. His face is tired. No cockiness. Just something like tense sincerity — if that’s even a thing.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Right now? Probably not.”

He pauses.

“But weaklings are stronger together. We won’t survive if we kill each other in the first day.”

Sage gives a faint smile — not amused, almost sad.

“Speak for yourself, weakling.”

They fall silent. The sound of dripping water. The occasional groan of old metal behind the wall.

“Sleep, if you want,” Vector says. “I’ll stay up. Just… sit here. I swear.”

Sage doesn’t answer. Folds up her jacket into a pillow. Lies on her side, not letting go of the rod. Vector turns away, pulls his knees to his chest. The flashlight goes out.

Just the dripping.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Sage doesn’t sleep. Not yet. Sleep comes to her slowly. Creeping like a shadow — cautiously, through the tension at the back of her neck, through the cold of the pipe against her spine, through the whisper of those rare drops.

Her fingers are still clenched around the rod, but her breathing evens out, her eyes grow heavy…

And suddenly — she’s home.

Her sisters are still asleep, but Sage is already awake. She rises almost soundlessly, like a ghost who doesn’t want to frighten the living. Lifts the hem of her nightdress carefully, avoiding the creaky floorboard near Marigold’s bed.

The room is small, the ceiling low, the windows facing the gray wall of the neighboring building. The beds are pressed tightly together. Iris sleeps with her forehead resting on her arm, as if she’s hiding. Marigold breathes heavily, like she’s fighting her way through sleep. Rosie lies stiff and straight, like she’s already bracing herself for the weight of the day.

Sage tiptoes past. She knows how to move without waking any of them. Her own bed is by the window. It’s cooler there, sometimes there's a draft.  But she doesn’t mind. That air — it’s real.

The kitchen is empty. On the table — a bowl of stale bread. She breaks off a piece, eats standing by the window. Outside, it’s gray, the sky hasn’t fully woken yet. A thin line of light cuts across the rooftops, settles on the dust, turning it gold.

Still quiet. And this — this is rare, precious silence.

Sage doesn’t think about the Reaping. Not yet. Right now — it’s just morning. Just her breath, the bread, the dust, the window. Silence, like before the shots, before the Arena, before the pipes, before the fear.

Iris stirs behind her.

“You’re up already?” she whispers.

Sage turns. Through the crack between the kitchen and the room, she sees Iris sitting up in bed. Her shoulders are slumped, like someone utterly worn out.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Sage answers softly.

“A nightmare?”

She shakes her head.

They fall silent. And in that pause — everything that existed before the day when…

BOOM.

Sage jolts. Her eyes snap open.

Darkness. The stench of metal, damp, and dried dust. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears. She jerks upright—and… she’s alive. Alive.

This isn’t home. No sisters. Just a pipe. Concrete. And a boy from District Three. Vector.

He’s slumped against the wall, head tilted back. Asleep.

Sage freezes.

First — surprise. Because he didn’t kill her. Didn’t try. Didn’t steal the water. Didn’t run.

Then — anger. Because she let herself trust him, even for an hour. And he, who promised to stay on watch, had passed out too.

“Idiot,” she mutters under her breath. Not with real fury, but with dull irritation.

Her hand is still gripping the metal rod. She shifts away from the wall. No noise. First — listen. Look around. Figure out where that crash came from. Check if someone approached while they both slept. Then — wake Vector. Or kick him. She hasn’t decided yet.

Sage sits upright, straining her ears for any sounds: creaking, footsteps, someone’s breath. But there’s only silence. That same heavy, ringing silence from which gunfire and killing are born. Or dreams.

She gets up slowly, crouched. Her body aches from the awkward sleep, her back is numb, but she ignores it. Moves to the pipe. Cold. Wet. Where they gathered water, her breath still lingers — droplets, the imprint of a palm.

She checks: the container they used to collect water is still there. Vector didn’t touch it.

Sage turns to him. He’s still asleep, head resting on his shoulder, arms limp at his sides. A scratch on his cheek, something dried and cracked on his lips — maybe blood, maybe just chapped skin. He looks like anyone — except a tribute in a death match. At least, not right now. Right now, he’s just a boy. Tired. Trusting. And that alone is enough to make her angry again.

She steps closer, leans down, and jabs his boot.

“Vector.”

He flinches, jerks awake, eyes blinking unfocused for a second — then quickly reaches forward, arm out... But freezes as soon as he recognizes her.

“What?” he rasps.

Sage doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at him with cold calm.

“We agreed. One sleeps. One keeps watch. You fell asleep. If I had…”

She doesn’t finish. He blinks, clearly still half-asleep, then frowns.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just… passed out. I thought I’d rest for thirty minutes.”

“You thought,” she cuts in. “People die on the Arena for that.”

He lowers his head, runs a hand over his face.

“You’re right. I won’t argue. It won’t happen again.”

She sighs. It’s not anger driving her — it’s fear.

“You’re on watch today,” she says. “I’ll try to sleep a little more. But if you nod off — you’re dead. Got it?”

“Got it,” he says quietly.

Sage turns away, sits down by the wall, rod still in hand. Just in case. And in her mind, a thought resurfaces: Riven, are you alive? Are you still in the Games?

Because if not, then she has no one to count on.

Except maybe — just maybe — the boy who looks more like a schoolteacher than a killer.

Chapter 13

Sage wakes up sharply — as if the alarm is still blaring inside her. Her hand clenches the rod automatically before her eyes are even fully open. Her body aches, her lips are dry, but — she's alive.

The silence around her feels almost cozy. Vector is sitting against the wall, warming his hands over a flashlight he’s turned inward — barely any heat, just a faint glow.

"Did anyone else die while I was asleep?" she asks hoarsely, without getting up.

He turns to her. Doesn’t answer right away.

"Not yet."

"Good," she sighs. "I mean... bad. Did you see who died the first day?"

Vector nods and starts counting on his fingers.

"Both from Five, both from Six, both from Nine. The boys from Eleven and Twelve. The girls from Seven and Ten."

Sage doesn’t smile, but something inside her warms, just a little. Riven is still alive. Somewhere out there in the arena. Maybe hiding, just like she is.

They fall silent. For a while, the only sound is the occasional drip from a pipe. Somewhere far away — maybe a scream. Or just the wind.

Sage leans back against the wall, staring into the dark.

"You want to sleep too?" she finally asks.

Vector gives a slight nod, sluggishly. He’s clearly running on fumes.

"Just a bit," he mumbles, already settling against the wall. "Half an hour. Wake me if anything happens."

Sage watches as he closes his eyes. His breathing is uneven, but evens out after a few minutes. He slips into sleep quickly — deep, head tilted back against the concrete. Utterly defenseless.

She stays completely still. For a few seconds, just listens: Vector’s breathing, the rustle of her own heart. Then slowly, carefully, she stands. Her knees crack, muscles ache, but Sage shows nothing. She walks to the pipe. It’s still damp — cool drops collecting at the edges, and she catches one in her palm. Brings it to her lips: it doesn’t quench her thirst, but at least brings her tongue back to life.

Then Sage sits by the exit, knees drawn in, rod at the ready. Watching. Listening. Her mind refuses to rest. It turns over everything they know. Who’s dead. Who’s alive. How many are left. Where food might be. The closest buildings. Potential traps. Behavior of past arenas. What Paisley would have done. What she herself would’ve done in Riven’s place. What it means to go another day without food.

How much time has passed since the Games began? Twelve hours? Maybe less. Maybe a lot more. Sage isn’t sure anymore. Down here, in the belly of the arena, where there’s no sun and no clocks, time blurs like fogged glass. Day and night only shift in the rhythm of the drips and how loud your stomach growls.

She barely breathes while listening to the factory. A couple of times she hears something outside — scraping, maybe footsteps. Too far to tell. She doesn’t move, doesn’t let her attention slip. Just waits for Vector to wake up. Keeps watch.

Maybe ten minutes pass. Maybe an hour. Sage remains almost in the same position — the rod on her knees, her back pressed against the wall, eyes drifting over the floor, the crates, the pipes on the ceiling. She doesn’t squint, doesn’t blink too often — conserving energy. In her mind, there's a chessboard. The pieces are in place, some already taken. She doesn’t know who she’s playing against. But she knows for sure — the game is on.

Vector stirs. He doesn’t wake up immediately — more like shifts in his sleep, as if chasing something in the dark. Then suddenly sits up, exhaling sharply. His gaze is still unfocused.

“It’s fine,” Sage says right away, softly. “No one’s been here.”

He blinks, trying to bring the world back into focus.

“How long did I sleep?” he asks hoarsely.

“Less than an hour,” Sage replies. “I didn’t count.”

He nods, leans back, rubs his eyes with his fists. He doesn’t look rested, but a bit fresher than before.

“No one showed up?”

“Just the usual sounds. I didn’t take any chances. If someone came down, let them think it’s empty here.”

Vector peers at her from under his hand.

“Are you always this calm?”

“No. I just fake it well.”

Sage averts her gaze. Something inside her tightens — a barely perceptible clench in her jaw, a breath a little longer than necessary. But she quickly returns to her usual posture: shoulders straight, expression dry, giving nothing away.

There’s nothing calm inside her. Only a taut string, pulled to its limit. It hasn’t started shaking yet. But one wrong move — and it’ll snap.

Sage feels it almost physically. Like a current under her skin, nearly burning. Like every sound, even her own breathing, is too loud. Too alive. She’s not panicking — not quite. Panic is when you lose control. And Sage still has control. Barely. Her whole body is operating like a small animal, hiding beneath the roots of a tree during a storm. Not to fight — to wait it out. To survive. To stay still in the dark until the storm passes. Until the footsteps fade. Until the dead stop breathing nearby.

They sit in silence for a while. The air smells of damp and metal. Somewhere behind the wall, an old pipe gurgles or grumbles — like the arena itself is alive and annoyed by their presence.

Then she rises. Slowly, without sudden movements. The rod still in her hand, like a part of her.

“Let’s go. Still more rooms to check.”

“You think we’ll find anything?”

“I think if we miss something, we’ll regret it. We need food.”

They step into the corridor — dark, echoing, as if carved inside the body of a sleeping beast. Beneath their feet, concrete spotted with old damp stains. The walls are lined with pipes, some wrapped in torn insulation, others ending in rusted, dust-choked vents — like no one’s breathed this air in years.

Sage walks in front, rod extended slightly forward. Not to attack — more like an antenna, a tool to measure how close the danger is. Vector moves more quietly than before, lighting the path with his flashlight. He’s learning — or just tired of being wrong.

They pass several rooms. The first — an old storage. Inside — empty shelves and a broken reel-to-reel machine on the floor, crushed like a bug. The air reeks of burnt plastic and dust. Sage peeks inside, touches nothing. Just nods — move on.

Next — a supply closet. Small, windowless. The walls are blotched with green mold. On the floor — a toolbox, mostly rusted. Only a couple of screwdrivers still intact. She picks up one — thin as a hairpin — and tucks it into her pocket.

“Might work on a lock,” she whispers, not looking at Vector.

He nods in reply. He’s beginning to understand the language of survival.

Finally, they enter a narrow hall — once likely a maintenance zone. A few cabinets along the wall, one half open. Sage leans in, listens — silence inside. Carefully, she pulls the door. A long creak — like an exhale.

Inside — chaos: bits of old wiring, broken headphones, greasy plastic food wrappers, a dented aluminum cup. On top — a used water filter, dried out and long useless. Some papers, wet and stuck together into a shapeless pulp. A rotten strap from something that might’ve once been a flashlight. Nothing you can eat, drink, repair or fight with.

"Trash," Vector mutters behind her.

Sage is already about to turn away, but then she notices — beneath the pile of junk, there’s a soft fabric bag. Compact, with a rubberized bottom, clearly once part of a technician’s kit. Mold has crept along the edges, but the zipper is barely rusted, and the strap is still intact.

She pulls it out from under the mess, shakes off whatever’s stuck. A few scraps fall to the floor. One of the papers disintegrates, turning into a sticky mush.

The bag is empty. Sage checks the seams, tests the zipper, nods. Not a dream find — but better than nothing.

“We’ll take it,” she says. “Might come in handy.”

She slings the bag over her shoulder, adjusts the strap so it won’t get in the way while walking. It’s almost weightless, but now they have a pack — which means they can start collecting. Without a word, Vector hands her the water container. She tucks it inside smoothly, arranging it so it won’t rattle or get in the way. Then zips it shut — with a soft click, no extra noise.

“Now we really move on?” Vector asks.

Sage nods, already stepping out of the room.

“Yeah. But slowly. Stay alert.”

Behind them, the cabinet creaks again, like it's reluctantly closing its mouth.

The corridor stretches on — gray, slightly sloped, the floor uneven and rust-streaked in places. Sand crunches underfoot, and the air reeks of mold and old oil. The flashlight carves out fragments of reality: dusty markings on the walls, arrows pointing nowhere, plaques with faded section numbers.

The next room — a small storage or maybe an old repair station. A cabinet with sliding drawers, a couple of broken chairs, everything buried under dust. Sage tries to open one drawer — it sticks, then gives. Inside — scraps: screws, a few twisted wires, pliers with a broken handle. Lower down — a rag stiff with oil, an old roll of electrical tape, half-glued together. No food. Nothing even remotely useful.

“Nothing,” she says softly, already used to it.

Next — a room that once, judging by the scattered parts, was used to repair equipment. Now everything’s stripped, like after a raid. One cabinet — empty. In another — a box of plastic lids, no matching containers. A plastic fork. All useless. They go through everything — fast, silent, like people who know the odds are slim, but check anyway. Just in case.

Vector rummages through one of the drawers, pushes aside a piece of cloth — and suddenly freezes.

“Oh, wait…”

He pulls out something thin and dusty. A pair of glasses — old, the lenses lightly scratched, with one thick crack along the edge of the left one. The frame is slightly bent, but intact. Vector carefully wipes the lenses with his sleeve, puts them on. His face lights up with a joy so pure, it’s like he just found food.

“Ha. Almost in focus,” he says, raising his brows. “Better than nothing. I lost mine the first day. Then stepped on them. Without them, everything’s a blur.”

Sage glances at him and nods.

“Then take care of these,” she says.

Vector grins. Carefully adjusts the glasses, as if afraid to scare away his luck, and continues searching the cabinet — now with new clarity in his eyes.

Next, he finds a box marked with the ration symbol: the packaging looks promising, but inside are only crumbs. With frustration, he tosses it into the corner. The loud sound makes Sage spin around sharply, her rod slightly raised.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“Quieter,” she replies with a frown.

The corridor forks ahead. One way leads to a grated staircase, apparently blocked from above. The other — a narrow passage where the walls almost touch. Sage goes first, Vector’s flashlight illuminating only her back.

They move slowly, holding their breath, listening to every step. The smell of damp is stronger here, as if there’s water nearby. But not drinking water. Below — a drainage well, half-covered with a grate. A thick, rotten stench rises from it. On the floor lie torn bits of plastic and a jar lid, but no jar.

The next doors are locked, and beyond them — a large room, nearly empty. Once, perhaps, it held equipment. Now, only empty plastic crates, a broken cart, and on the wall — a peeling map of the building, faded almost beyond recognition. Sage approaches, studies it. Some labels are still legible — “power section,” “generator,” “emergency exit.” But where exactly they are now is hard to tell.

“Wish someone had left a sandwich,” Vector mutters, staring into an empty crate. “Or at least a packet of something edible.”

Sage doesn’t respond. Her eyes sweep across the ceiling, the cracks, the niches — any place the gamemakers might have hidden something. But it’s all empty.

“All right,” she exhales finally. “Back. Before we end up staying here forever.”

Vector nods silently. He looks tired. But he’s still holding on. Sage’s bag is almost empty now — only the water container shifts inside with a soft thud. They head back into the darkness. With every step, it gets quieter — as if the underground itself is swallowing the sound, lulling them.

Sage takes the lead again. The flashlight’s beam behind her dances across the walls, catching pipes, faded paint markings, rusty hinges. Every step feels heavier. But not from fatigue. Just… emptiness inside. Hunger doesn’t hit all at once. First — a faint weakness in the legs, a barely noticeable tremble in the fingers. She blames it on anxiety. Then — a heaviness in the gut, like something’s knotted tight inside.

They stop in a familiar nook. Sage sits next to a cable spool, leaning against the wall. The bag settles beside her, soft and light — as if reminding her it holds nothing. The water container clinks faintly inside, the sound almost mocking. She doesn’t drink. Not yet. It needs to last.

Vector sinks down next to her, rests against the wall. For a moment, they’re both silent. The surrounding quiet is thick, like it’s breathing with them. Somewhere in the distance — water drips. Lonely drops, like ticking seconds.

“Want me to tell you something?” he says suddenly, still staring ahead, not at her.

Sage turns her head slightly.

“Go ahead. Just don’t make it a bedtime story. I hate those.”

Vector laughs — almost genuinely.

“No, seriously. So… we had a basement in our house. Cold, with pipes and spiders. My dad kept old toolboxes down there, broken circuit boards, all that stuff. I used to crawl in there as a kid… to hide. When there were fights. Or when I just wanted to be left alone.”

He pauses, frowning.

“It smelled almost the same. Just without the rot. More like oil, metal. And silence. I used to think I’d make a place of my own down there one day. Set up a desk, a lamp, make tea. Sit and build… something. A radio, maybe. Something I could bring back to life.”

“Did you?” Sage asks quietly.

To be honest, she’s not all that interested. But she knows — talking helps them both.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Once I made a flashlight out of an old remote and a piece of copper wire. Almost like this one. It lasted twenty minutes. I was proud like I’d just started up a nuclear reactor. Later, though… I kind of let it go. Found a group to hang out with, fell for a girl. Classic story.”

Sage exhales. She sits with her knees drawn up, fingers locked together. Her gaze settles on the flashlight in Vector’s hand. The light flickers. The hunger inside her is no longer a knot — it’s a wolf, sleeping, but starving.

“I didn’t have a basement,” she says. “There was a vent. Between the fourth and fifth floors. An opening right in our apartment, a gap in the wall behind the wardrobe. I used to crawl in when I wanted silence. Just… to hide. No one disturbed me. No one called for me.”

“Did your parents know?” Vector asks, still not looking at her.

“I think so.” She gives a small half-smile. “Mom would sometimes leave tea on the windowsill in the room. And a little note: ‘When you’ve had enough air, come back.’ But she never said anything about it.”

A pause. Warm, not heavy.

“It was cramped, but cozy. I dragged in a pillow, an old desk lamp. I could hear the house living — someone slamming a door, someone arguing downstairs, water running through pipes. Everything outside felt… unimportant. I could lie there for hours, just listening.”

“You hoped to find a vent like that in the arena, didn’t you?” he asks quietly.

Sage nods.

“At first, yeah. Thought I could hide, wait it out. Like before. Find a little nook where no one would touch me. Only… it’s not like that now.”

Vector says nothing. Then he turns to her, not with surprise, but with something close to understanding.

“Still, your home sounds like a good place.”

“Yeah,” Sage lowers her gaze. “But that stayed in the District.”

And again — silence. She closes her eyes. At first just to catch her breath. Then — because it’s dark, and the darkness feels safe. But hunger won’t let her sleep, not even for a second. It gnaws. It’s alive. It’s become its own creature inside her, pulling at her insides, forcing her body to conserve every movement. Even her thoughts begin to slow.

The plan had been simple: hide, wait, buy time. Stay in the shadows. Let them kill each other — she would survive. Caution. Observation. No direct fights. But all that only works when you still have strength. Now — she doesn’t.

Sage opens her eyes. Inside — not fear, not panic. Just clarity. In the silence and the dark, she suddenly sees it clearly: the strategy doesn’t work anymore. No shadow feeds you. No wall saves you from hunger. Hiding is just sitting in a grave, hoping no one notices.

She looks at Vector. He’s still silent. But he’s looking at her like he knows, the decision has been made.

"I’ve got bad news for you." she says softly.

Sage chews on the inside of her cheek, staring into the dull space under the ceiling.

"We have to get out. Even for a little while."

"For food?" Vector asks, as if he didn’t already know.

She nods. The last time Sage ate was back in the Capitol, and her body is starting to rebel: everything inside her is curling up, aching, nauseous from emptiness. It’s demanding fuel. And besides, from what she’s seen in past years, the arena isn’t kind to those who stay in one place for too long.

She stands, unfolding her cramped legs. Clutches the rod. It’s already started to feel like an extension of her body. The bag over her shoulder feels heavy, though there’s almost nothing in it. It’s just that now, it carries the weight of a choice.

Vector watches her, a flicker of worry on his face, but says nothing.

"We won’t get far if we run into someone," he finally says. "Especially if they’ve got weapons. And you know the Careers already do."

Sage gives him a short look.

"All the more reason to move first. While they’re still dividing the loot."

"You looking for food or a fight?"

"Food. If we’re lucky, we’ll find something they missed. Supplies, a trap, another flashlight."

She pauses.

"Fight… only if we have to. I’m not a hunter."

"And if you have to?"

Vector’s voice is still quiet, but there’s tension there — the kind that shows when someone is trying to figure out whether they can really trust you. Sage lowers her eyes to the rod. In her fingers, it feels lighter than it is. Almost familiar.

"If someone attacks first, I’ll try not to die," she says finally. "Will I pull it off? Who knows. But I’m not cutting someone’s throat for a backpack."

Vector studies her longer than usual. And finally, gives a small, almost imperceptible nod.

"Good. I don’t want any unnecessary blood either. So what now? Up, or south?"

"Up," she decides. "The longer we stay away from the main routes, the better."

Sage nods at him — let’s go — and steps into the dark first, where the pipes curl like the ribs of some old beast. It smells of rust and dust. Vector follows, and the rod in her hand once again becomes not just a weapon, but an anchor. Because every second it becomes clearer that at least they’re still together.

Sage takes a step, then stops.

"Vector."

He turns around.

"Thanks for not strangling me while I was asleep."

"I promised. And hey, you didn’t bash my brains in while I was out either. So I guess we’re even."

Sage doesn’t answer — just keeps moving forward. Quiet. Careful. But not alone.

When they climb the stairs back up to the warehouse, Sage goes first. Cautiously, almost soundlessly. Vector follows a step behind, glancing over his shoulder at every sound, every metallic creak in the dark.

"You think the Careers are still there?" he whispers.

"At the Cornucopia? Of course. They’ve probably got food, water, and a full arsenal. Way too risky."

"Then where to?"

Sage cracks open the heavy door leading to the upper levels. It smells of rust and smoke, but outside — there’s light. Dim, gray, diffuse, like everything here. But real.

"If this building’s meant to imitate a real factory — and clearly it is," she says, squinting against the light, "then there has to be a kitchen or a dining room somewhere."

They step out. A draft hits her face, and Sage freezes for a moment — even air like this, foreign, dry, smelling of dust, feels like a blessing after the underbelly.

Warehouses stretch out in rows like giant tombs. Doors are half-open. Some are filled with debris or partially collapsed. In places, the light filters through holes in the ceiling, illuminating rusted containers and empty loading docks. No sound. No movement. Just distant noises from outside: someone’s far-off steps, the clatter of old metal stairs.

Sage leads the way, skirting the open space in a wide arc. Every step on the dusty concrete feels like its own challenge. Vector murmurs something under his breath, like he's trying to calm himself.

"Think there’s a ration stash somewhere?"

"Unlikely. Anything worth grabbing got taken early. We’re looking for leftovers."

"If I…"

"Don’t say ‘if I get out of here, then…’ I’ll hit you."

He smirks.

"I was just going to say that if I make it out, the first thing I’m doing is taking a shower. A long, hot one."

Sage shakes her head.

"Vector, if you make it out, you’ll have to go through a dozen interviews first and pretend you’re thrilled. You won’t get to that shower for at least a month."

"Well," he sighs, "then at least let me not die today. Especially not because of something stupid. Or a sandwich rigged with a mine."

They turn down a narrow hallway. A metal sign barely hangs on two bolts. “Service Block C3.” Below it — a faded inscription: “Staff Break Room.” Sage feels her pulse rise. It could be empty inside. Or there could be an ambush. Or something worse. But there’s no other choice.

"Inside," she whispers. "Quick. And quiet."

The break room greets them with the smell of old plastic and stale dust. The walls are dingy gray, with peeling paint and mold stains in the corners. On one wall hangs a yellowed poster reading "Worker Safety Is Everyone’s Responsibility!". Beneath it — a chair with torn upholstery and a crooked table with a chipped edge.

Sage slips inside first, crouching low like every corner might explode. Vector stays by the door — standing guard. Or maybe just too afraid to go further.

Inside, it’s empty.

The refrigerator — ancient, dented, with a handle wrapped in tape — is long dead. Sage opens it anyway. Nothing. Not even a smell. Just dampness and darkness.

On the floor lies a knocked-over container and a thermos cap, but the thermos itself is gone — someone must’ve taken it. Dusty footprints lead to the far wall, but they vanish quickly. Everything of value was already stripped.

"It’s empty," she says, straightening up.

"A dispenser?" Vector asks hopefully, eyeing the wall near the door.

There is something like a dispenser there. Once, it probably dispensed soup or water via access cards. Now it’s shattered — one corner chipped off, wires spilling out, a rusted smear on the “SELECT” button.

Vector presses it anyway. Once. Twice. Nothing.

"Big surprise," Sage says dryly.

They spend the next ten minutes methodically searching through cabinets, drawers, bins — even pry off the back panel of one of the chairs. Just cobwebs. No rations, no bottles, not even a rotting apple. It's as if the place wasn’t looted yesterday, but a decade ago.

"Someone beat us to it," Vector says as he gets up. "Or it was a decoy all along. A fake-out."

Silence.

Sage scans the room one more time. A rusted bench. A broken fan. A cracked mirror reflecting only her forehead and a slice of ceiling. Not the kind of place you want to die in.

"We’re leaving," she says at last. "It’s a dead end. Just wasting energy."

She’s already at the doorway when she hears a faint sound behind her — like something falling. She whirls around, tense.

Vector lifts a mug from the floor. A plain, metal one. He smirks — like this is the big find of the day.

"Want me to pour you some imaginary tea?"

"Only if it comes with an illusion of bread on the side."

Vector rolls his eyes and sets the mug aside.

They head for the stairwell — Sage in front, Vector behind, quieter than she expected. The corridor is damp and echoey, smelling of mold and old metal. Pipes overhead rattle now and then with some unseen pressure.

Sage glances back for just a second to make sure Vector is still following. And right then she hears it — a click. A rustle. A slight movement. Vector freezes, too. They both turn at the same time, like they rehearsed it.

A quiet silhouette at the far end of the hallway.

A boy from District Four.

It’s so unexpected, her first thought is that she’s imagining it. But no — he’s moving. A step forward. Then another. Too deliberate. He’s seen them. Too close to hide. Too far to charge and be sure you’ll survive.

"Run," Sage whispers, not even looking at Vector.

She spins on her heel and bolts for the stairs, leaping over an overturned crate, not caring what's dirt and what's slick mud. Behind her — a sharp thud: Vector’s running too. And behind him — the footsteps of their pursuer. Loud. Heavy.

Down the stairs. Not up — up means light, and possibly that maniac’s allies. Down offers at least a chance at hiding. They race past the landing where they slept; Sage glances toward the pipe but doesn’t stop. Her heart is hammering in her throat, feet slipping, hands searching for balance.

"This way!" Vector yells, voice tight, pointing to a narrow side passage.

They crash into it almost simultaneously, scraping shoulders on the walls, not daring to look back. Behind them — a sound. Not a shout, not a word. Just breathing. Someone’s close. Too close.

The corridor turns sharply — and suddenly, to her immense relief, a door. Old, metal, slightly ajar. Sage jumps through first, grabs Vector’s arm, drags him in. Closes the door — as quietly as she can, no slam, just pushing it shut with her body. No lock. Just a rusted bolt on the side.

They freeze in the dark. Footsteps. Outside the door.

One. Two. Silence.

The boy from District Four doesn’t push further. Maybe he didn’t see them. Maybe he’s waiting. Sage doesn’t breathe. Neither does Vector. She can hear his heartbeat — too loud, it seems to her.

The footsteps retreat. Slowly at first. Then quicker. Silence.

Only then does Sage dare release her grip on the bolt. Her hands are shaking.

"That was one of the careers, right?" Vector whispers.

"Yeah. I think his name is Ripley."

"He had a weapon."

"Everyone has a weapon, Vector."

"Except us."

Sage leans against the wall. Her chest rises and falls rapidly. Her body still feels like it’s running, even though her legs aren’t moving.

"We can’t stay here," she says. "Now he knows someone’s down here. He’ll be back. And not alone."

She knows she’s right. They’ve messed up. This place isn’t a hideout anymore — it’s a trap. They sit in silence for a few more minutes — maybe a minute, maybe ten. Just to catch their breath. To let the quiet settle in again.

The space is oppressive, the air thick, smelling of rust and something rotten, hidden somewhere in a corner. Vector says nothing, like he’s afraid even a whisper might give them away. Sage listens. Still hoping to catch footsteps, breathing, movement — but outside it’s silent. Like a sealed tomb.

"We have to go," she repeats, softer this time, but with no hesitation. "Before he comes back with friends."

She pushes off the wall and straightens. Her knees ache, her hands tremble, but her eyes are sharp. Vector nods. He knows she’s right.

They slip back out — cautiously, quiet as possible. Every step now feels like walking on glass. The air’s drier, as if the tension itself evaporated all moisture. Somewhere above them, the Arena rumbles — the part they shouldn’t venture into now.

Sage leads again, by instinct. Not back the way they came, but into a new direction — hoping this path leads to another level, maybe an emergency exit, another section. Anything, as long as it’s away.

They pass through an old room littered with scraps of plastic and dented canisters. Once, maybe, it stored equipment. Now — just trash, mold, dust. But the walls are intact. The ceiling hasn’t collapsed. And there’s one detail that changes everything:

A narrow opening in the wall. A ventilation shaft. Wide. Open. No grate.

Sage stops. Looks at Vector.

"Shall we try?"

He shakes his head. Then nods. He doesn’t know either. But there’s no choice.

Sage climbs up first. Fingers hook the edge, she pulls herself up, pressing the rod under her arm. It’s dark inside, but dry. The metal is slippery, cold. But the air... the air is a little fresher. She draws it in and feels something loosen inside. Not salvation. But a chance.

She reaches her hand out to Vector.

He grabs on tightly, but gently. Careful. She notices.

They vanish into the darkness of the shaft, leaving behind the echoing space where, not long ago, someone was following their tracks. The shaft smells of iron and something faintly rancid-sweet. Sage crawls first, pulling herself along on her elbows, trying not to scrape her skin against the sharp weld seams. The metal responds with a low, hollow hum—not quite an echo, more like breath beneath them.

Behind her, Vector moves louder, every sound too sharp. She stops:

“Slower,” she whispers.

He moves more cautiously. For a few seconds, there’s only their breathing. The space narrows. The shaft bends—downward. Sage freezes at the bend, feels for support with her hand—there’s a ledge. If they’re lucky, they won’t fall. If not—they’ll just slide into the unknown.

“There’s a drop here,” she mutters. “Hold onto the edges.”

She shifts forward, foot searching for a foothold. Slips. Catches. Holds on. Climbs a few meters down. The metal warms from their bodies, and it annoys her for some reason.

Finally—a hole. A square opening in the shaft floor, leading into a room below. She pauses, listens: no noise, no voices.

“There’s an exit. Seems empty.”

She slides down, landing almost silently—into an old server room. Wires everywhere, dead screens, toppled racks. In the corner—a cabinet. Rusty, but shut.

“All clear,” she whispers up.

Vector jumps down a second later. Lands clumsily, mutters “shit,” but Sage just nods: he’s safe, that’s what matters.

While he scans the room, she heads for the cabinet. The rod still in her hand. Checks for a lock—lucky again: just stuck. A yank—and the door gives.

Inside—a pack of what looks like military rations. Moldy smell, but a few still sealed. And a bottle with murky, but sealed water.

She pulls out the supplies—and hears:

“Sage.”

She turns. Vector’s holding something long, dusty, metallic. A weapon. Some kind of baton. Old, but heavy.

“Check this out,” he says. “Found it in the drawer. Almost missed it.”

Sage studies him. He’s not holding it aggressively. Not brandishing. Just showing. She nods.

“Keep it. As long as your hand doesn’t shake. I’m good with the rod.”

He chuckles softly.

“Everything shakes. I just don’t show it.”

Sage turns back to the cabinet, pulls out another ration, tosses it to him. He catches.

“Eat. Then we move on.”

“Where to?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Looks up at the vent shaft they just left. It’s dark. And danger stayed behind.

“Somewhere they’re not expecting us yet.”

They eat in silence. The food is tasteless, like cardboard, but warms the belly—and something more. The water has a weird taste—metallic, plasticky—but it’s clean. Or close enough. Sage doesn’t complain. Neither does Vector.

When they’re done, she turns to the door again. Heavy metal, thick, but the hinges are old. She listens—still quiet outside. But that means nothing.

“Ready?” she asks.

He nods, gripping the baton.

Sage opens the door. Carefully. The corridor is dimly lit, as if dust seeps through the walls. The air feels still, like a jar full of sealed-in tension. They move along the wall. Straight at first. Then—stairs leading down.

“Think the exit’s that way?” Vector whispers.

Sage shakes her head.

“I think it’s something else.”

They descend rusted steps. Each one painfully slow. Below—another corridor, narrower, but cleaner. It smells... alive. As if something or someone is nearby. Sage halts. Vector steps forward—she stops him with a hand.

“Wait.”

A whisper.

“What?”

Sage freezes, barely breathing. Up ahead, around the bend—a soft scuffling. Barely audible. Not an animal. A person. Hesitant, cautious steps. Someone afraid too.

She steps back, presses to the wall. Nods to Vector—once.

“Wait.”

Then vanishes.

Sage moves like a shadow. Feet barely touch the floor. No creak, no scrape. The air stretched taut like a string—and she walks it, balancing between life and death.

Around the bend: a girl from District Twelve. Thin, dark jacket, knife in hand. Struggling to stuff a can into her backpack. Seems like a decent haul—water, food, a couple of bandages. All in plain sight.

Sage holds her breath. When the girl finally slings the pack on and turns—Sage is already behind her. Silent step. One. Two. A quick pull—the flask slips from the side pocket. Bandage—from the outer pouch.

The girl keeps walking. Doesn’t even notice. No shout, no threat. Just a ripple in the air—and then calm.

Sage returns to Vector. He opens his mouth to say something—but she’s already stuffing the flask into her bag, then the bandage, with quick, practiced movements.

“Someone there?”

A nod.

“Doesn’t matter. Now we’ve got enough water for maybe two or three days, some bandages, a flashlight, your baton, and my rod. And we’re still alive. Not bad for a couple of losers.”

He looks at her with an expression she can’t name.

“Can you teach me to walk like that?” he whispers.

Sage rolls her eyes without turning her head.

“What’s the point? You breathe like a dying hippo. You’d need six years of training just to cross a hallway without scaring off everything in a three-floor radius.”

“Well, now we have bandages. Maybe we’ll find six years too,” he mutters, quieter now.

There’s a smile, but cautious. Sage glances at him sideways.

“Jokes—sign of internal bleeding? Or just hungry?”

Vector grins wider.

“Bit of both.”

She says nothing. But the corner of her mouth twitches. Almost. Almost a smile.

They walk in silence. The corridors twist and tangle like old tree roots: wide, then narrowing to slits. Sage leads, mapping it in her head by scent, sound, instinct. Sometimes they backtrack—dead ends, collapses, ceilings rusted into web-thin traps.

They find a door with a faded sign: “Technical Section K-9.” Inside—dark, shattered shelves, melted wires. No food, no water, no cover. Another chamber—empty, low ceiling, a strange smell that hits instantly. Sharp, but not unpleasant. Sage stops in the doorway.

“What is it?” Vector whispers.

She doesn’t answer right away. Inhales. Again. The smell is familiar, on the tip of her tongue—but no memory, no image. Just a feeling. Like she’s smelled it before. Somewhere.

“I don’t know,” she says, eyes wary. “Let’s go. We can’t stay here.”

Third stop—a locker room. Broken benches, hanging locks, scraps of clothing. They open everything. Find only an old stained shirt and a half-rotted sneaker. But then Sage spots another vent shaft. Different from the one they came through. Narrow. Thin. But the air is fresh. Not a way out—but a hopeful thread.

“We won’t stay here,” she whispers. “But something’s nearby. Smells better. Means the vent works.”

They press on. Turn after turn. At first, everything seems okay—walls intact, floor solid. Then—another obstacle. Half-collapsed walkway, jagged metal. Sage slips through. Vector gets stuck. A few tense seconds—and he’s through, leaving a strip of sleeve behind on a rusted nail. No blood, but he exhales loud.

“Quiet,” she growls.

Then—a turn. A small side door. Barely visible. No markings. Just a dull panel. Sage presses—nothing. Shoulder shove—still won’t budge. Vector steps in silently, leans in—metal groans, gives way slowly. The smell inside—stale, but not foul.

The room is narrow, dry. No windows. Piles of crates, overturned chairs. Maybe a maintenance closet or an old control room. Dead monitors on the wall. Dust-covered everything. But inside—silence. And the certainty: they are alone.

Sage closes the door and drags a rusted metal cabinet in front of it, wedging it tight against the frame. Then simply sits by the wall. Rod still in hand, but fingers loosening.

“This is better,” she says quietly. “We’ll make it till morning.”

Vector nods. Slumps down nearby. In seconds, he’s dozing, head resting on his arms.

Sage doesn’t sleep. She waits. Listens. Holds the map in her mind—turns, stairs, shadows. The rod lies by her hip, hands on knees, back still tense—as if her body refuses to trust what her mind acknowledges.

Still alive.

The silence presses in—but differently now. Not like emptiness. Like shelter. Someone might be wandering beyond the walls, hunting, waiting. But not here. Nothing stirs. Even the dust doesn’t rise. The air is still.

Sage closes her eyes. Not to sleep. To see.

Henley’s face appears—bright, stubborn, that constant crease between his brows—even when he smiles. He always laughs with one corner of his mouth, like he knows more than he says. And still—soft. Warm. Without him, the cold cuts deeper.

Is he watching now? Probably sitting in his parents’ kitchen, fists clenched, like that could change anything.

“I’m here, Hen,” she whispers, so soft she barely hears herself. “I’m still here.”

She doesn’t know if he hears. Maybe the screens show someone more exciting now. But saying it eases something inside her. As if the thread between them is still there—thin, like a vent shaft. But alive.

Vector breathes softly beside her. Still clutching the baton to his chest, like a shield. Sage doesn’t look at him. Opens her eyes again—but stares at the wall. Thinking hurts too much. Sleeping is a risk.

But she stays in between. Half-sleep. Half-silence. Somewhere between survival and hope.

And still, something holds firm inside her. She’ll last till the next morning. And the one after. Until it’s all over. Or something new begins.

Notes:

at this point we’re not even surviving the hunger games, we’re just playing among us.

the way sage just inevitably adopts every soft boy she meets needs to be studied under a microscope. like girl. babe. sweetheart. therapist’s dream. that is a half-dead teenage trauma cupcake, not your son.

...anyway, give it a few years. you and peeta are gonna be besties. 🍞💛

Chapter 14

Maybe two hours had passed. Or three. In the dark, no one keeps track of time. Sage had managed to get a little sleep — not deep, but enough for her brain to start waking up. She didn’t remember what she dreamt about, only the feeling: heavy, sticky, like someone was dragging her by the hair through thick water. She wakes because it’s too quiet. Not the same quiet as before — not the kind that lulls you to sleep, but something else. Careful. Waiting.

She sits up slowly, her shoulders aching. Her metal rod scrapes against the floor as she grabs it with a sharp movement. Vector is still asleep, curled on his side, his face half-hidden in shadow, his hand still clutching the baton. He sleeps deeply, mouth slightly open — like someone who let himself relax for the first time in ages.

Leaning toward her bag, Sage pulls out her canteen and takes a tiny sip. The taste of water barely registers — and then: boom.

The door shudders.

Not loud — but deliberate. Like someone placed a hand on it, feeling the metal.

Second knock. Firmer now.

Sage jumps up instantly, slinging the bag over her shoulder in one motion. Her body wakes faster than her mind. Everything tightens like a drawn wire. The rod in her hand — familiar weight, reliable.

She glances at Vector — he stirs, sucks in a breath through his teeth, eyes still foggy with sleep.

"What…?"

Third hit. This time — with a crunch. The cabinet braced against the door groans. The metal is giving.

"Get up," Sage hisses, though Vector is already rising, stumbling, grabbing the wall for balance. She takes a step toward him — and in that moment, the door lurches violently, like someone slammed into it with a shoulder. Or something heavier.

They’ve been found. Someone’s here. Now.

Sage steps back into the shadows, behind an overturned crate. Her breath catches in her throat. She doesn’t think. She just moves. Her body knows better than her brain. She reaches toward Vector — a light touch, just enough to guide, not distract. Their eyes meet — still drowsy, but sharpening. He nods, scared. Ready to hide.

But it’s already too late. With a dull clang, the door handle snaps off. Metal groans. A shriek of rust. The door shifts forward slightly. The cabinet holds — barely. Someone on the other side is throwing their full weight against it.

Inside — darkness, only a faint reflection of light from the broken screen on the wall. Sage sees a thin line of light crawling across the floor, as sharp as a blade.

She lowers herself, almost into a crouch. Her back presses against cool metal. Her heart pounds louder than the banging on the door. Vector freezes in the middle of the room, like he doesn’t know whether to run to her or stay put. He takes a hesitant step toward Sage — and that’s when something outside snaps sharply. One of the internal locks gives out. The cabinet shifts half a centimeter. That’s enough.

"Back, idiot," Sage whispers. He doesn’t respond.

The metal groans louder. Another sharp blow lands. The door opens another three centimeters. The cabinet creaks where it’s wedged into the wall. Whoever’s behind it knows what they’re doing.

Sage moves along the wall, into the shadows. There — a narrow gap between a shelving unit and the paneling, like an old ventilation hatch that was never fully closed. She squeezes into it, holding her breath, clutching the rod close to her chest. The cabinet gives another centimeter. Then — a bang. Heavy. Sharp. Not a fist — maybe the butt of a gun.

And then — silence. That same, waiting kind. Sage doesn’t move. Vector doesn’t either. Her breath is barely there. He turns his head. Their eyes meet — for a moment. Sage’s gaze is like a nail: sharp, guiding. Don’t come to me. Hide.

Vector freezes, but his fingers grip the baton tighter. He takes half a step forward, like he's closing in on something invisible. A quiet inhale. He turns his back to Sage — and in the next second, they hear it — click.

A lock. Or a mechanism. Or...

Metal bends, like a spine under a blow. The cabinet crashes inward. The door bursts open. The wreckage of the cabinet topples with a thunderous crash, hitting the edge of a table. Metal screams.

A figure bursts into the room — too fast to see a face. The second follows. One with an axe. The other with something that looks like a harpoon. Too fast. Too loud.

Sage freezes, sinking deeper into the shadow behind the crate. Vector steps forward — and charges the intruders, like he always knew there’d be no other choice.

She sees everything — clearly, as if a spotlight flared in the half-dark. How he shoves one aside. How the baton smashes into the other’s hand.

A crunch. A scream.

Someone falls.

Someone swears.

She grips the rod. But doesn’t move.

She can’t help.

The baton arcs — but the strike doesn’t land. They catch him. One grabs his shoulder. The other from the side. The one with the harpoon yanks it. Metal meets flesh with a sound that can’t be mistaken for anything else.

It all happens almost silently. Only a sharp exhale. Vector’s eyes fly open — surprised, not even scared. Before he looks away, for a heartbeat, he stares toward where Sage stands. He can’t see her — it’s too dark. But he looks.

Sage presses deeper into the shadow. Her heart’s pounding so hard it might burst. She bites her lip to keep from screaming. The taste of metal fills her mouth — maybe she bit too hard. Maybe it’s just fear.

Vector falls. Not right away. First — to his knees. Then — to his side. Slowly. Like he’s lying down to sleep.

One of the attackers steps back from the body and exhales sharply, like only now he feels the weight of what he's done.

"Well, at least this one didn’t whimper," he mutters, jaw working. "The last one screamed like a pig."

"Yeah," the second one replies. His voice is muffled, like something’s stuck in his throat—or like he just can’t be bothered to speak any louder. "Nice baton, by the way. Heavy."

He leans down, picks up Vector’s weapon. Weighs it in his hand. Nods to himself.

"I’ll keep it. Better than the junk Opal got."

"You think he’s dead for real?"

The first one snorts. The second peers deeper into the room, straight toward Sage. His eyes are narrow, brow furrowed. He leans in slightly, squints. He’s just about to say something—but the silence is split by a shot.

"There’s your confirmation," the other one cuts in.

"Think he was alone?"

"Don’t know. He didn’t shout. Didn’t call anyone."

"Maybe he knew no one would come."

A pause. They both look at the door.

"Wanna check?" one of them asks lazily.

"Nah. That’s enough for now."

He glances around again, just in case.

"If anyone was there, they’ve probably pissed themselves by now. Let ’em live a bit longer. Makes it more fun."

And just like that—like on cue—they both turn and walk away. Not running. Not even fast. Like they’re just leaving a pharmacy. One of them tosses over his shoulder:

"If only they were all this polite by the final."

The door stays open. Broken, crooked. The room stills again. Sage stays frozen in the shadows, not breathing. Only when their footsteps fully vanish and silence settles back behind the door does she exhale—short, as if afraid to let go of something vital in her lungs.

The careers. Oberon. Emerald. Now she’s sure.

Sage shifts, rolls onto her backside. Slowly. Soundlessly. The silence seeps back in, thick as slow smoke. Her back tightens. Her hands tremble—but not from fear. From the lingering hum inside her, like someone’s still ringing a massive, copper bell within.

She doesn’t leave the hiding spot. Not yet. Not right away. Her mind is blank. Her eyes don’t blink. Her ears are ringing. Hands shaking—but the rod is still clutched in them. The only thing anchoring her to something solid.

Sage counts to a hundred. Then two hundred. Only then does she slowly crawl out of the shadow. Step by step. She approaches. Sits beside the body. Doesn’t touch it. Everything inside her begs: don’t look. But she looks.

Vector isn’t breathing anymore. Lying on his side. Eyes half-open. Face peaceful.

Sage draws in air with difficulty. Uneven. Careful. As if even breathing might cut her from the inside. She leans over, pulls a flashlight from Vector’s pocket. His skin is still warm. Or are her hands just that cold?

She opens her bag and quickly stuffs the flashlight inside. Fingers trembling. Not from fear—or not just fear. More from the feeling that something inside has shifted. Like an old mechanism: grinding, catching—then moving again, but not smoothly anymore. Every movement comes with effort, like she’s running on duty, not will. On momentum.

To her own surprise, she’s not crying. Her eyes are dry. She just breathes, a little at a time, afraid to choke on it.

Inside—there’s a hum. Not pain. Not rage. Something in between. An emptiness that echoes with other people’s voices. She feels like she’s standing inside a giant concrete pipe, and everything inside her responds in dull, muffled, distant tones.

Just gather everything and go.

Sage repeats it like an order to herself, just to stay in one piece. She glances back at the body once more. There’s nothing to say. It’s too late for words. She reaches forward. Almost touches Vector’s hand—but stops. Doesn’t touch. Can’t.

Sage stands up sharply. Nearly collapses—her knees won’t obey.

Hold it together. He’s not here anymore. They’re not here. But you still are.

And with that thought, she heads for the exit. Her legs are shaky, but her steps are steady. The cool air from the hallway hits her face again. The room stays behind her—but it feels like she’s carrying it inside. Every shadow. Every sound. Every ounce of crushing silence.

Only once she crosses the threshold does Sage allow herself to blink. Just once. Slowly. Like she could unspool the world frame by frame to avoid seeing all the horror at once.

She walks like she’s waist-deep in water—every movement resisted, every step an effort, but she keeps going. Sage doesn’t know where exactly she’s supposed to go now. She just walks. Away from the door. Away from the room. Away from what’s left in there. From that awful, oppressive silence. One hand clutches her bag. The other still grips the rod. Everything else feels numb.

Her footsteps are barely audible—training, maybe. Or instinct. Or just exhaustion so deep it silences even motion. Sage turns a corner, passes a shattered window—draft cutting into her face, her hair, her throat. She shivers, but doesn’t stop.

On the third turn, she finally leans against a wall. Not because she wants to—but because her legs refuse to go any farther. Pressing her back to the cold concrete, Sage slides down. Slowly. All the way to the floor. Knees to her chest. Head to her arms. Eyes closed.

She doesn’t cry. She just sits. Just hums with what’s left inside.

Time passes. How much—she doesn’t know. Minutes? An hour? Time doesn’t move here—it drops away. Like sand in the throat. Like dust on eyelashes.

Then—a sound. A click, barely there. Somewhere far off. Like someone stepping on glass with too much care. Sage freezes. Breathes shallow. Pulls the rod closer. Her spine tightens again.

But no one’s there.

It doesn’t matter. She can’t just sit anymore. She gets up. Slowly, like every movement echoes in her lungs—with pain, with weight, with hollow noise.

She moves forward. Not blindly now. She knows: she needs a proper weapon. Cover. Somewhere to patch herself up—she hadn’t even noticed the scratch on her arm back in that room, but now the dried blood tugs at her skin. She has to figure out food. And, if possible, what to do with the emptiness inside.

You’re still here.

That thought keeps her on her feet.

Sage walks deeper into the building. Toward the dark. Toward fewer windows, less light. Fewer chances of being found. For now.

With every step, the floor beneath her feels less solid—not because it moves, but because she does. The space pulses. The walls seem to breathe. Sage doesn’t stop. She just walks. Just listens—not with ears, but with her whole body. Where there’s a creak. A step. A rustle. Everything is separate. Everything is foreign.

She spots a door. Slightly open. No light. No sound. Too dark to trust—but still, she goes toward it.

The door is wooden. Charred around the edges. An old office? A storage room? She doesn’t know. Doesn’t think. Just pushes with her shoulder. Steps inside.

It smells of mold. Paper. Stale air. No one’s been here in a long time. On the floor—a toppled chair, a black backpack, an open medkit. Empty. Sage scans quickly, almost automatically: no traps, no cameras. Bare walls. One window, covered in grimy plastic.

She can stay here for a few minutes.

Sage lowers herself to her knees. Not like before—not collapsing, not crushed by exhaustion. She kneels like she’s working. Because, in essence, she is. She opens the bag, sifts through supplies. Moves the flashlight—places it within reach. Checks the rod again—solid, heavy. A few drops of blood on her hand have already dried, but the wound edges still tug. She finds a bandage and wraps her arm quickly, carelessly. No antiseptic. Just to keep it from getting in the way.

Then she pulls out the water. Drinks. Carefully. Small sips. Swallows like her throat is full of nails. Her lips tremble—but not from the cold.

At some point, it becomes too quiet. Sage lifts her head, listens. Nothing. All clear. A chill passes through her again, and she hugs her own shoulders. And now—now—she feels it rise.

The tears don’t come. But her eyes sting. Feels like someone’s wedged a stone between her collarbones. She leans back against the wall. Shakes her head. Hard. Like she’s trying to shake fears off like garbage.

You’re still here.

The thought returns. Sharp. Like a spike. Like a command.

Sage breathes in. Deep. Until it hurts. She sits like that a moment longer. Then rises. Again. Her back straight. Shoulders low. Face—stone.

She steps out of the room. Now she has to choose a direction. Somewhere they haven’t been.

Sage walks by feel. Turn after turn. Hallway after hallway. It smells like damp, rotting wires, and something metallic—like an old transformer humming nearby. No one’s been here. Or almost no one. That’s good. It means she can go unnoticed. Or at least pretend she can.

In a corner, near a divider of concrete slabs, she sees stairs leading down. Narrow. One railing collapsed. Darkness pours up from below—so thick it makes Vector’s weak flashlight seem useless. Still, she pulls it out. Click. A beam slices through the dark. Dust sparkles like snow in the air. Sage takes a step.

The stairs are slippery. Wet. Somewhere below, water drips—steady, rhythmic, like the ticking of an old clock. She walks slowly. Carefully. Rod out in front. Flashlight aimed low. Around every corner—a pause. She’s wound tight like a wire, but she doesn’t stop.

She’s back on the technical level now. The smell shifts. Here, it’s rust, and something chemical. Familiar. She walks past a rusted cart, a crumbling shelf. Cobwebs stretch across the passage like curtains.

Sage picks a room with no windows. A thick door, half-open. Above it, a faded sign: Power Room. Inside—it’s cold. The floor littered with bits of concrete. In the corner—a metal cabinet, open and empty. Good.

She closes the door—slowly, silently. Leans against it. And for the first time since it all began, she lets herself sit—not to do anything. Just to sit.

The flashlight is off. Darkness presses in, but it doesn’t scare her. No windows here. No eyes. Just her. Just quiet. Her breathing. Her thoughts.

And finally, something inside lets go.

The trembling starts in her fingers—thin, barely there. It rises. Grows heavier. Quieter. Something in her chest gives way, like a building with a rotten foundation. And it spills—not tears, no. Sage can’t cry. It’s softer than that. Deeper. Like her soul is just… sinking. Down, toward her feet.

All the fear. The pain. The loneliness. The exhaustion soaked deep into her bones. That one moment where her heart might’ve stopped.

Sage doesn’t know how long she stays like that. An hour? Two minutes? But eventually, she lifts her head.

In the dark, the tiny cracked light on her flashlight glows faintly. She reaches toward it.

“Alright…” she whispers, hoarse, quiet. “Guess I keep going.”

And she switches the light on.

The beam of the flashlight carves a small piece of the world from the dark. The wall in front of her is gray, cracked. On the floor—a rusted part, maybe the one that started the web of cobwebs. She rises slowly, with effort, like not just her body is getting up—but everything it carries. Shadows. Silence. Memory. Her spine cracks. Her legs are numb.

Sage inhales. Through the nose. Slow. Deep. Lets the air burn her chest.

She looks around. The power room is empty. Which means: it’s safe. She grabs the rod, checks her bag. Everything’s still there. The flashlight stretches its beam forward. The corridor is still narrow. Still heavy. But now, with every step, Sage seems to pull something back from it. Bit by bit. Fingers still tremble—but there’s rhythm in her motion now. Her head doesn’t dart side to side anymore. She’s moving forward. Straight.

At the corner, she stops. Listens.

Silence.

But not like before—not that deafening, smothering kind. Just quiet. A space where there’s room for her breath. Her footsteps. Her choice to keep going.

She turns—and sees: footprints on the floor. Dust disturbed. One boot, then the other. Someone came through here—recently. But it seems they didn’t go down. Passed by. Or checked the place—and left.

Sage freezes. Counts to five. Then to eight. Then—another step. She keeps moving, listening, feeling every corner like it’s under her skin. Memory kicks in—fragments of a map. The building piecing itself together in her mind. Stairs were that way. The elevator. And over there… used to be the infirmary.

Sage turns toward where—if memory’s right—there should be a corridor with storage rooms. And it is there, just like she remembered. Doors, one after the other, all chipped and peeling like rotten teeth. In one—a broken heater. In another—empty plastic bottles and soup cans. And in the third—something that might actually help.

She steps inside, closes the door behind her. Leans against it. Listens—anyone following? Silence.

The room is narrow, but clean. A shelf on the wall. Below it—a box of rags, a bucket, a couple of empty canisters, and a torn bag of grain. Still partly salvageable. A find. A treasure.

Sage sets her bag down. Pulls out water. Carefully washes—hands, face, neck. It’s cold, but feels good. The world has edges again. Then she rewraps her bandage—no longer in a rush, more carefully now. Every motion slow, almost ceremonial. As if telling her body: I care for you. You’re still here. Hold on.

Half an hour passes—maybe more. She even manages to eat a little. Chews slowly. Not because she wants to—because she has to.

And only when Sage leans over her bag to pull out a new portion of water—she hears it.

Heavy steps. Not a run—just steps. One. Two. Direct. Heavy. Like someone punching the ground with their soles. Sage freezes. Listens. Yes—there it is. A voice. Not a shout. Not a call. Not even a threat. Just someone muttering:

“…damn it.”

Then a thud—like they bumped a handle against the floor. A scrape.

She switches off her flashlight. Slowly steps away from the door. Her heart is pounding in her throat. Eyes fixed on the gap under the door: shadow. Tall. Moving slowly. No shuffle—this one knows where he’s going.

The steps fade. Then—a loud bang: another door opens further down the hall.

Sage waits. Ten seconds. Twenty. Then—silent as breath—she opens the door and slips out.

The hallway stretches again, like a mouth full of broken teeth. Ahead, maybe twenty meters, an open door. A beam of foreign light hits the wall. She creeps forward. Step by step, wrapped in darkness. A ghost.

Inside—the voice. Hoarse, low. Not shouting, but mad at the world:

“…they cleared it out. Bastards. Left nothing…”

Not even aware of her fear, Sage peeks inside.

There—one of the boys, tribute from District Seven. Tall. Wiry. Shoulders looked wide enough to eclipse her. Dark, tangled hair. Clothes dirty but thick. On his back—a hatchet, strapped into a makeshift holster. Beside him—a half-emptied pack. He’s sorting through supplies. Muttering.

Sage freezes in the doorway. Her body wants to retreat—now, fast, vanish into the dark. But something else, something new, warm and almost mechanical, keeps her still. A strange flicker of control. Of power. She’s here, and he doesn’t see her. She’s not just hiding anymore. She’s watching. She’s choosing.

Sage's eyes scan the room fast. The guy’s flashlight is on the floor beside him, tilted to the side. The beam slices the space like a blade. Something rustles in the pack—he’s digging through the bottom pocket. Nearby—a knife. Too close to him. No way to reach it. But off to the side, almost hidden against the wall, lay a ration pack—thick, nearly full. The label’s faded, but you can tell—meat inside, carbs, maybe even an energy booster. Rare. Finding something like that is like grabbing luck by the throat. A real treasure. The kind people kill for.

Her throat tightens. She can feel it—tight, hungry cramp rising deep in her gut. Paisley’s voice in her head screams that she’s an idiot, that she should run—but her body’s anchored in place. Her heart isn’t beating—it’s hammering. Her hands tremble slightly. One wrong sound, one misstep—and that’s it.

But walking away… that means dying slowly.

Sage closes her eyes for half a second. Draws in a deeper breath, trying to drown out the pounding in her ears. She counts silently: one, two, three.

The world narrows—to the line of light, to that ration pack, to the sounds he’s making. The guy’s muttering—but he’s focused on his bag. Not watching the door. Not looking at the food. And she’s already weighing the decision in her hands like a stone—fragile, but heavy. Yes, it’s scary. But not like before. Not the paralyzing kind.

Another count. Another breath. And Sage moves.

Like shadow. Like wind. Every step like walking on ice. She doesn’t rush—but she doesn’t stall either. Too fast—he’ll hear her. Too slow—the moment will vanish. Half a second to grab it. Ten more—to disappear.

She slips back into shadow. Presses her back to the wall. Counts her breaths.

One — you’re alive.

Two — you’re stronger than an hour ago.

Three — he doesn’t know you’re here.

The thought steadies her.

Sage barely breathes. Her gut pulses—not pain, not thoughts, just the rhythm of counting.

Three steps — and you’ll be in reach.

Two — and you can grab it.

One — and there’s no turning back.

Sage calculates: if he turns—run back. If he lifts the axe—slip left, through the doorway. If he lunges—jab the rod in his neck. Don’t think.

Sage steels herself. Her whole body pulled tight like a bowstring about to snap. But her hands—steady. She doesn’t think. She just moves. Circles around. A shadow among shadows. Crawls closer, keeping low, hidden by a wall’s outcrop. One elbow touches the floor—anchor point. Knees absorb sound. Her other hand reaches out, slow, like underwater. Fingers brush the pack. The fabric rustles—too loud. She freezes.

The guy exhales, a harsh grunt—but doesn’t turn. Just fidgets with a zipper. There’s time. Only one chance.

Sage doesn’t pull the pack toward her. Too risky. First—under her. With her fingers. Quiet. Short, barely-there movements. Carefully. By the edge. No drag. Five centimeters. Five more.

Her whole body is taut like wire. Sweat rolls down her back, slides into her waistband. Pulse hammers in her teeth. Her jaw is clenched tight, locked like a vice.

Once the pack is nearly beneath her chest, she begins to pull back—slowly, crawling almost. First her chest. Then knees. Then elbows. Every centimeter feels like a step across a minefield.

One step back. Then another. A third. Her heart is detonating in her chest, but her hands hold steady.

Sage retreats. Just half a meter more, and she’ll vanish behind the corner.

And then—the guy exhales, loud. Stands up.

Sage freezes. She’s in direct line of sight. Only the edge of the wall hides her legs. He reaches for the flashlight. The beam swings. Slides across the floor. Creeps closer.

Sage buries her face into her arm for a second. The light passes by.

He mutters something—and walks off, toward the opposite door. Looking for another shelter. Or maybe just the toilet. Doesn’t matter. Not now.

Sage grabs the pack, clutches it to her chest. Her throat burns from the air, lungs sting. She doesn’t run—she moves like underwater. Quiet. Around the corner. Then step by step—back into the hallway. Into the dark. Where he won’t find her.

Only when the wall fully swallows her, she lets herself breathe. Deep. Greedy. And she smiles—short, fleeting. Like an animal slipping out of a trap.

She stole the pack right from under that idiot’s nose.

Luck. Or skill.

She hasn’t been caught. Not yet.

Sage wastes no time. Her bag with the metal rod is still where she left it—by the wall, in shadow. Nearly blended into the dark floor. She scoops it up as she moves—a practiced, clean motion. The strap slides onto her shoulder, the rod presses against her ribs. The weight barely registers—adrenaline numbs everything. Her heart is still pounding in her ears like a war drum.

She weaves—along the wall, through a narrow gap between collapsed crates, under a broken pipe dripping water. Behind her—emptiness, trembling under the flashlight’s glow. Ahead—the dark, her salvation.

Sage disappears into it like ink into water. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t break stride. Quick. Silent. Precise. Before he notices. Before he realizes the pack is gone.

One step. Another. The factory hums like a sleeping beast—heavy, low, deep within. You can’t hide from that sound. It’s in the metal, the pipes, the very air.

Sage slows only when she reaches the rusted staircase leading to the second level. Presses against the wall. Listens.

Silence. Only her own breath. And inside her—a single question.

What now?

Anyone could be wandering the shop floors right now. And any one of them would sell their soul to find someone like her. With a pack. With a rod. With water. Unarmed. Full hands. An exhausted body.

The factory is both blessing and trap. Too many places to hide. Too many places to get stuck.

Sage loosens her grip on the strap. Her hands ache from tension. Her whole body hums. But she’s already decided. She needs to make it to the east block. Then through the central warehouse. Through the breach in the partition. To the boiler room. Then down, into the ventilation tunnel. And from there—out to the outer perimeter.

Sage pictures the arena from outside. Old tech salvage yard. A couple of half-melted towers. Concrete plains and steel beams—skeletons of what once was.

She’ll head far out. To the very edge of the arena. Too far for attackers. Too barren for scavengers like her.

If she’s lucky, she’ll catch her breath there. Think about what’s next.

Sage draws in a breath. Her throat still burns, but inside her chest it’s no longer a storm—just an echo.

She turns. Moves deeper into the corridor.

Her steps are quick. Quiet. Relentless.

The factory stays behind. The arena—does not.

Chapter 15

The air is heavy, like before a storm, even though the sky is clear — unnaturally smooth, without a single crack, like the ceiling of a surveillance cell.

Sage moves slowly, leaving no trace, like water. She steps carefully, bypassing every stone, every scrap of metal, as if all of it were traps just waiting to make a sound. She barely breathes. Tries not to be human — but wind. Or shadows that haven’t yet peeled off the walls since nightfall.

She’s left the factory building and is now circling around. A long way. Through collapsed warehouses, past a rusted conveyor belt tipped on its side like a drunken giant. There — there’s less open space. Less sky. Less risk of being seen.

The factory she’s headed toward is the farthest one, with a collapsed dome and a staircase leading into the shadows. Sage had marked it from the very start — but the path there passes too close to the Cornucopia.

Around it, the Careers graze — not like hunters, but like well-fed beasts sure that nothing can threaten them anymore. They move slowly, with a lazy kind of alertness. One sharpens a knife on concrete. Another sifts through arrows, as if choosing which one will kill most pleasantly. They don’t talk. Or maybe they talk too softly for her ears to catch.

Sage hides in the half-shadow of an overturned tank. Through a crack in the metal shell, she sees Marina — the girl tribute from District Four — yawning without bothering to cover her mouth.

Sage freezes. Her heart seems to freeze too — or maybe it just starts beating so quietly it feels like it vanished.

Ahead is an open zone. Twenty paces of bare ground before the debris begins again — the shade, the cover.

She waits. Counts to fifty. Then again. Waits until Emerald turns her back. Until Opal disappears behind a container. Waits until everything around seems to fall asleep.

Then — one step. Another. Slowly. Soundlessly. As if the very earth might betray her if she presses too hard.

She slides forward like a raindrop on slanted glass. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Oberon stepping out from behind a wall — and in that instant, she simply drops. Not unconscious. Not onto the ground. Into shadow. Into gravel. Beneath a metal frame that once was a crane. It’s rusted, sharp, reeks of dirt — but it offers shelter.

She goes still, doesn’t blink. Just the hum in her ears. Just the taste of iron on her lips — not blood. Just fear. Old, familiar fear that curls in the stomach and doesn’t go away.

Oberon walks past. Spits. His steps are heavy, like he’s crushing the earth beneath him. But he doesn’t look down. He keeps going.

Sage stays frozen for a long time. Maybe too long. Until her hand, curled under her stomach, goes numb. Until her knee starts to ache from the angle. Until the air feels thick, like water in her lungs.

Only then — slowly — she moves again. Keeps going.

The far factory greets her with silence. Not dead — waiting. As if the building itself hasn’t decided yet whether to let her in or swallow her whole.

Sage pauses at the entrance — if the iron archway covered in cobwebs and beads of water can be called that. The metal here smells different. Not like fresh rust — but something old. Like damp ash.

She steps inside.

It’s dim. The air is wet, heavy. Water drips somewhere. Even tiptoeing, her footsteps sound too loud. The floor is covered in a fine layer of dust, like snow, and every footprint screams, someone was here.

Sage hides behind a half-collapsed shelf. Through a narrow gap between pipes, she sees her. A girl. Thin, with sharp shoulders and dark hair braided back. Vector’s partner, from District Three. Sage remembers her.

That girl always stayed in the shadows — even after the interviews, she stood behind the other tributes, like she was trying to be invisible.

Right now, the girl clearly thinks she’s alone.

She’s searching the room methodically, without rush. Lifting boxes, flipping over cans, opening compartments in the wall. One of the panels creaks — Sage freezes, almost pulls her head into her shoulders like she can make herself smaller. But the girl doesn’t flinch. Just keeps looking.

She’s holding a small cloth bag, half full. Sage can’t see what’s inside, but judging by the way the girl cradles it, it’s something important. Maybe food. Maybe something she thinks of as a weapon. Maybe — medicine. Hope.

For a moment, the girl crouches down and pulls something from her pocket that Sage at first mistakes for a regular tin. But it’s not a can. It’s a flat, round object — looks like a battery, only bigger, like a jar lid. The girl slides the top open with a fingernail — and a faint light glows. Soft, yellowish, almost like candlelight. She holds it up to a crack in the wall, and Sage sees the shadow shift — there’s something behind the panel. A glint of metal through the gap.

The girl turns the disc, and the light goes out. She puts it back away. Calmly, matter-of-fact. No surprise. Clearly, she’s used it before.

There’s a flicker in Sage's gut. Not fear. A response. That’s a flashlight — with a focused beam. Miniature. No reflection. Nearly invisible from the outside. Curious… did she just get lucky with a find, or did sponsors get generous? For a moment, Sage even feels a stupid kind of resentment. Paisley could’ve tried harder too.

The girl glances around again, finds nothing, wipes her hands on her pants. Keeps searching.

Sage notes this. Quietly, inside. Like marking a map. Flashlight. No reflection. It works. Brighter than the one Vector passed to her. Which means she can search at night. But more importantly — she can hide and still see. Damn it, how can she get one like that?

Sage takes a step back. Careful. Barely touching the floor with the sole of her boot.

But the girl hears it. Or feels it. Her head snaps to the side. And in her vacant eyes, something switches on: alertness. She sees Sage. Not clearly. But enough.

A second — and she’s on her feet. The bag flies aside. A thin cord appears in her hand — dark, like her hair, like dusk. A garrote.

Sage jumps back — too late. The cord lashes around her wrist like a snake. A yank — hard, sharp. Her rod bar flies from her hand, clattering a few meters away. Sage drops to one knee, grabbing the edge of a box with her free hand — but the girl is already lunging. There’s no brute strength in her body — only precision. Like a blade. Like a sewing needle. Narrow, fast, focused.

Sage throws an elbow — wild — and feels it skid along the girl’s rib. A cry — not loud, more like a gasp. But the grip doesn’t loosen. The cord slips up toward Sage’s neck. They crash together. A dull thud of bodies on concrete. Air forced from lungs. A silent struggle — no screams, like they both know: noise means death, not just for the loser.

Sage feels the girl’s knees press into her ribs. Holds her breath. The chill at her throat isn’t from the garrote. It’s the closeness of the end.

And then — a sound.

Not inside. Outside. Beyond the wall.

A click. A creak. A door?

The girl freezes. Just for a split second. Her head snaps toward the sound. Ears straining. And in that single moment — that tiny, flickering now — Sage claws at the ground and jerks sideways. Rolls out. The cord slips from her shoulder. It scrapes her cheek — burns, like fire.

The girl backs away — nearly soundless. Grabs her bag. Doesn’t run — disappears. Retreats into the shadows, into the gap between pipes. Her eyes still locked on Sage. But her legs already braced to flee.

Sage stays on the cold floor. Palms trembling. Her face stings. Her mouth tastes of dust and rust. She breathes. Alive. And the weapon is gone — taken with the girl.

She lies there, motionless — one moment longer. Just breathing in dust. Realizing she’s whole. She’s alive.

Then, slowly, she turns her head. Toward the sound. Footsteps. Closer now. Not heavy, but not stealthy either. Someone’s not hiding. Someone’s walking like they know they can be heard — and don’t care.

Sage tenses. Prepares. Though she has nothing. Just fists. Just breath.

A figure steps out from behind the pipe — and inside her, everything crashes down.

“Riven?”

Not a shadow. Not a ghost. Not a monster, not a hunter, not a tribute with a sword at the ready. His shoulders are slightly slumped — he’s tired too. His face scratched, blood dried on his cheek, lips cracked.

Sage rises slowly. First to an elbow. Then to her knees. Riven freezes. Sees her. Blinks — like he doesn’t believe it right away. Then he takes a step. Another. And in two strides, he’s crossed the distance and pulls her into a hug. Hard. Wordless. As if he’s not holding her, but holding himself together — barely.

She presses into him, fingers clutching his jacket, face buried in his shoulder. Breathing — deep, like she’s just remembered how.

The world hums around them. Far-off noises. Broken things. Dangerous things. Hungry things. But here — it feels like she has an ally again.

“Really went all-out for a reunion spot, huh?” Riven mutters, glancing down at the dusty floor.

Sage lets out a choked laugh — not from tears, just the way everything inside is still shaking. But it’s a different kind of shake now.

“Felt like something atmospheric,” she whispers, trying to make her voice sound light — but it trembles anyway. “Though I got half-strangled before I could light the candles.”

“Classic,” he smirks. “You always were great with people.”

“I’ve got it under control,” she says, trying to stand.

He immediately catches her by the elbow, steadying her before she can sway.

“Sure. I saw. Real queen of self-defense. Especially that part where you turned blue.”

Riven gives her a squint — the one he always does before saying something serious — and then suddenly blurts:

“Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“I’ve got a… den. Don’t laugh.”

Sage does laugh — quietly. She knows he means it.

Riven turns, flashes a crooked smile — and suddenly, she feels almost warm. She quickly grabs her rod bar, and together they squeeze through a narrow gap between rusted beams. Overhead, something rattles — wind, maybe. Or not. He walks in front, as always. Eyes ahead, but always watching her from the corner of his vision.

He leads her deeper into the factory, where the darkness thickens, but the air grows stiller. Where dust lies untouched, and the pipes haven’t sung in a long time. A workshop. Old. Shattered windows, crooked tables. In the corner — a half-built shelter: a few crates, an overturned door, a couple of blankets.

Sage blinks.

“Cozy,” she says. “Almost like home.”

“Oh yeah. Got a kitchen, a bath,” he kicks an empty can aside, “just not hooked up yet.”

She sits on a folded coat, exhales.

“Seriously. You’re okay. You have no idea…”

“I do,” he interrupts, sitting down beside her. “Because I thought the same thing about you.”

Silence. The darkness seems to lean in, listening. For a moment, everything stills. And then he adds:

“Next time, let’s just meet at the market. No strangling. No drama. I’ll even buy you ice cream.”

Sage smirks.

“Only if it’s cherry.”

“Oh, look at you. Demanding now. Seems this luxurious lifestyle’s gone to your head.”

“I’ve always been like this,” she says — and for the first time in a long while, she truly feels like herself again.

Sage leans back against the wall, feeling the tension slowly drain from her body, leaving behind a sharp, ringing emptiness — like everything inside had been pulled tight for too long, and now, released, can’t quite figure out what to do next. Well, at least Riven’s here — for now, that’s enough.

But the silence doesn’t last.

First — a gust of air. Quick, sharp, like the beat of wings. Then — a bang: a metal door slamming shut. Not all the way, but loud enough. And seconds later — footsteps. Precise. Fast. Too confident for the arena.

Riven stands immediately. Doesn’t reach for a weapon — not yet. But his shoulders square, his lips press tight. He knows who it is.

Sage gets up too, body tensing — the fight from earlier still echoing in her muscles. Her fingers curl briefly into fists. Not fear. Reflex.

A girl appears in the doorway. About Sage’s age. A scarf wrapped around her neck, ash-colored hair tied back messily, with strands falling loose around her temples. Her eyes — black. Sharp. They lock onto Sage instantly, like they’d been waiting just for her.

A pause. Taut, like a bowstring.

“Oh,” the girl says. Her voice is anything but fragile — husky, edged with a flicker of disbelief. “Seriously?”

Riven takes a step toward her, palms slightly raised — like he’s calming her down, though she hasn’t exploded yet.

“Suki. It’s fine. She’s with me.”

Suki shifts her gaze to him, her face broadcasting a clear Are you kidding me?

“With you?” she repeats, voice now edged with acid. “I’m out there finding us water, and you bring back… some random girl?”

Sage steps back, silent. Her back hits a metal crate. Cold. Memory flicks on — like a lock snapping open in her mind. There’s plenty of water in her pack — but the catch is: Suki’s from District Twelve. And that’s exactly who she stole one of the bottles from.

“I…” Sage starts, but her voice catches.

Throat too dry.

Don’t speak. Don’t admit anything. Why would you?

Riven’s eyes flick between them, a crease forming between his brows.

Suki takes a step closer. Slowly. Narrow-eyed.

“Doesn’t matter,” she snaps. “If anything happens to her, not my problem.”

Riven looks like he’s about to say something, but Suki’s already walking past — brushing Sage’s shoulder slightly. Whether on purpose or not, impossible to tell. She stops by the far window, stares out.

Sage doesn’t say a word. But inside, something sticks — something raw and crawling. Not fear. Shame. That cold kind, the one that nestles under your ribs and reminds you you’re already worse than you wanted to be.

She lowers her eyes. Her hands clench on their own. The silence stretches — like an old sheet of fabric. Tug it just a little, and the dust starts to fall. Riven backs away to the wall, crouches down, starts picking at a crack in the concrete with the toe of his boot. Doesn’t look at either of them.

Suki stands still, like she’s rooted to the floor. A thin sliver of sunlight slices across her face through a cracked pane — catching her temple, her cheek, the tips of her lashes. She barely blinks. Like even blinking might be a risk right now.

Sage stays standing. She doesn’t know where to go, how to be. The space feels too big now — and in all of it, there’s no corner for her.

“You got water in that bag?” Suki asks suddenly, without turning around.

Sage doesn’t answer at first. Her throat tightens again.

“…Yeah,” she says at last. Her voice is hoarse. Too quiet. “I’ve got two bottles and about the same in a container. And I found other stuff. A flashlight. Bandages. A whole bag of food.”

“Well, fine then,” Suki mutters, clearly trying to sound like it’s through gritted teeth — though relief leaks through anyway. “You brought supplies, you can stay. Just don’t think I trust you.”

Sage turns away because suddenly the shame hits hard — deep in her gut.

Suki walks over to a metal shelf, pulls out a rough piece of fabric — looks like a blanket — and sinks to the concrete floor, tucking her legs underneath her. She unties a bundle and lays out her things: two knives, a coil of wire, something that looks like a homemade compass. Her gaze is still sharp, but her movements are heavy — that same kind of tiredness that doesn’t go away, even with sleep.

Sage slowly lowers herself to the floor by the wall, sitting opposite Suki, careful to keep her distance. She takes out a bottle. Her fingers are shaking, but she tries not to show it.

“Here,” she says softly. “It’s yours. I... I found it.”

Suki doesn’t take it. Doesn’t even look.

“Keep it,” she replies coldly. “You’re thirsty too.”

“I’ve got more.”

No response. Sage grips the bottle so tightly the plastic crackles. Then she sets it down between them. Let her take it or not. It’s up to her.

Riven gets to his feet and stretches. When he finally speaks, his voice is a little too loud — like he’s trying to cut through the tension.

“Well, girls. You do realize that if the three of us are sitting here, that makes us a team. Whether we like it or not.”

Suki snorts. Sage says nothing. And Riven, as if nothing's happened, pulls some kind of gear out of his pocket, holds it up to the light, and continues, more quietly:

“Three’s already an advantage. Especially if we don’t waste energy on each other.”

He looks first at Suki, then at Sage. Waits. No answer. Just silence — heavy, like wet clothes clinging to the skin.

Suki grabs one of the knives and starts sharpening it against the windowsill, like she really doesn’t care. Sage watches the blade glide over the concrete, leaving a pale streak.

Riven settles down by a rusty beam, legs stretched out, arms crossed over his chest. He looks at them — not directly, but enough to make it clear: this is going to be a conversation.

“You know,” he says, not loud but clearly, “Suki’s actually the butcher’s daughter. From District Twelve.”

Sage blinks. Now that’s a surprise.

“Seriously?”

“Mm-hmm,” he nods. “Butcher shop, two fridges, bunch of meat hooks, and her own little slaughterhouse out back. All of it hers.” He glances at Suki, still methodically working on her knife like she’s not even listening. “So don’t be surprised if she knows exactly where to stick a blade.”

“Charming,” Sage replies dryly.

“She’s kinda the rich girl, too. Well, by district standards,” he adds with a half-smirk. “She even had two pairs of shoes. Can you believe it?”

Sage can’t help it — she smiles. Hesitantly, but it’s there. Suki snorts again, louder this time, and the corner of her mouth twitches. Without turning, she asks:

“Am I supposed to be flattered or bite you?”

“Honestly, I still have no idea how you handle compliments,” he replies, rolling his eyes. “But I’m still hoping it doesn’t involve blood.”

Sage relaxes a little. The air shifts — like pressure slowly leaking out of a glass dome that had been pressing down on all three of them.

“All right,” she says. “If we’re a team now, then... what’s next?”

Riven exhales, looking up at the ceiling where rusted beams cast shadows like spiderwebs.

“If we just sit here, they'll smoke us out like rats,” he says. “If not the other tributes, then the Gamemakers.”

“Thanks, I was starting to forget I’m not allowed even a second of peace.”

“Always happy to help.”

Riven opens his mouth to say something else, but in the next second the sky is cut by a low, rolling sound. At first — like thunder, but not outside. Inside the skull.

Then — the hum. Familiar. Simple. Brutal.

A cannon shot.

It echoes through the walls, vibrates through the metal, hums in the ribs. Sage freezes like she’s been electrocuted. Even the air seems to stop — warm, stale, suddenly turning ice-cold.

Suki immediately goes to the window — silent, fast, with a kind of practiced instinct. She stands at the opening, eyes scanning the sky. The fire of the setting sun is already fading, and high above the factory, above the web of pipes and rusted beams, a hologram flickers to life.

Suki stares — intently, for a long time, until the image dissolves in the air. Then she says:

“Gadget. Girl from District Three.”

She says it evenly, almost indifferently.

Somewhere beneath Sage’s ribs, everything tightens. She probably should feel… what? Schadenfreude? Satisfaction? Objectively, it’s good news. One less enemy. Her enemy. Her death. But inside, something doesn’t add up. And yet there’s a tiny, gnawing guilt — not because Gadget is dead, but because the first thing Sage feels is relief. Quiet, like a mouse under the floorboards. And still.

“Twelve left,” Riven says, not even moving. “Halfway there. Looks like we’re in it for the long haul.”

And silence again. This time a different kind. No longer tense or sharp. Just silence. As if the factory itself is listening.

Riven stands, rubs his face with one hand, like he’s trying to wipe off everything that’s happened in the last few days.

“That’s why we need a plan,” he says. “Not just sit around breathing down each other’s necks. Tomorrow we go looking for something useful. Daytime — recon. Night — we take shifts sleeping.”

Sage breathes deeper, like that could help push back the dread pressing from the inside like a heavy blanket. She pulls her knees close to her chest and rests her forehead on her sleeve. The fabric smells like rust and sweat.

Twelve left.

Those words won’t leave her head. They sound so casual, almost like statistics. But each one — a person. Or was. And each one — a step closer to her. To Riven. To Suki. To the finish, where only one remains.

She knows she has to keep a straight face. There’s no room for softness here. Even the thought of weakness is like a crack in glass: at first almost invisible — then everything shatters. But inside, her mind keeps replaying Vector’s death.

He wasn’t the kind of threat you saw coming. Not explosive, not fast, not sharp. He wasn’t her friend. He annoyed her, argued, asked questions when all she wanted was silence. He didn’t fit her rhythm. But… did he deserve what happened in that room? Did anyone on this arena deserve it?

Still those same eyes in her head. Surprised. Not scared. Like Vector never even understood what was happening, or why. She bites the inside of her cheek, hard, not letting the feelings break through. She’ll think about it later. After the arena. After everything. Somewhere safe.

“Sage,” Riven’s voice brings her back. He’s closer now, leaning against a pipe, head tilted slightly as he looks at her. “You with us, or lost in your head again?”

“I…” She looks away, blinks quickly. “With you. Just thinking. Want something to eat?”

Her voice is slightly hoarse, but steady. Sage is surprised herself at how calm it sounds.

The ration pack rustles as she pulls it from the bag. It's dense, the color of faded sand, with worn markings and scuffed corners. It smells like plastic, salt, and something faintly recognizable—artificial, but warm. She breaks the seal. Inside, everything is neatly arranged: a silver vacuum block of stewed meat and lentils; a small white pouch of crackers that have absorbed the flavor of the entire pack; a thin thermal packet of soup—meant to be mixed with water, but even dry it smells spicy and warm; and hard biscuits—dense, tight, as if made of compressed air and starch.

At the bottom—a spoon. Plastic, matte. And a napkin. And one more, very small, transparent packet of gum. Cool mint. Sage looks at it like it’s a bad joke.

“We’re celebrating,” she says dryly, breaking the biscuit into three pieces. She hands one to each of them.

Riven chuckles.

“You have a weird idea of celebration.”

But he takes the biscuit—with such careful slowness, as if it’s not food but the most precious thing in the world. There’s a softness in his eyes as he sits down beside her, saying nothing more, just giving a barely-there nod. "Thank you."

Suki accepts her piece a bit faster, but without her usual sarcasm. On the contrary—her fingers hold the food with surprising gentleness, as if she’s afraid it might vanish.

“Damn, I forgot what real food smells like,” she mutters, tilting her head slightly. “Doesn’t reek of mold. Doesn’t grind like sand.”

She takes a tiny bite and seems to freeze—chewing slowly, staring into the darkness ahead as if the taste is carrying her somewhere far away.

Sage opens the vacuum pack with the stew. The smell—warm, heavy, a little salty—rises immediately. She divides it all evenly: a little meat, a little lentils for each of them. There’s no water for the soup, but even the scent—rich and spicy—sends a spasm through her stomach. Hunger stirs inside her again.

“If we had hot water, we could throw a feast,” Riven notes.

“We’re already spoiled,” Sage replies. “We should stretch it out.”

She eats slowly. Not for the taste—there’s barely any. But because each bite is like grounding. A reminder. You’re still here. You’re still alive.

For a moment, it feels almost cozy. Almost real. Three figures leaning against a cold wall, sharing dry food in the dark, like a fragment of the old world got lost in the present. And only the mint gum packet lies aside. One portion for three.

Sage looks at it and says, almost with a smirk:

“Who wins the lottery?”

Suki reaches first—but not for the gum. She goes for the biscuit, one more tiny piece of food, as if putting off the decision.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe someone who doesn’t snore like a dragon. Just a thought.”

She casts a quick look at Riven. He snorts:

“It was one time.”

“It was all night.”

Sage smiles with the corner of her mouth—warmly, almost without realizing it. Still chewing, she turns the little packet over in her fingers, as if something important depends on it. But her mind keeps circling the same thought: one for three. Like this tiny thing is a symbol of everything happening. There’s never enough. Someone always ends up without.

“Let’s draw for it,” she says. “Fair and square.”

Riven crosses his arms.

“What if we all chew it—one at a time?”

“And feed each other with spit?” Suki wrinkles her nose.

Sage chuckles. Quiet, but real. Her laughter isn’t frequent—it comes more like a jolt than joy. But it’s honest.

“I’m out,” she says, and hands the gum to Riven. “You win.”

He blinks.

“Why me?”

“Because you offered to share.”

Suki nods approvingly.

“Generosity gets you mint.”

Riven doesn’t quite believe it at first. He looks at the packet like it’s a miracle. Then he shrugs and slips it into his pocket without opening it.

“I’ll save it,” he says. “For when we get out of here.”

He goes quiet. They all do. But Sage feels it—something warm, threading its way through the cold. Almost imperceptible. Like those few words they exchanged were enough to spark... not friendship, no. But something like steadiness. A thread pulled between three people. Thin. But there.

She finds herself thinking of home again. Not a room, not a bed—those things feel too far away to have ever been real. Just the smells. The sound of wind moving through cracked boards. The way Iris used to toast flatbread in a cast iron pan on holidays. It was cold there too, because the heat was always off. But it was a different cold. One without fear.

You’ll make it. You’ll come back. Hold on, for that.

At first, they just sit. Not moving. It’s too dark to do anything and too early to sleep. The metal beneath them is cold—cold like an old coin—and the damp soaks into their bones. Time here doesn’t move by hours but by breaths. Slow, heavy breathing, like the factory itself is counting each rise and fall of their chests.

One breath. One exhale. One step closer to morning—or to death.

Suki gets up first. Without a word. Just a nod toward the far corner. There’s a heap of rags there—scraps of old coveralls, a blanket faded to dust-color. She curls up in the shadows, pulling the fabric over her face. She’s not sleeping. Just lying down.

Sage stays sitting. Knees pulled to her chest, her fingers absently tracing the seam on her sleeve. Riven walks the room—quietly, slowly, making a loop like he’s checking everything. The pipes. The seams. The windows. The shadows. He’s not panicking, but there’s focus in every step.

She watches him until he sits back down. Near her, but not close. Just at the edge of her breath.

“Do you think any of us will make it?” she asks, voice rough—not from emotion, but from silence, from exhaustion, from everything.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares into the dark like maybe the answer’s hiding there.

“I don’t know,” he says at last. “But if you don’t believe, what’s the point in trying?”

Sage nods. Not because she agrees—because not agreeing is too terrifying.

After that, they barely speak. Now and then, someone shifts or sighs, and the sound of boots on concrete echoes like it means something. There’s no talk of strategy. No counting how many are left to kill to be the last one standing. Just silence. Not tense—gentle. A silence you can breathe in.

Suki has long since fallen asleep, curled against her elbow. Riven sits nearby, arms around his knees like he’s trying to hide from something. He’s silent. Sage doesn’t need to ask what he’s thinking about. She doesn’t speak either—not because she has nothing to say, but because, finally, she doesn’t need to. And that is the best feeling in the world. It’s almost peace. Almost safety. As if the silence itself is holding their hands.

She’s always felt better in silence. When words don’t fill the air, don’t push her to act. When she doesn’t have to find the right tone, doesn’t have to filter the truth. When she can just be. That’s her real refuge—fragile, but hers.

She leans against the wall and closes her eyes. Far above them—it feels like it’s not even in the same world—the arena is still alive. Humming, buzzing, watching. But here, in this little shadow between concrete slabs, the world has gone still for a moment. And that’s enough. For now.

Sage stays. Just a bit longer. Then she rises—slowly, soundlessly—careful not to disturb the pipes, or Suki’s sleep, or the delicate stillness, like a layer of ice on water. She finds her jacket. Folds it into something like a pillow. Lies down beside Suki, but not too close—in case one of them wakes up in a panic. She’s learned that happens here.

And she lies there.

Not sleeping. Just lying still, listening to the others breathe. Listening to the rustle of fabric somewhere. The quiet ticking of metal, like the factory itself is alive and remembering.

Only when the darkness outside starts to fade, and the shadows begin to stretch and melt, does she allow herself one slow, heavy exhale. Like she’s been holding her breath the whole time.

And then everything is still again. Until morning. Or the next cannon.

Chapter 16

Sage wakes up abruptly — her heart already pounding before she even realizes why.

A moment later, the distant rumble rolls overhead again, muffled and heavy, like a sound traveling through water. A cannon shot.

She sits up, still clinging to the remnants of sleep, staring into the darkness until it slowly yields to the dim gray of dawn. Somewhere beyond the factory walls, there’s a brief flicker — a reflection on the clouds, maybe, or just her imagination.

Riven is already sitting, eyes fixed in the direction the echo might have come from. He rubs his neck, as if he’s only just woken up, and says, voice still rough:

"That was Opal. The girl from District One. Weird. Who managed to take her out?"

Suki sits up next, hair tangled, dark shadows under her eyes — the kind no sleep can fix.

"Probably the Careers turned on each other," she mutters, yawning. "They're always fighting over who gets to be in charge."

She pulls out a cracker and bites into it without looking.

Sage doesn’t answer. She just listens — to the silence around them, to the low hum of the pipe overhead, to the soft rustle of fabric beneath her hand. Something inside her tightens again, like a drawn string. Someone else is dead. One of twelve. Now only eleven remain.

Morning here is no different from night — the same dim light, gray walls, damp air, as if nothing has changed. But they move — because they have to.

First, food. The ration is split carefully — enough to satisfy, but with some left for later. No one offers the gum — it stays untouched, like a charm. The hardtack snaps dryly. There’s little conversation.

Suki wipes her hands on her pants and pulls out her knives again. Once she’s sure everything is in place, she looks up:

“We need to check what’s going on outside.”

Sage is already zipping up her jacket.

“I’m coming with you. It’ll be faster together. And we can cover each other.”

Riven nods, reluctantly.

“I’ll stay. Someone has to guard the camp.”

“Oh, just say you don’t want to go out, little coward,” Suki scoffs, tying her hair into a ponytail. There’s no venom in her voice — just the usual sharp-edged irony.

Riven answers with a look — dry, expressive, tinged with that familiar weary patience he gets every time Suki opens her mouth.

“Yeah, yeah. You got me. Sitting here, trembling, just so I don’t run into a tiny girl with an axe.”

“Anything’s possible in the arena,” Suki smirks, and with a wink, turns toward the exit.

Sage lingers for a second, glancing at Riven.

“We’ll be back soon,” she says.

He doesn’t answer, just nods. That’s enough.

The door shuts softly behind them. Outside, the air is wet, thick with the scent of metal and mold. Morning light — gray and diffuse — spills in from above with no clear source. There’s no sun today. Just a steady, oppressive twilight.

They move quickly but silently. Sage leads, low to the ground, shoulders tense like a predator’s. Instead of her usual metal rod, she fumbles a bit with a hunting knife — awkward in her hand. Suki covers her, eyes sweeping the surroundings. She knows this sector by now — the old production block where some corridors have collapsed, and others lead into deep hangars reeking of oil and rust.

They pass a moldy corridor, rusted signs still hanging on the walls: “Section 3. No Unauthorized Entry.” The words are barely legible, worn by time or by someone’s fingers. Something crunches underfoot — bits of glass, peeling tile, old wiring sticking out of the walls like tendons.

Sage slows at a junction — listens. In the distance, a metal creak — either the wind rocking a hanging beam, or someone stepped wrong. She raises a hand — stop. Suki freezes, the knife in hand. A few seconds of silence — only the sound of breathing and the low hum of the factory.

“Probably just the wind,” Suki whispers, frowning.

Sage doesn’t answer. They keep moving — slowly, breath held. Around the corner — a narrow passage between two crumbling walls, once a corridor. Light filters through holes in the ceiling, illuminating floating dust like golden motes. They slip along the wall, past corroded ventilation grilles gaping open.

The passage narrows; the ceiling dips low like it’s pressing down. Sage crouches a few times, but it’s quiet. No movement. No sound, save for their steps and the distant, constant thrum of ventilation — blending with the factory’s breath. The building feels alive — old, sick, but still breathing.

Suki relaxes first. Her knife slips back into her belt. Her shoulders ease, and a hint of swagger returns to her steps. After a few minutes, she starts humming — barely audible at first, more to herself than to anyone else:

“I’m too sexy to get killed...”

Pause.

“Too sexy for a trap...”

She snaps her fingers, grins without turning around:

“Too sexy for your crap... Sage, come on, don’t be such a bore.”

“Seriously? Now?”

“What, something bothering you?” Suki asks, stepping over a tangled old cable, and half-dancing: “I’m too sexy to get caught...”

She sings under her breath, not too loudly, but with clear enjoyment. Sage walks beside her, not interrupting. Her eyes still dart to the corners — watching for movement, traps, unstable ground. But even she can feel the tension slowly starting to ease. This place is empty. For now.

“Come up with a second verse,” she says after a pause. “Just please, nothing that rhymes with sexy.”

Suki smirks — and suddenly goes quiet. They pass a blocked doorway, where there must have once been a control room. Through the broken glass, it’s empty — just an overturned chair and shattered remains of old screens. Everything is dusty, dead.

Suki is the first to peek in — crouching slightly, squeezing through the broken frame, stepping carefully over chunks of concrete and jagged glass. Sage follows, her steps soft, as if her soles brush the ground through the fabric of a dream.

The room is small — maybe ten meters long, maybe less, with walls clad in dull plastic and aluminum panels streaked with rust. The floor is scattered with dust, trash, and what might have once been paper. Time and damp have fused it into faceless gray clumps. From one corner of the ceiling hangs a torn cable, swaying gently — like the opening cue to a scene that’s long since played out. The actors are gone.

“Ugh. Smells like a closet full of dead rats,” Suki grimaces, nudging a broken tile panel with her boot. “And clearly no spare grenades. Boring.”

Sage walks the perimeter in silence, her fingers brushing over the remains of the control console — a smooth surface, cracked diagonally, covered in a film of oil and dust. She opens one drawer — empty. The second holds only a rotting cartridge, bloated from moisture, marked with an unfamiliar symbol.

“Maybe this used to be a surveillance room,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. “If only it still worked…”

“If only,” Suki echoes, sitting astride the overturned chair, peering at her from beneath a stray lock of hair.

Sage’s gaze lingers on the wall where, most likely, a map of the complex once hung. Now, only a faded rectangle remains — and rough scratches at the corners, as if someone tried to rip the mounting out by hand.

“It’s all long dead,” she says at last.

Suki stands, brushing dust from her hands, and slaps her thigh.

“But we’re not. Let’s move. I don’t like the way the air hums in here. Too quiet.”

They retrace their steps, but not for long — turning a corner, they come across a stairwell leading upward. A narrow metal shaft, half-worn steps, a draft pulling down from above — damp air mixed with something that smells faintly of coal smoke.

Sage looks up, then at Suki.

“Shall we check it out?”

Suki just shrugs.

They climb, one step at a time. With every step, the light grows stronger — not sunlight, no, just gray daylight, filtering through a narrow, broken window near the top.

Soon they reach a rusted door. It takes effort, but they manage to open it without too much noise. Outside — the air is different. Cooler. Open. With the scent of concrete, wet leaves, and something distant — almost like the sea.

From here, the arena looks like a sprawl of gray boxes, cast in shadow and overgrown with foliage that sprouts straight from the cracks in the concrete. On the rooftops — birds. Black and silent. In the distance — nothing. No people. No sound of fighting. Just the arena. Just the morning.

Suki takes a deeper breath and stretches.

“You know,” she says, “sometimes it is kinda nice... not dying.”

Sage doesn’t answer right away. She stares toward the horizon, where hazy outlines of other buildings shimmer — maybe the edge of the arena. For a few minutes, they remain on the rooftop, listening. The calm is fragile, but still with them. Sage squints against the wind — it’s blowing from the east, carrying the faint smell of smoke and metal. She steps closer to the edge, crouches, and rests her palm on the cold concrete ledge.

“Wait,” she says quietly, not looking back. “There. See it?”

Suki steps closer and crouches beside her. At first — nothing. Just moss-covered concrete slabs, cracks, shredded cables, fallen metal beams. But then, between two lower buildings, a flicker of movement — someone’s shadow. Again — clearer this time. A tall figure, moving quickly, but carefully, in short bursts — like he knows what he’s doing. A boy.

“Who’s that?” Suki whispers.

“I think he’s from District Ten,” Sage whispers back. “Can’t remember his name.”

She narrows her eyes, focusing like a predator catching a scent. Her attention locks onto him. The boy stops by a hatch, kneels, checks something — and then vanishes, like he dropped out of sight.

“He knows something,” Sage murmurs. “Or found something. Look — there...”

She points a little to the right. Between two supports, something glints. A crooked outline, a slightly open cover — maybe a hidden shaft, a vent tunnel, some secret passage.

“Too far,” Suki says. “No way to reach it from here.”

But Sage is already rising. Her voice calm.

“I don’t need to reach it. I just want a closer look.”

“Hey, wait — what are you planning?”

Sage scans the roof’s edge — her eyes sharp, calculating. She spots a thick power cable running from an old vent box to the neighboring building. It used to be secured. Now it hangs in a loose arc — but it’s still taut and strong.

“Sage...”

“I’ll be quick. Stay here. If you hear anything — whistle.”

Suki doesn’t get to argue. Sage is already testing the cable’s tension, stepping back a few paces, rolling her shoulders — and then she jumps. Her legs hook over the edge, she rolls over the concrete lip, grabs a pipe, and slides down — clean, silent, catlike. She disappears from view almost instantly.

Suki exhales softly.

“Alright... you’re even starting to grow on me, damn it.”

Meanwhile, Sage moves like a shadow — close to the walls, slipping through rubble. Every movement precise: a slide, a hop over a gap, a quick sprint. Soon, she’s at the spot where the man dropped out of sight. There’s a metal tunnel, leading down. It smells like smoke... and food. Like warm rations or canned stew — too rich to be just dust.

Sage freezes a few steps away. She crouches, pressing close to the floor, leaning in slowly to keep her silhouette hidden. At first, she only listens. Nothing.

Then she lies on her side and crawls closer, elbows tight under her. The hatch is just below her chin.

She grabs a chunk of concrete, tosses it a little to the side — onto bare metal. The sound rings out, dull but clear.

No response.

Sage rises slowly, pressing herself to the edge until one eye can peer into the space below. Her movements are measured, as if time itself has stretched thin. Below — a narrow corridor, clearly maintenance-level, with peeling walls and damp patches. On the floor, tucked neatly into the corner, lie a few cans of food, a bottle of water, and a folding knife. A camera blinks above, its tiny red light flickering lazily — still functional. They hadn’t even bothered to hide it. Probably for atmosphere.

She’s about to pull back when she hears it — a sound too faint to be footsteps or a voice. Breathing. Sharp, shallow, from a mouth held slightly open. Then — a glint on the wet wall. A reflection. She’s not the only one watching. Someone has been standing just behind the bend this whole time, utterly still.

Sage doesn’t move. Not even her breath falters. Only her eye shifts slightly, searching for the angle of the breath. There — the edge of a sleeve. A shadow against the wall. Someone waiting. Someone watching. She counts her heartbeats.

And then everything happens too fast.

A boy steps into the corridor — slender, light on his feet, a satchel slung across his shoulder. He moves with the ease of someone who believes he’s alone. He doesn’t see the shadow behind the bend. Just takes two steps out of his hiding place.

Then another figure bursts from the corner like water breaking through a dam. A flash of metal. The knife arcs through the air and sinks into the boy’s side. He gasps — a strangled sound, barely loud. He stumbles, tries to turn. The attacker doesn’t hesitate. Another blow, clean and swift, to the throat. Efficient. No cruelty, no hesitation.

Sage becomes stone. She knows this part — the part where she vanishes into the backdrop. She watches the boy fall forward, eyes wide open. The attacker crouches — a girl from District Ten. She checks for a pulse, quick and practiced. Then grabs the food, the water, the knife. Scans the corridor. Freezes — just for a second — as if sensing eyes on her. But she doesn’t see Sage. The camera keeps blinking. The whole scene, performed for the audience.

A cannon sounds. The shot drags Sage back into her body.

Without a sound, she rises, retreats, retraces her steps through the factory, slinking up the metal lattice and out onto the rooftop like a stray cat. Suki is already standing at the edge, one hand braced on the railing, eyes sweeping the horizon. Alert, but outwardly calm.

“So?” she asks as Sage reappears.

“Stash,” Sage says, voice flat, nearly lifeless. “Cans, water, knife. The girl from Ten was waiting. She knew where he’d come back. Took him out quick. Smart, silent, and spotless.”

Suki narrows her eyes for a moment, as if trying to place a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit.

“We going after her?” she asks at last.

“No. Let her think she was alone.”

Suki presses her lips together, then steps away from the edge. There’s tension in her jaw, but not fear. More like calculus.

“How many left? Nine?”

Sage, without looking up:

“Ten. Five of them are Careers. Two from Four, two from Two, one from One.”

A pause. Both of them lean against the low ledge, eyes fixed on the horizon. The air still smells of ash and rot, but there’s something new riding the breeze now — not a specific presence, more like tension. As if the arena itself has started watching.

“Who else?” Suki asks, wiping her cheek with the palm of her hand — dust has long since settled there.

“Boy from Seven. He’s kept to himself, but he’s still alive.”

“He’s got a good axe,” Suki notes. “If he’s not an idiot, he might make it to the finale.”

Sage nods slowly.

“And the girl from Eleven.”

“And…”

“You, me and Riven.”

“Two exhausted but apparently unkillable girls, and one undersized boy. Lucky us.”

Suki snorts. Sage steps back from the edge, casting a glance down — at the rusted rooftop, the tangled pipes, debris, the empty frame of a ventilation rig. The space looks dead, but that’s just an illusion. Life here knows how to hide.

“Let’s go,” she says. “While the sun’s still up.”

Suki nods, short and sharp. Her movements are precise, practiced — tired under the skin, but her muscles still respond. When they head back down the rusted staircase, the metal groans underfoot but holds. Sage goes first — light, almost weightless, gliding like smoke. Suki follows, careful, always stepping near the edges of the stairs to keep them from creaking.

Inside the shell — dimness and dust. Light spills in through cracks and slats above, catching on abandoned helmets, broken crates, the rusted remains of rails. The arena hums with its own sleepy rhythm, but under that quiet something else pulses — tension, thick as sweat. The beams of light fall in bars, striping the floor. Each step lands heavy and muffled. They move slow, careful not to disturb a single brittle shard.

Sage grips the knife in her hand — uncertain. It doesn’t feel like hers. Short blade, light handle. Not like the metal rod — that she’d grown used to. This thing feels too delicate. No weight, no pull, no anchor. Sharp — yes. But not hers.

They turn into a narrow hallway where frayed cables hang from the ceiling. Paint has peeled from the pipes, rust eats at the beams, but there are signs someone’s been here — disturbed dust, a smeared handprint on the wall.

They keep moving — step by step, communicating in gestures more than words. Sometimes Suki nudges debris aside with her boot. Sometimes Sage peers into the shadows beneath a pipe or into a shattered alcove. They wander through the remains of what once was the factory’s mechanical heart. Broken lamps. Empty boxes. Charred sheets of metal. A ruined thermos lies abandoned. An empty backpack. A torn strap.

In one of the side rooms, they find a rusted cabinet with the doors hanging open. Inside — only mold and the sour smell of old smoke. It might’ve once held tools. Or been someone’s shelter. Now it’s just dead space. In another corner — a shattered staircase leading into a shadow-drenched cul-de-sac, the air stale like a crypt.

Sage bends down, finds a dusty piece of plastic, turns it over in her hand like it might somehow be useful... but no. She tosses it aside. Nods to Suki. She nods back.

Fifteen more minutes — just walking. Through corridors, across rusted catwalks, beneath arches where pipes used to hum. The smell of dust, sweat, metal — and something else. Something faint, like the edge of night closing in.

“Empty,” Suki says at last, quiet.

Sage only nods. Everything really has been picked clean. Or passed through by others. Either way — wasted time. They turn to leave.

Suki sees it first — but too late.

The shadow explodes from behind a side archway like a bullet: tall, wiry frame, close-cropped hair, eyes that latch and don’t let go. Nemesis. The girl from District Two. She smiles — almost cheerfully, as if delighted by the encounter.

“Well, well,” she says. “I was wondering who was poking around.”

And then she’s already lunging.

“Eat shit!” Suki shrieks.

Sage doesn’t have time to scream. It all happens in seconds. Suki spins around, raises her hand as if to grab her knife — but Nemesis’s blade is already in her side. Once. Twice. Quick, deep thrusts. Dull, brutal. Suki gasps, sinks down — not immediately, but with that unmistakable weight of someone who knows it’s the end. Her eyes are wide open, but her hands don’t respond anymore.

Sage jerks back. Swings her knife — blindly, almost, but the blade cuts nothing. Nemesis moves faster. More precise. A lunge — and the edge of her blade scrapes across Sage’s shoulder, leaving a burning trail of pain.

At first — it’s like a whip crack. A sharp explosion, like something hot going off under the skin. Then — as if rusty hooks had grabbed her muscles and yanked hard. Air punches out of her lungs, but no scream — just a rasp. Her body convulses, loses balance.

The pain spreads like a wave, shooting through her neck, collarbone, down to the elbow. Her shoulder no longer feels like part of her body — just a separate, throbbing mass of meat. Sage clamps her hand over the wound. Her fingers slip on the warm, sticky blood. Breathing gets harder — not from the injury, but from the panic pressing hard along her spine.

Her eyes burn, and inside, everything clenches at the thought that this might be it. The beginning of the end. But she holds on. She has to. She can’t fall — not now.

Sage stumbles back, sliding across the floor, grabs at a rusted beam for support. Nemesis comes after her — calm, focused, the way a predator moves when it knows the prey’s got nowhere to run.

“You’re quick,” Nemesis says. “Almost a shame.”

Sage doesn’t reply. She just stares. One heartbeat — and then she twists away, barely keeping balance, and disappears down the corridor. Through the pain. Through the fear. While she still can.

Nemesis swears and takes off after her. A maze of catwalks and shadows, the scent of dust and metal. Sage runs, ducking low, sliding under pipes, leaping over gaps. Blood drips from her shoulder, but she doesn’t slow down. There’s only one thought in her mind: down.

The elevator shaft. She was there half an hour ago. Remembered it. The busted lift, the empty drop, the thick darkness waiting below. She just has to reach it. Step aside at the last second.

Step. Another. Nemesis is gaining. Her footsteps echo behind, her breathing, the metallic ring of boots.

Sage rounds the corner, sprints out onto the concrete landing. A rusted door in the wall, the handle half torn off. She throws her shoulder into it.

Inside — darkness. A rotted wooden platform at the edge of the shaft. And somewhere far below — blackness.

She freezes.

One second.

Nemesis crashes in behind her, no hesitation. Sage sidesteps, sliding along the wall — just in time to hear the plank snap beneath Nemesis’s feet. A scream. A crash. Her body plummets down, half of the platform is falling apart under her weight. Rusty beams groan. The air swallows her scream.

But it’s not over. When Sage edges toward the pit, Nemesis is still there — hanging on. One hand grips the metal frame, the other scrabbling for something solid. Her face isn’t afraid. It’s furious. Blood streaks her cheek, her lip is split, her eyes are blazing.

“Bitch...” she hisses, pulling herself up.

Her knee finds the edge — and in a second, she’s back on the platform.

Sage doesn’t have time to react — a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of her. She hits the wall hard, crumples. Nemesis is on her, fast — precise and deadly. Sage grabs at her leg, but Nemesis slams down — another blow to the gut, then an elbow across the face.

The world bursts into light and noise.

Her knife clatters to the floor.

Nemesis towers over her, breathing hard. Blood in her mouth, hair stuck to her forehead.

“You think you’ll win?” she whispers.

She reaches for the blade, but in that moment Sage does the only thing she can — lunges forward and sinks her teeth into the girl’s shoulder. A scream — real, raw — tears out of the Nemesis's throat. Sage takes the opening: an elbow to the chest, then a blind slap across the face. Nemesis stumbles back but grabs hold of Sage’s jacket — the fabric tears, and they both crash to the platform again. The remaining part of the boards creaks, but holds.

Sage scrambles backward — through the pain, her hand finds the edge of the platform. Nearby — a jagged piece of rebar. She grabs it. Nemesis is already on her feet, lunging again — and this time, Sage throws herself to the side, almost inviting her forward.

That’s when the platform beneath Nemesis finally collapses. She plummets again — but just manages to catch the ledge. Her fingers scrape desperately at the concrete. Her face isn’t twisted in fear. It’s something worse — realization.

Sage says nothing. She steps closer. Drops to her knees. Nemesis is breathing hard, eyes darting like a cornered animal. She’s strong — one pull might be enough if Sage gives her the chance.

“You know what?” Sage whispers. “You’re lucky. I’m not a killer.”

She reaches — not for the Nemesis's hand, but for the rebar. And slams it down beside her grip. Not on her fingers. On the ledge, for the seam in the metal — where everything’s already cracking. The structure groans. Boom.

Nemesis slips.

There’s a scream, short and sharp. Then the dull sound of impact somewhere far below.

Sage stays there, on her knees. Her heart beats like it’s about to burst. She doesn’t move for a long time. Then slowly rises. Everything inside her trembles. Her shoulder is bleeding, her stomach throbs — the hit landed deep. Nothing feels broken. Yet. She walks to the edge. Looks down.

Darkness. Nemesis is down there somewhere. The cannon hasn’t fired — not yet. Maybe she didn’t die right away. Maybe now she’ll just lie there. Broken. Without water. Without food. Without a chance.

Sage watches. Just watches.

“Goodbye,” she says quietly.

And turns away.

She doesn’t listen for what Nemesis does next. She just walks. Into the dark. Through the corridors, with no clear path. The wound on her shoulder burns, every step sharpens the pain, her breath hitching.

But Riven is out there.

And he’s alone.

Sage runs.

Notes:

awww my little girl just got her first kill
sage, sweetie, i know you didn’t want this, but you’re doing amazing, sweetie

rip suki
in my mind you were the most iconic lesbian to ever grace the arena
gone too soon, died with eyeliner still sharp
fly high, baby

Chapter 17

Riven doesn't say a word as he examines the wound. His fingers are warm but careful, as if he's afraid to cause more pain. The flashlight casts a soft, almost gentle glow — like it doesn’t belong here, like it’s from another life. Sage sits on the cold floor, back against the wall, watching his face — not his hands. Because it's his face that tells her the truth: it's bad.

He peels back a scrap of fabric stuck to her shoulder, and she hisses involuntarily from the pain. Tries not to flinch. Not to look. She had already guessed the hit was deep, but now, seeing the way he winces, the way his breath catches for just a second — she knows. Her suspicions were right.

"Deep cut," he finally says. His voice is even, but too controlled. Almost too calm. "Dirt got in. You want the truth, or the sugar-coated version?"

"The truth."

"If I go by what we learned in training... I think it could be an infection. I’m not sure."

She doesn’t answer. Just nods and leans slowly back against the wall, as if every inch of movement takes effort. Things couldn’t be worse now. The knives are still in the factory — she’d forgotten to grab them when she ran, didn’t look back. Not out of fear, but because the choice had already been made.

And yet something inside her twinges. Not fear. Not regret. Guilt — quiet, gray, faceless. Nemesis is dead now. She knows it for certain — by the time Sage reached Riven, the cannon had already fired. And the sound still rings in her ears like a reprimand.

But these aren’t thoughts worth spending strength on. She knows that. Just like she knows she’d do it all again. Nemesis would’ve killed her without hesitation, like she killed Suki. If their places were reversed — Nemesis wouldn’t have saved her. Probably would’ve made sure she didn’t walk away.

The wound throbs harder, like it’s reminding her: everything she did — it’s hers to carry now. The empty hands, too. All that’s left is blood on her jacket and this dull, relentless heat beginning to rise in her shoulder.

Sage tries to think logically. It helps, barely. Like maybe, if she breaks the situation down into steps, there won’t be as much space left for fear. There are eight of them left. Eight isn't many — but it's not nothing either. Four are Careers. A tight-knit group, weapons, supplies. And, of course, strategy. They have experience. She has a bag of food, a pulsing wound, and Riven.

Sage counts in her head, as if it might somehow change something. The girl from Eleven is clever. Keeps to herself, but she can kill. Did the boy from Seven figure out who stole his food? No. Of course not. But that doesn’t mean he’ll be kind if they meet again.

Sage closes her eyes for a moment. It’s easier to count that way. Easier to think.

What next? They have only a few scraps of bandage left. Nothing to clean the wound with. Nothing to bring the fever down, if it starts. No antiseptic. No needle. Not even a weapon, in case someone finds them. Should they go back for the knives? No — too risky. Best to stay hidden for now, until the haze in her head clears a bit. More than anything, Sage wants just one thing — a break. A couple of hours without blood, without choices, without counting bodies.

Riven says something else — quietly, like he’s afraid of waking whatever lurks in the dark. But Sage isn’t listening anymore. Not because she doesn’t want to — the thoughts are just slipping too deep. Like water through a sieve. Nothing stays.

Sage doesn’t cry. Tears come when there’s something to hope for. And right now, all she has is facts.

Fact: infection can spread quickly.

Fact: the wound is deep.

Fact: they’re in a maintenance wing, with no medbay, no exit to the outside.

Fact: she doesn’t know how much time she has. Maybe a day. Maybe a night. Maybe just a few hours.

She breathes in. Slowly. Deeply. Her breath trembles, but she keeps it under control.

Can’t lose it now. As long as I’m thinking, I’m alive. As long as I’m alive, Riven still has a chance.

The thought stings, like a splinter. Not about herself — about him. If she gives up, he’ll be alone. And he can’t make it alone — she knows that. He can act brave, he can fight, he can hold on, but in the end, he’s still just a boy.

Sage looks down at the bandage. It’s already darkening with blood.

I can’t afford to die, she thinks. Not yet. Hey, Bradbury, let’s make a deal. You get off this arena, and then you can die whenever you want. But not here. Deal?

She closes her eyes and counts her heartbeats. One. Two. Three. She’s still here. That means the fight’s not over yet.

“Hey,” Riven says again. Louder this time. His voice is unsure, cautious, but something in it shifts — like he’s talking himself into speaking at all. “I need to know how bad it is. Could you walk, if we had to move?”

Sage opens her eyes. She doesn’t answer right away — not because she doesn’t know, but because she’s deciding whether or not to lie. Then she shakes her head. Slowly.

“I could. But probably not far.”

He nods, like he already expected that. Sits beside her, pulling his knees up. His shoulder almost touches hers. His hand still grips the edge of the bandage, like he thinks sheer willpower might stop the bleeding.

“We have to come up with something,” he says. “At least a direction. We can’t stay here for long. Someone’ll find us. Or you…” — he falters — “or you won’t hold out.”

Sage gives a faint smile, joyless, automatic.

“If I don’t hold out, you definitely won’t survive,” she says. “So come on. Think. Pretend you’re smart.”

“I don’t pretend,” he mutters, no real bite in it. “I’m just not a survival genius. I liked reading books. Doesn’t really help here.”

“It might,” she says. “If you remember anything useful.”

He falls silent for a moment. The air hums in the quiet, tight like a stretched string.

“I have an idea,” he says at last. “We’re in a factory, right? Where would you hide a medkit in a factory?”

“No clue.”

“There should be an emergency supply room somewhere in the industrial zone. If we’re lucky, and no one’s looted it yet, there might be medicine.”

“Or someone else,” Sage adds quietly.

“Yeah. But it’s better than just sitting here.”

She doesn’t argue. Too tired for that. But despite the pain, despite the blood, despite the shivering — she feels something winding back up inside her. Not hope. Stubbornness. Grit. Fury.

“Then sit tight,” she says. “We’re not splitting up again. We’ll rest a bit, then try to move. And if we’re lucky… maybe find a slim chance.”

“And if we’re not?”

“Then you run,” she says simply. “And I cover you.”

He doesn’t speak. Then slowly shakes his head.

“No. If we die — we die together.”

Sage doesn’t smile. But she looks at him a little longer than she needs to.

“You’re so damn stubborn.”

“Takes one to know one,” he mutters.

And they fall silent. For a moment — just breathing. Just quiet. Just a heart still beating. In the hallway beyond their hiding place — silence. Somewhere, water drips. The flashlight flickers. They sit on the edge of something awful, and both of them know it.

Sage turns her head toward him.

“If I become a burden…”

He cuts her off.

“Shut up.”

She smiles faintly, just one corner of her mouth.

“I’m saying it anyway.”

“You won’t be.”

Time passes. But here, it feels thick, sluggish — not moving, not flowing, just pooling in corners like dust. The flashlight is dying. Its light isn’t yellow anymore — it’s blue, trembling. Too weak to really illuminate, too strong to surrender to the dark.

Riven doesn’t sleep. He sits next to her, gets up now and then to check the hallway. Comes back. Looks at her like maybe his gaze could change something. Sage tries not to move. Not because of the pain — it’s too late to be afraid of that — but because every motion sends a shock through her shoulder like someone plucking a stretched wire.

Inside, there’s heat. Rising through the muscle, crawling toward her neck.

It’s not just pain anymore. It’s something else.

She doesn’t tell Riven how bad it is. What’s the point? He already knows.

“You’re shaking,” he says once.

“Cold,” she lies.

Truth is, she’s burning. Her temples are pounding like someone hammering from the inside.

They stop talking for a long time. Only say what they have to. Sentences short as commands.

“Drink.”

“Quiet.”

“Lie down.”

“Breathe.”

“I’m here.”

Sage drifts in and out. Half her mind stays in the pain-wracked body. The other half slips somewhere else — where there’s no blood, no factory, no arena. Just darkness, and the strange sensation of being a child again, curled up in her bed, cold seeping through a crack in the window, and Marigold whispering nonsense in her sleep.

At some point she wakes, barely, feeling Riven press a damp cloth to her forehead.

“Don’t waste water like that,” she hisses.

“There’s a tank behind the partition,” he shrugs. “If we really wanted, we could drown in it. Your fever’s climbing.”

She wants to say she knows. But her lips are dry, cracked — like the heat has scorched her from the inside out. The flashlight isn’t flickering anymore. It’s just gone. Darkness folds over them like a lid. Riven sits against the wall, back pressed to cold pipes.

“I’m sorry,” she rasps.

He looks at her.

“For what?”

“For coming here. For dragging you down with me.”

He sighs. Not annoyed — just tired. Like someone explaining the same thing for the hundredth time.

“You’re not dragging me. I’d be bored without you. And besides, we’re friends. Friends are supposed to have each other’s backs.”

Sage tries to smile. It comes out crooked. They fall silent. For a long time, this time. Only the creak of metal, wind somewhere in the vents, and the low hum rising from below — like something beneath the floor is breathing.

Sage feels the fever creeping toward her collarbone. Nausea swells. Her fingers are numb. Her body — not hers anymore. She’s scared she’ll start hallucinating. Or pass out. Or… worse.

But Riven doesn’t leave. He won’t let her slip away.

“We’ll wait a little longer,” he says. “Once it gets lighter, we’ll move. I’ll find that damn storeroom. I’ll get the medkit. I’ll get whatever you need. Just… hold on, okay?”

She doesn’t answer. Just blinks. Slow. Slower than she should. He touches her cheek — soft, like a petal.

“You’re still here?”

She wants to nod. Say something. Words tangle. But yes. She’s here. Still holding on. That means they can still keep going. Just a little further.

***

Sleep doesn’t come — it seeps in. Slowly, like warm water through a sieve. At first, Sage doesn’t realize she’s no longer here, in the darkness of their shelter, that the pain has faded a little, dulled, become something distant — no longer hers.

The first thing she sees is a window. Narrow, with a chipped white frame, the dust on the glass scattered like stars. Sunlight pours into the corner — soft, morning light. It doesn’t belong here. It’s the window from her apartment in the District, from the kitchen. It smells like bread. And something sour, left too long. Probably milk.

The table is crooked. There’s an ink stain on the tablecloth. Someone spilled it again, but no one’s cleaning it up.

“If you hold the knife like that, you’ll just cut yourself,” says a voice. A man’s. Warm.

Sage turns her head. It’s Henley. He’s by the sink, in shadow, slicing carrots. His fingers are deft, his hands scarred and calloused. Just like it really was. Just like it should be. He’s wearing an old shirt with a worn collar. His hair is a mess, like he just got up, but his eyes are clear. He looks at her with that familiar half-smile.

“Here, let me show you.”

“I know how,” she replies.

“Sure. But you always forget — the blade isn’t your enemy, not if you’re on the same side.”

She laughs. Or wants to. Everything sounds like it’s underwater. Things drift. Details shift. He hands her the knife — and suddenly it’s not a knife anymore, it’s a screwdriver. Her hands are slick with machine oil. They’re not in a kitchen, but in some half-basement workshop. A stove hums nearby, and nails are scattered across the floor like silver seeds.

Henley’s face turns into Vector’s. He’s sitting on an upside-down bucket, fixing a radio transmitter.

“They’ll catch us anyway,” she says.

“Let them find us first.”

“It’s dangerous.”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps looking down, switches on the receiver. Static bursts out, then a voice — female, unfamiliar, singing in a language she doesn’t know. Sage listens. The song is simple. Sad. She doesn’t understand the words, but she knows it’s about someone who forgot their name.

And then everything shifts. The ceiling collapses like skin over an old wound. The workshop vanishes into smoke. The song tears in half, like film.

The next thing she sees is snow. It clings to her palms, her lips. The snow is black with soot. She’s standing by a well, a bucket in her hand. Iris is next to her — holding her fingers, warming them with her breath.

“You sick?” Iris asks.

“No. Just winter.”

Iris doesn’t believe her. Looks into her eyes.

“What are you hiding?”

Sage doesn’t know. She’s cold, but not from the snow.

“You’re bleeding,” Iris says suddenly, staring hard at her sister’s shoulder. The snow is soaked, tinged pink.

Sage looks down — yes, the fabric is torn, blood is seeping, but she doesn’t feel pain. Only weakness.

“You promised,” Iris says.

Sage wants to answer that she doesn’t remember. That she didn’t have time. But she can’t speak.

Iris walks away. Just turns and disappears into the blizzard like she was never there.

Sage screams — but not with her voice. With her breath. And in that soundless cry, something fractures.

Next — a staircase. She’s climbing it, step by step, each one heavier than the last. The stairs are metal, slick with oil, bolts scattered along the edges. She’s barefoot. With each step, it grows darker. The air is thick like syrup. She wants to lie down. Just stop climbing. But someone is waiting at the top. Someone is calling. She hears her name — but it’s not Iris, not Henley. Someone else. Someone with her mother’s voice, even though her mother is dead.

“Sage, where have you been,” a voice says.

She can’t answer.

“You’re late.”

The door above is slightly ajar. There's light there. Warm. Alive.

But she can’t lift her leg anymore. Her knee gives out. She falls.

***

Waking comes sharp.

Riven is shaking her shoulder. He’s saying something — fast, clear. Her forehead is damp with cold sweat. The fabric on her chest is soaked.

“Sage! Are you with me? Hey, Bradbury, don’t you dare die on me, you hear?”

She’s breathing fast. The world comes back — with pain, with heat, with the stench of blood and steel. But she’s here. In the tech room. Still alive. The flashlight still isn’t working, but Riven’s hands are holding her face. She blinks. Once. Again. A third time.

It gets worse. Sage feels nausea rising with every throb in her temples, the fire flaring back up in her shoulder. Something tears inside — like old fabric. She tries to speak, but her lips won’t move.

“Hey, hey…” Riven suddenly pulls her in tighter. And there’s something like joy in his voice, surprisingly light. “Sage, hear me? They sent it! The sponsors sent a medkit!”

She blinks again. Struggling.

“What…?”

“Just now. Dropped right outside the window. Bandages, painkillers, antiseptic — hell, even antibiotics!” He’s already pulling the contents out: silver packets, white boxes, a small bottle of clear fluid. “We’ve got this. You hear me? We’re getting out.”

She doesn’t reply — she can’t. But her eyes look a little less clouded. A faint, barely-there nod.

Riven moves fast. Gently lowers her head onto a rolled-up jacket, brushes the hair from her face. His hands are trembling, but his motions are precise. He’s already opened the antiseptic, cracked open the vial of antibiotics, found a syringe.

“Sorry. This is going to hurt. But it has to.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Rolls up her pant leg, finds the outer side of her thigh, about a palm’s width below the hip bone. Wipes it clean, gives the injection — fast, almost without warning. Then the painkiller, into the shoulder.

Sage barely reacts. Just hisses through her teeth.

“Hang in there. It’ll kick in. Not right away, but… you’ll feel it. A little better.”

He unwraps the bandages, carefully treats the wound. The antiseptic burns. Blood starts flowing again — that’s good. It means the tissue’s still alive. Deep wound, but not deep enough to kill. Riven flushes it out with solution, presses a sterile pad against it, wraps her shoulder in tight, clean gauze.

“Almost done. Stay with me.”

He lifts her slightly to give her water. Small sips. Slowly. Then presses a cool cloth to her forehead. Sage blinks. The fever’s still there, but it feels like it’s stepped back a pace. Her skin is a little drier. Her breathing steadier. The pain is still there, but duller. Not pulsing — that’s something.

“There you go,” he whispers. “We don’t give up. We’re gonna outlive them all.”

She tries to smirk. Doesn’t quite manage it. But her lips move.

“Still not feeling like a beauty queen.”

Over the next few hours, the fever ebbs—like someone reached inside her and pulled out a burning coal. The pain in her shoulder remains, but now it’s dull, sticky, almost muffled. Sage is still weak, but her breathing evens out. She knows: this isn’t healing. It’s a delay. A borrowed few hours. Maybe less. But sometimes that’s all you need—to take one more step.

The first day passes in a haze. Sage barely moves. She lies curled on her side, like a child left alone in a house that’s too big. Time moves strangely—either in slow drops, like water leaking from a cracked pipe, or in great empty stretches. Her shoulder still pulses—less than before, but still there. Every time she tries to shift, the pain flares again: burning, dull, fingers weak. She doesn’t even try to get up.

Riven barely leaves her side. After the bottled water runs out, he only goes out to get more. He watches her breathing too closely. He never says he’s afraid, but he doesn’t need to. It’s obvious—in how quietly he moves, how gently he adjusts her bandage, how he gives her the next dose of painkillers right on the hour, careful not to wake her.

The arena is oddly quiet. During that time, another tribute dies—a boy from District Four. Another Career.  Have they really started turning on each other?

“Maybe they ate each other,” Riven says, glancing out the window. “In their glorious Camp Honor and Strength.”

“Or someone didn’t want to share a shiny fork.”

“Or—plot twist—their dinner burned and a massacre followed.”

“Tragedy of the year. ‘The meat was too rare, sir.’”

“You failed us, Ripley. You ruined our ratatouille. Now you die.”

They both laugh. Softly. Cautiously. Laughter sounds wrong in this place—like a sound that doesn’t belong here. But it happens anyway. Because if you don’t laugh, the silence wins. And silence here is too cold.

Sage leans her head back against the wall. Stares into the shadowy corner where the lamp once burned. It’s empty now. And something inside her clicks at that emptiness.

When did I become like this?, she thinks. Not brave. Not clever. But this: calculated, sharp-edged, cruel. The kind of person who jokes about someone’s death. Who doesn’t flinch at the smell of blood—unless it’s her own. Who’s already killed someone.

She thinks maybe it started the moment she was Reaped. Or maybe before. Maybe it built slowly, like water dripping onto stone—until it didn’t just wear her down, it hollowed her out. She’s no longer that girl from the fifth-floor flat, writing names in the dust on the windowsill. She’s a tribute now. Shit. God, this is all such shit.

The Games are part of her now. Like a scar. Like a name. Like a memory she never asked to keep, but that sits behind her ribs and whispers: move faster, strike first, survive.

Riven says something else—another joke, more forks, sauces, fatal culinary experiments. Sage nods. Replies. Even smiles. But inside, there’s just cold.

“Can you imagine if it’s true?” Riven goes on. “They built this whole alliance, and then someone just looked at someone the wrong way—and that’s it. One misstep. One sideways glance. And no amount of muscles can save you.”

“Good thing we’re not an alliance,” Sage says. “We’re a team.”

For a moment—silence again. But it’s no longer suffocating. There’s a little more air in it. Riven looks at her and, as if reluctantly, adds:

“Let them tear each other apart. The fewer of them left, the less work for us.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Too tired to argue. But then, quietly, almost a whisper:

“Are you sure we’ll even be able to do anything? We don’t have any weapons left.”

Riven is silent for a long time. Then he sits closer, pulling his knees up.

“No. I’m not sure. But if it comes down to it, I’ll try.”

Sage just blinks. Slowly.

“A culinary massacre, then.”

“With blood for seasoning.”

“Delightful.”

And again—that faint, fleeting shadow of laughter. Then silence returns. And they stay in it, where death is no joke, but also not the only thing left in this world.

The second night is easier. The fever retreats further, like a tide pulling back. Her body stops trembling. The fever-dreams come less often, and when she wakes, she can hold a cracker in her hand—even if she still eats slowly. Water no longer slips past her lips. She swallows. And she can taste it.

On the third day, Sage sits up—and it’s a whole achievement. Every muscle stretches like a rubber band left too long in the sun. The skin under the bandage burns, but she bears it. Riven helps—silently, with one hand, so carefully, like he’s afraid he’ll break her again. He says something—stupid, calming. Sage doesn’t listen. She’s counting her heartbeats—nine, ten, eleven. Still here. Still beating.

And then—the cannon. A shot—short, echoing, like someone clapping too close to your ear. They freeze. Say nothing. Just look at each other. Sage exhales slowly. Counts her pulse again. Riven steps to the window and says:

“The boy from District Two.”

Sage lowers her eyes, once again feeling the coarse fabric of the blanket beneath her fingers. Joy comes too quickly. Too easily. Unexpectedly. That’s not how it works. She was lucky to get rid of Nemesis, but there’s no way all their remaining opponents this year are fools. Oberon had been trained since childhood. People like him don’t have trembling hands. People like him don’t miss.

The strongest tributes are falling — and that’s good news. But something about it feels wrong. They've spent nearly half a week holed up in one place, and no one has come for them. That means the others are too busy to sweep the area. But with what?

Maybe something broke. Either within the alliance, or the Gamemakers changed something in the arena itself. And if they’re starting to fall one by one, it means the next stage has begun. The one where everyone is on their own. Where no one saves you, covers for you, or shares rations.

Where the only ones who survive are those who truly know how to be alone.

Sage looks at Riven. She isn’t alone. But is he?

She doesn’t know.

They don’t talk about what happens next. But both of them understand: the silence in the arena isn’t permanent. This is just a pause. A trap. The Capitol won’t let the Games drag on. Someone is already prowling nearby. And soon, the killing will start again.

On the fifth day, Sage wakes from her own movement. Her injured arm twitched — involuntarily. That wasn’t possible before. She suddenly realizes she’s smiling.

Riven is asleep, slumped against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Exhausted, stupidly endearing in that stubborn way of his. She watches him for a few seconds before closing her eyes again. She doesn’t feel like sleeping. Her thoughts are clearer. Her shoulder still aches, but now Sage knows — if she needs to stand, she will. And if she needs to fight — now she can.

She wonders what they’re showing on the broadcast right now? If they’re watching Sage and Riven, it’s probably the dullest footage possible — bleached out from boredom. Him, dozing with a crooked posture. Her — half-sitting, half-lying, leaning on her bad arm. If someone in the Capitol were drinking coffee, they’d yawn. If someone were eating a cookie, it would crumble from sheer tedium.

They won’t air that for long. The Capitol doesn’t tolerate emptiness. It fills it. The Gamemakers know how to wait — but they don’t like making the audience wait. Which means soon they’ll pull them back into the spotlight. The plot will tighten again, bones will crack, fire will flare. If this part of the arena’s been quiet for nearly a week, then somewhere else, blood is already flowing. Sage knows this as clearly as she knows her own name.

And that’s what terrifies her the most.

She sits in silence, but something inside her is slowly igniting — not fear, but a kind of foreboding. Like the smell of a storm before the first drops. Like a darkening blot on the horizon.

Sage leans on her palm. Her shoulder aches, but pain is a signal, too. It means she’s alive. Riven shifts in his sleep. One eye cracks open — then shuts again. He looks like someone you could simply forget, leave sitting here like a lonely shadow, and he would go on waiting.

She sighs and leans back against the wall.

By evening, she’s feeling well enough that, for the first time in days, she senses something stirring in her chest — not just anxiety, but something else. Restlessness. Her body still aches, like after a long fever, but her fingers no longer tremble. Her foot is steady on the floor. And when Riven offers her water again, she pushes the cup aside and says:

“We need to go.”

He looks at her directly, unblinking. For several seconds, he just stares, like he’d been waiting for her to say it all along. Then he gives a short nod.

“Slow. First sign of trouble — we turn back.”

She doesn’t argue.

They get ready quickly — a habit left over from the early days, when any delay could cost you your life. Sage grabs the iron rod again. No way she can lift it with her right hand — still too painful. So she’ll have to use her left. Awkward, but it’ll do. As long as she doesn’t flinch when it matters. Riven’s carrying a broken length of pipe. Crude, unwieldy, slightly bent — but heavy enough to pass for a real club. He holds it with the easy grip of someone who’s carried weapons like that his whole life.

They slip out of the factory, careful not to make a sound. Outside — dusk. The gray light blurs into the gray air, and everything around them feels coated in dust, like an old film reel. The street is empty. No movement. No noise.

Sage walks slightly ahead. She isn’t thinking about what might happen — just scanning the space: windows, rooftops, alleys. Her field of vision stretched wide. With each step, she feels her spine straighten, her muscles slowly waking up. It almost feels good. Pain means they’re working.

They move through the area, block by block: past warehouses still as dead whales; along a line of loading machines, overgrown with weeds, like they’ve been here for a hundred years. Every building is a belly. Anything — or nothing — could be inside.

Nothing. No one. Just the wind slipping between concrete slabs.

At the intersection, Sage halts and signals with her hand. Riven freezes instantly. Ahead — something odd. A faint crunch, barely audible. Like someone stepped on glass. They press against the wall. Hold their breath. If it’s a tribute — they need to know. If it’s a trap — they need to figure it out. Sage grips the rod as tightly as she can. Pain shoots from her shoulder to her neck. But she doesn’t let go.

A shadow flickers at the far corner. Too fast to make out, too real to be imagined. Riven nods, and they move again — slowly, knees bent, staying close to the shadows. Search pattern — classic: one watches up, the other down. No words. No sound.

It turns out to be a girl from District Eleven, darting between two buildings. Her movements are fast, but not panicked. She carries a handmade bow slung over her shoulder and holds something in her hand — maybe a knife, wrapped in cloth.

Sage instinctively slips into hiding, watching. Her heart beats fast, but it’s not fear — it’s focus. The kind of stillness right before you strike. Before you leap. Before you do something that matters. The girl skirts the edge of the old warehouse complex, clearly searching — maybe for food, or water, or a place to rest. Sage sees her pull a small pouch from her belt and place something inside — tiny, metallic shapes. Bolts? Bearings? Doesn’t matter. What matters is — she’s distracted, just for a moment.

Sage moves. One step. Another. Breathes through her nose. Slides along the wall like a shadow, like wind. Wind doesn’t make noise. It brushes past. The distance between them — five meters. Four. Three. Two.

The bow. Riven’s a decent shot. Not great, but if she had that bow...

She’s close. Reaches out. Almost touches the leather strap.

And then — the sound.

A deep, low groan. Like the earth taking its first breath before an earthquake.

Nothing happens at first. And then — something shifts. One of the distant buildings, a towering concrete hulk, begins to sag, like it’s lost its footing.

“What the...” the girl whispers, snapping around like a spring.

Sage doesn’t have time to pull back. They collide shoulder to shoulder, both recoiling from the impact. The girl raises her knife. Instinctively, Sage lifts the rod — pain flares in her shoulder like fire. But the blow never comes. Because the next moment, something strange begins.

A chunk of fallen wall kicks up a thick cloud of dust. Then — a crack. Another. And then a crunch, like the city itself is breaking its own bones. The factories begin to collapse, one after another, as if someone is sweeping them off the board. Not from above — from within. The foundations sink inward, as if being swallowed by a giant funnel.

“Run!” the girl yells — more to herself than to Sage.

But Sage is already running.

Her shoulder burns like hot coal under the skin. Riven bursts out from the side, grabs her hand, pulls her along. She doesn’t hear what he’s shouting — only the wind pounding in her ears. The three of them run — not enemies, not allies, just bodies fleeing death. The roar behind them grows. The ground quakes. Dust stings their eyes.

They dive into a narrow gap between two warehouses. A wall crashes down behind them. A wave of grit knocks the breath from their lungs. They collapse — all three of them. Gasping. Silent.

No one says what that was. But they all understand.

The audience got bored.

Chapter 18

They don’t come to their senses right away. Every movement is a struggle, like their bodies still aren’t sure they’re allowed to survive. Sage blinks, trying to clear the dust from her eyes. Her mouth tastes like chalk and blood. Somewhere nearby, Riven is coughing. The girl from District Eleven—Sage finally remembers her name: Verbena—is sitting pressed against the wall, breathing hard. There’s panic in her eyes, but her grip on the knife is solid. She’s holding it like an animal clings to its last tooth.

Verbena is thin, raw like an exposed nerve, and her fingers are always clenched, as if they’re holding on to the last of her will. In normal life, she’d fade into the background. Not now. Now, there’s something dangerous about her—alert, sharpened. Sage feels it in every cell. She doesn’t turn her back on her. Not even for a second.

No one speaks. Dust still floats, settling. Ruined beams crackle quietly. Somewhere in the distance, another wall collapses—the sound like thunder rumbling far off.

Riven is the first to get to his feet. He walks over to Sage, offers her a hand. She takes it—briefly, without a word. Verbena stirs nearby, and Sage tenses again. It’s not a threatening movement, but it’s sharp enough to send a flash of alarm down her spine. The dust hangs thick, almost like a second air—dense, sticky. Feels like if you breathe too deep, it’ll drown straight into your lungs. They breathe shallow. Careful. Conserving.

Sage’s shoulder barely moves. Everything inside her is wound tight, like a creature that’s sensed a rustle in the tall grass. Verbena’s close. Too close. But doesn’t move. Just sits there, limp-looking, but her fingers are still wrapped tight around the knife’s handle.

Riven takes a few steps—awkwardly, like he’s forgotten how to stay balanced. He turns to the girl:

“You okay?”

Verbena lifts her eyes. Something in them shifts. Fast. Click. Like a blade sliding into place.

“No,” she whispers. And before anyone can move—she does.

Sage barely sees the strike. Just a blur—Verbena suddenly, sharply, flips the knife in her hand and, like she’s testing the edge, slashes Riven’s throat in one precise, fast, horrifyingly businesslike motion. He exhales—not air, not a scream—just a sound that scrapes out of him, like he’s being crushed from the inside.

He stays on his feet. One beat. Two. Looks at Sage like he doesn’t understand what just happened. Blood, thick and dark, is already soaking the collar of his shirt. Then it’s over. He falls. Softly. Like a sack that’s lost all its weight.

Sage screams. It’s not panic. It’s horror tangled with fury. It’s everything she’s held in since the beginning. Her hand grabs the iron rod without thought. The pain in her shoulder is white-hot, electric. She doesn’t care. She just charges. Verbena turns, too slow. The first strike lands at her side—sharp, not hard, but tearing through skin. Verbena yelps, stumbles back, drops the knife.

Sage lunges again. Swings—misses. The rod whistles through air. Verbena dives forward, grabs Sage’s shoulder—the shoulder—and for a heartbeat, everything whites out with pain. They crash to the ground. Concrete. Dust. Knee to the gut. Elbow to the face.

They scratch, snarl, fight like two cornered animals. Verbena’s strikes are fast, mean—like she’s fought in alleys before. She doesn’t need force. Just aim. Sage feels a cut split her brow. Feels something crack in her side—ribs? Maybe. Doesn’t matter. Not anymore.

They roll in the dirt. The rod goes flying. Sage hears her own breath—harsh, feral. Her temples pound. And in her chest—not fear. Hatred. Pure. Hot. Poisonous.

“He wasn’t a threat to you!” she shouts. “He didn’t do anything!”

“He would’ve been,” Verbena spits back, trying to pin her to the ground. “By tomorrow. To you too!”

Sage feels the nausea rising—not from pain. From disgust. From the understanding of how terrifyingly true that is.

They roll again. Sage ends up on top. She punches—face, temple, throat. Again. Again. Verbena twists, claws at her cheek. Blood pours. Sage gasps from the pain, from the rage. Nearby—the rod. She reaches. Fumbles. Another flare of agony in her shoulder—she screams, hoarse, nearly inhuman. Then—she grabs the rod.

One blow.

Another.

Verbena tries to crawl away. Doesn’t make it. Another strike—her leg. She whimpers, chokes, claws at the ground. One last try. One last hope. Sage gets to her knees. Stands over her. Her hand trembles. Then—the final blow. To the head.

Silence. Verbena doesn’t move.

Sage sits beside her, shaking all over. She doesn’t cry. The tears ran out long ago, in another life. She just sits there. Looks at her hands—covered in blood, in dust, in someone else’s life. Her heart is a hammer. Her body—one raw wound. She’s in the final four.

Death is breathing down her neck, but she keeps walking. Smooth. Measured. As if there’s nothing left inside her that can flinch. As if her skin is just a shell holding something far more fragile.

She walks the street, skirting craters and rubble left from collapsing buildings. The factory complex is nothing but torn skeletons. Only a couple buildings still stand, mangled like they barely survived a bombing. She lifts her gaze to the sky—but it’s murky, covered in a film. No sun. No shadows. Just gray, thick like a sick breath. In this light, everything looks the same—stone, skin, blood.

The world around her feels exhaled—quiet, dusty, hollowed out. Sage hears the dust crunch treacherously beneath her boots. She wants to shake it off, but it’s everywhere—threaded into her clothes, tangled in her hair, dry in her throat.

Fewer corpses than fingers on one hand stand between her and the victor’s end. Her. Marina. Emerald. And that boy with the axe. Not the best lineup. Not the worst. She hasn’t been hunted down. Not poisoned. Not trapped. Who would’ve guessed the girl from the sector would make it this far?

Sage doesn’t fool herself. What comes next is worse. The space is shrinking, like steps in a circle. Wherever the others are hiding—they’re already moving. Or waiting. She has to choose: hunt or be hunted. She could try burrowing deeper. But that won’t last. They won’t let her sit out the end. If the arena collapses again—there’ll be nowhere left to hide.

Two shots. Sage doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look up. She already knows whose names will fill the sky. Riven. Verbena. One, two.

She keeps walking through the wreckage of the arena—through settled dust, past fallen walls and split beams, like she’s moving through the bones of an old world.

Her steps are careful, quiet, almost silent. Not because she’s afraid someone will hear. Because that’s how she moves now.

Her face is smeared in blood and grime. One bootlace hangs loose, the other too tight. Sage doesn’t fix them. It doesn’t matter anymore.

She has almost no weapons left. One iron rod—dented with someone else’s bones. A strip of cloth around her shoulder, soaked through and dry with blood. She doesn’t remember the last time she ate. Or drank. Or slept. Time doesn’t exist here anymore. Only staying alive. Only the silence between the gunshots.

She doesn’t feel triumph. Just exhaustion. Just heat in her shoulder and dull aching in her jaw from Verbena’s blow.

She doesn’t think about Riven. Not yet. She can’t.

Hiding’s getting harder. Most of the arena is in ruins. The warehouse districts have been flattened, roofs caved in, stairways turned into traps. What used to be a path to safety is now a path to nowhere—sunken foundations, charred spans, hollow echoes beneath what used to be floors. The arena isn’t just dangerous anymore—it’s alive. It breathes, tightens, watches. And it doesn’t breathe for air. It breathes for blood.

Sage doesn’t rush. She walks, but it feels like she’s not moving at all. A pause. A step. A stop. She listens. Then again.

One of the half-collapsed hangars—concrete, with narrow ventilation shafts—still holds. The ceiling’s tilted, like a house of cards after a shake. Sage slips inside through a gap where half the door remains. It’s dark inside, dusty. A few crates, a rusted shelf, twisted beams. Perfect.

She carefully shifts one of the boxes. Inside—mold-covered coils of something. Nothing edible. Doesn’t matter. She crawls behind the crate, between the beams. Above her—an old piece of tarp, musty and metallic. She pulls it over herself like a blanket. Slowly. No sudden moves. Like she’s taming a beast. Lies still. Becomes still.

Here, she becomes part of the room. Unnoticeable. If someone enters, they’ll walk past. Because to see her, they’d have to know what to look for. And they don’t. They don’t know how to hide like this. Don’t know how to become furniture. Her body aches. Her shoulder throbs. But she doesn’t move. Silence is her cover.

Outside—footsteps. Heavy. Someone’s coming. She doesn’t move. They pass. She still breathes. Still alive. Maybe this is when Sage is most herself. Not the one who eats at a table. Not the one who stares into a mirror. The real one—the one who can vanish. Become something else. Become nothing.

When they’re gone, she’ll move again. Change places. Sleep like an animal—in corners, in cracks, in shadow. And wait. Until there are three left. Then two. Then—only her. And no one will say where she was. Because she was everywhere. And nowhere.

She barely moves. Maybe an hour passes. Maybe more. Time means nothing here. Dust settles on her lashes. Her shoulder aches like a tooth long overdue to be pulled. Somewhere far off—a sound, like metal being torn from metal. Then silence again.

Sage still lies beneath the tarp, buried like in a grave—but not dead. Just waiting for the executioners to pass.

And then it happens.

First—a dull thud. Barely audible, but sharp, like a nerve struck. Then—a rustle. Very faint. Sage freezes like a trapped animal. But it’s not an enemy. She knows already.

It’s a gift.

It smells of iron. Oil. She slowly peels back the tarp. Looks.

By the wall, between two bent beams, lies a small box, draped in a parachute. Shiny. Not yet dusty. Just dropped from the sky—precise, deliberate, like a message.

Sage crawls closer. Peeks inside.

A hatchet. Not heavy, but solid—the kind she once trained with. Not a combat weapon, more like the ones used to split bone in kitchens. But better balanced. Sharper. It fits in her palm like it’s been waiting for her. The handle is wrapped in black cord—no slipping. The blade isn’t just sharp—it sings when touched.

Perfect balance.

Sage grips it, and something inside settles into place. Like her hands had been waiting for this.

Sponsors never act for no reason. They liked the way she vanished. Liked how she struck. Liked that she remained. Or maybe they just liked the way she looked. Anyway, now they’ve made their bet.

Sage holds the hatchet tightly. It barely weighs anything. But it’s there. She flips it in her hand. Tests the balance. Mechanical. As if repeating an old motion—forgotten, but still familiar. It might help. Or not. Doesn’t matter. It’s hers now.

Sage already knows what’s coming.

She can hide a bit longer. But not much.

This isn’t a weapon for shadows.

It’s a weapon to end the game.

Now there are four of them. Soon there’ll be three. And after that—closer.

She sits with her back to the wall. Eyes on the floor. In her palms—blood, dried between the lines like cracks in old porcelain. Her weapon—a silent witness that she’s alone now. In her head—not thoughts, but fragments. Sounds. Faces. They’re gone, but still inside, like splinters.

Then—silence within. An empty space. And in that space—her. Alone.

Where are the others? Maybe nearby. Maybe at the far end of the arena. Someone’s walking. Someone’s hiding. Someone’s already waiting.

In her mind, she tries to draw a map of the arena. Wreckage, hangars, lines of collapse. Where she’s been. Where she hasn’t. Where shadows linger. Where roofs still hold. She draws her path not in chalk, not on paper—but in imagination. Like placing pieces on a board. Only the pieces here are alive.

Outside, something heavy falls. A stone. Maybe part of a roof.

Sage flinches and grabs the hatchet. Stands. Slowly. Her back to the wall so nothing slips out of view. Every step—measured. Inside—only cold. And a point. A goal. Survive the next encounter. Then the next. And the next. Until the very last.

And then—trumpets sound in the sky. The kind of sound that makes something inside flinch, even if you wanted it all to be over.

Sage freezes, the hatchet in her hand like an extension of herself.

In the sky, a hologram appears—just as clear as every evening before. But there are no faces. Only the host’s logo. And a voice. Clear, steady. No pity, no malice. Just a voice:

“Congratulations, tributes. You’ve made it to the final. You’re all wounded, you’ve all fought. And you’ve all earned… a respite.”

The sky flares pale gold. Somewhere in the distance, a low hum starts, like old generators powering up. The voice continues, almost casually:

“At dawn tomorrow, you’re invited to a feast at the Cornucopia. On equal ground. With full medical kits. And… one special gift. Details—at the scene. All fair, calm—just the way you like it. If you’re ready, come to the table. We’re waiting. It’s your choice: step into the light—or stay in the dark. But remember—time won’t wait.”

The trumpets fade. The hologram disappears.

Sage stands motionless. The hatchet still in her hand, fingers clenched around the handle like it’s the only thing keeping her above water.

Her ears are ringing. Her shoulder—the left one—tight like a drawn string, trembling with every breath. The pain doesn’t spike. It creeps. Thick, slow, like mold along a wall. Familiar. Tiresome.

She tries to lift her arm a little higher. It works… barely. And too slowly. The fight with Verbena must’ve torn the wound open again.

Can she fight? Maybe not.

Can she run? Debatable.

Can she hide? Almost certainly.

She doesn’t have to guess what the feast means. She’s seen it before: the Capitol gather them in one place, let them tear each other apart.

Will the others go? Who’ll dare? Who thinks they’ve already won?

She could go. She doesn’t know how to fight, but she has a skill. She has the shadow. And she knows how to vanish in it. She could make it there without being seen. Could wait. Watch. Then decide.

But there’s a problem: her shoulder. If it comes to a fight—it might fail her. If she tries to run—it might slow her down. But if she stays—someone else might get everything. The meds. The strength. The chance.

Something twists in her gut, deeper than hunger. It’s not physical. It’s the emotion that lives on the edge of despair.

She looks at the hatchet again. Not a weapon. A choice. An answer to a question that hasn’t yet been asked.

“Will you go, Bradbury?” she asks herself.

And she already knows.

***

The night doesn't end.

It just stretches, like an old blanket—thinner, more transparent, but it won’t let go.

Sage doesn’t sleep. She can’t. Her shoulder burns from within, like a slow fury has taken root in the bone, and even if she wanted to drift off—her body wouldn’t allow it. But she doesn’t want to.

She waits until it's fully dark. And then—waits longer. Until the trumpets fade from the air. Until the wind dies down. Until the world is quiet, like a breath before crying. Only then does she slip out of hiding.

Every movement is deliberate. She knows where the floor creaks. Where glass crunches beneath your step. Where ash still lingers, and where soft dust muffles even the lightest tread. The hatchet is pressed to her thigh, steady in her hand. A filthy bandage wraps her shoulder. Barely helps—but at least the wound isn’t festering. Yet.

Sage doesn’t walk straight to the Cornucopia. She moves in arcs—through ruins, past a scorched shipping container where a pair of charred boots lie abandoned. Through an old drainage tunnel that reeks of damp metal. Then up again—along a tilted slab, careful not to let her silhouette rise against the sky.

The sky is still dark—but not black. Somewhere far away, the first faint light creeps in.

Inside her—emptiness. Not fear. Not hunger. Just a hollow where others once were. She knows: right now, that’s her advantage.

Soon, she reaches the edge of the sightline. Not too close—so she won’t end up in someone else's crosshairs. But close enough to see everything. Sage freezes in the shadow of a half-burned truck—one of many rusted-out hulks abandoned around here, long dead.

This one sits on a low rise off to the side of the Cornucopia, tilted slightly as if someone had turned it on purpose. Half the cabin has caved in. One side is streaked with soot. But from the slope of the hill, a trail of scrappy weeds leads down—dry and trampled. That’s where she goes.

She lies on her stomach. Beneath her—a strip of fabric, to muffle the crunch of gravel. It deadens the sound as she flattens herself against the broken stone. Her body goes still. Breathing slows. Eyes unblinking. Fingers find the gap between two stones—anchor. Her chest barely touches the ground. Her weight is distributed. Every move is conservation.

To the left—an old rusted sheet of metal she can duck behind in a blink. To the right—a low, brittle shrub. It won’t hide movement, but visually, it breaks up her shape. Her shadow disappears entirely into the outline of the truck. From here, she can see almost everything. And with each heartbeat—more clearly.

The light is building, but still soft—not sharp yet. This is her window.

Dawn doesn’t start with the sun. It starts with the drone.

It appears soundlessly, like the sky has grown an eye. It glides between clouds, casting the faintest shadow across the weeds, and hovers. Long, grey, with a blinking red light. Two cables hang from its underbelly. One carries a medical kit. The other—a box wrapped in black velvet, like a present for some twisted celebration.

Sage doesn’t move.

She sees it all—from afar, from her hiding place near a tattered maple tree. The drone lowers its cargo with surgical precision, then glides away. The sky empties again. Only the first rays graze the rooftops, stirring a silver dust—like breath made visible.

And then the first tribute appears.

The boy from District Seven. She sees his outline: tall, wiry, arms carved like they were shaped with the same kind of hatchet he’s holding. He steps into the Cornucopia’s ring with the ease of someone walking into his own home.

He spots the medkit quickly, scans the tables, grabs a couple of bandages. But his eyes—his eyes never leave the velvet box.

Then Emerald appears. His movements—precise, like a dancer’s. In his hand—a sword, long and flexible, like a serpent.

Sage presses herself lower into the ground. Breathes through her teeth.

The boy from District Seven turns first. Emerald says nothing—just charges. But he’s faster than he looks. One twist—and the axe buries itself in Emerald’s skull. The sound is dull, like striking wet wood. He doesn’t even scream.

Sage doesn’t blink. She just clenches her fingers slightly into the ground.

The boy pants heavily, looking around. Blood drips from the axe. He takes a step toward the crate.

That’s when Marina appears—the girl from District Four. Quiet, as if she’s not stepping on the ground but rising from the shadows. There’s almost no color left on her. Everything is coated in dust, faded blood, and old burn stains. Her face is marble. Empty. As if nothing exists inside her but purpose.

The boy from Seven still doesn’t know she’s there. His shirt is soaked in crimson. Emerald’s brains still drip from the blade. He doesn't leave the Cornucopia. He waits. Maybe he’s hoping for another enemy. Maybe he wants to be crowned right here, among the corpses.

He doesn’t see Marina rising from behind the wreckage. And at first—it isn’t an attack. It’s a step. Steady. Measured. Her knife hand stays low at her thigh. Her shoulders relaxed. Neck exposed. Only when he finally sees her—snarling, swinging the axe—only then does she strike.

He roars, guttural and animal-like, almost inhuman. The blade swings with such force it slices the edge off a stack of crates. But Marina is already under the blow. Beneath his reach. One knee to the ground. Then—the first strike. Under the ribs. Her arm shoots upward like a spring, the knife going so deep it nearly vanishes.

But the boy doesn’t fall. He staggers, growls, flings out a punch.

Marina dives again. A second knife, pulled from her back, in motion. Into his throat—not directly, but from the side, beneath the Adam’s apple. He gurgles, grabs at her.

Then she takes the final step. Closes in—closer than enemies ever should. And drives the third knife into his eye. Straight. To the hilt.

He freezes. Just for a moment. Towering. Swaying. Then he collapses like a shattered statue. Falls sideways. The axe lands with a dull thud. It’s over.

Marina straightens. Blood on her face, hands, lips. She doesn’t wipe it off. Just turns her head—toward the bushes. For a moment, her eyes land almost exactly on Sage. But the look slides past.

And only then—true silence.

Marina stands for another moment. Her breathing is heavy but steady. As if she’s stepped out of the shower, not out of a fight. There’s no triumph on her face—only focus. The calm of a predator who knows this wasn’t the last kill.

Then she moves. Quick, but deliberate. She kneels by the bodies. Searches them fast. Takes the knives. Leaves the sword and the axe.

She approaches the crate cautiously. Checks it. Her hand dives in, retrieving a vial, a few tubes, bandages. And the box—the one whose purpose isn’t immediately clear. She opens it. Looks at it for a long moment. Clicks the lock. Inside—something wrapped in cloth. Light, but valuable.

Sage watches. Doesn’t move. Only her breathing grows a little faster. But she holds steady. Like a beast in ambush.

Marina scans the perimeter—once. Quick. Then she runs. Almost silent. Through the shadows. Between the debris. Gone—just like she appeared. No warning.

And then—two cannon blasts.

Sage doesn’t flinch.

Now there are two. Only two girls left in the arena.

She exhales slowly. Her body is still tense, like a drawn string, but inside — still empty. Not fear. Not hope. Just a fact. Just a number: two. One — in the bushes. The other — somewhere in the shadows.

Sage stays down. Waits until Marina goes off looking for her. The minutes drip by thick as tar. But when the footsteps fade behind the far-off ruins, she rises. Still on all fours, like a cornered animal ready to spring. Dives toward the crate.

The choice is fast, almost instant: not bandages, not syringes — a small vial with a label she already knows. Painkiller. A strong one. Her hand trembles, but she manages. And again — the shadow. A leap away. Bushes. Rubble. Behind her. Gone.

And only when she reaches the shelter — the same old barn where she hid last night — does Sage freeze. The vial in her hands. She bites off the cap. Squeezes half of it under her tongue in one go. The bitterness burns the roof of her mouth. Her throat tightens. Her eyes blur for a second. But then — her body begins to listen again. Breathing becomes easier. Her skin — back under control.

That’s it. Enough delay.

Sage stands. Slowly. No sharp movements — not out of caution, but exhaustion. The painkiller is working for now, but it won’t last. She knows that. Her chest still feels heavy, like breathing through wet cloth. The ache in her shoulder is gone — and that’s bad. Numbness means she’s close to the edge.

Ahead — only one goal.

Marina.

No plans. No traps, no running. Sage doesn’t waste time imagining how it might go. She just walks. Silently. Through dust. Through the smell of blood and smoke. Her hatchet is in her hand. It doesn’t shake. Her fingers grip it so tightly her knuckles whiten. She doesn’t feel them — and that’s good.

The sky is brightening slowly. The final sunrise. The final hunt. The last day of the Hunger Games. And maybe, the last day of Sage’s life.

And, surprisingly, she isn’t afraid.

She was afraid back then — at the Reaping, when they called her name, when her whole body clenched like from a blow, and the world suddenly became too bright, too loud. But now — silence. Acceptance. Whatever happens next — there’s nothing left to fear.

Only the path forward.

Chapter 19

Sage walks slowly, leaving barely visible footprints behind her. The ground is dusty, cracked, foreign. She no longer feels her legs — or time itself. She just moves forward, with no purpose but the one burned into her mind: Marina.

The arena around her is dead. Charred ruins, collapsed rooftops, the smell of blood soaked into stone. Where houses once stood, only rubble and blood remain. Some fresh. Some ancient. But now everything feels equally faded. Even death has become part of the background.

She moves in silence, creeping — as if she’s become a shadow herself. No rustle. No wasted movement. Sage knows how to do this — to disappear, to dissolve. They taught her how to survive, but not like this. Not alone. Not after everything.

And then — movement. Ahead, in an open space between two crumbling buildings. A figure. Shoulders tense. Hands holding a weapon — looks like a knife. Moving slowly, scanning the area, like a hunter. Or prey, afraid of becoming next.

Sage freezes behind a makeshift concrete barricade. Narrows her eyes. Watches. Tries not to breathe. She hears her heart — steady, stubborn, loud. The hatchet in her hand feels heavy. Familiar. If only she could just... step out. Walk up. Strike. Quick, sharp — and done. The end. Victory. Home.

She keeps Marina in sight. Counts her breaths. Calculates the distance. The wind is on her side. The light hides her face. Right in front of her — the chance. But she doesn’t move. Not yet. One second — and it’s over. Just one strike.

Sage clenches her teeth. Enough. It's time to get this over with before she starts thinking too much.

But Marina suddenly stops. Just for a moment. Then turns — slowly, almost lazily. As if she knew. As if she felt it. Their eyes meet. Marina’s face shows nothing. No surprise. No fear. But, strangely, no bloodlust either. Just exhaustion, mixed with that bitter weight people carry after too long a journey — when every step has cost too much.

“Well, here you are,” she says quietly. Her voice is hoarse. Dry, like the air between them.

Sage stays silent. The hatchet is still in her hand. She doesn’t raise it — not yet.

“Thought you’d go for it from the shadows,” Marina continues.

“I wanted to,” Sage replies slowly. “But you’ve got good ears, apparently.”

Marina gives a crooked smile.

“Habit. We both know you can’t trust anyone here.”

“Especially you,” Sage says calmly.

A pause. Long. Only the wind, tearing ash from crumbling walls.

“I did what I had to,” Marina says. “We all do.”

“What you had to for you.”

“You got any better ideas?”

Sage shakes her head.

“Not anymore.”

They stand facing each other, and time suddenly stops. Everything before this moment feels distant, like a dream. Everything that comes after depends on a single move.

Marina adjusts her grip on the knife — a little tighter, a little lower. Her fingers are scraped, her nails caked with dirt.

“So what now?” she asks. “We just stare at each other until the sun goes down?”

“We could try,” Sage replies quietly. “But eventually, the Capitol will get impatient. I doubt they like a slow finale.”

“Yeah.” Marina gives a short, humorless smile. “The audience wants blood. Who are we to disappoint them?”

Sage takes a step. Small.

“Don’t think I want to do this,” she says, almost a whisper. “It would be easier if I did.”

Marina tilts her head slightly.

“Same.”

And that’s it — no signal. No shout, no charge of rage. Just two bodies snapping into motion like springs that had been held too long. The knife flashes in the air. The first strike comes fast, clean, aimed straight for the chest. Sage dodges sideways, feels metal graze her ribs. It doesn’t even hurt — maybe she’s too used to pain. Or maybe her skin has simply started to die.

She fakes an overhead swing with the hatchet, then drops into a slide, aiming low. Marina barely manages to jump back. And again — they close the distance. Marina is stronger. Faster. She fights the way someone must’ve trained her to: sharp bursts, precise strikes, every move designed to kill.

Sage retreats, steps back, flows — like she’s becoming shadow. One inch is all that keeps her alive — and she finds it, every time.

The hatchet flickers like an extension of her hand. Not for attacking — for evading. They circle, fight, breathe in rhythm, like one organism split in two. Dust swirls at their feet. Blows echo hollowly through the debris. The Capitol is probably loving this.

And still — this is not a game.

Marina lunges, wild. Two strikes, a third — low, aimed at the side. One lands. Sage drops, rolls, throws a chunk of pipe at Marina’s feet — a distraction. It works. Marina falters, steps back.

It’s enough.

Sage slips through a gap in the wall. Soundless. Like she’s vanished.

She freezes in the dark, pressed against cold concrete. Breathing through her nose, slow, so the vapor won’t give her away. The hatchet is warm in her hand, like a heartbeat. Her pulse pounds, but steady now. She knows Marina’s not stupid. She won’t charge in. She’ll wait. Hunt. Or—

Psshhh.

At first Sage thinks it’s the wind. Then — a hiss. Sharp, acrid, almost snake-like. Too familiar.

A grenade. Gas. So that's what was in the box!

Sage jerks upright, pulling her sleeve up to cover her mouth and nose. The smell hits instantly — chemicals, bitterness, something sharp that burns before it even touches her lungs. Her eyes sting like someone’s poured ground glass beneath her lids.

She bursts out of the gap, almost blindly. Runs sideways, toward where the gas hasn't yet thickened. The air slices her throat, her chest burns. Sage is choking. Coughing. Nearly falling. She's getting too loud. Too visible.

Marina emerges — like a ghost through smoke. Her eyes squint, but her gaze is sharp, cold. Knife in hand. She walks with confidence. Like she’s already won. Like she’s been waiting for this moment all morning.

Sage is on her knees, clutching her side — where one of the blows landed. The world sways. Her eyes water — not from sorrow, but from the chemicals.

But inside — no fear. No panic. Only cold calculation.

She’s been waiting for this. For Marina to come closer. To try and finish it. To make a mistake.

The hatchet in her hand drags against the ground, like it slipped by accident. She coughs, drops a little lower, exposing her neck — like she’s giving up. It has to look convincing. She knows exactly how it looks from the outside.

A broken girl. One last breath.

Marina steps closer. One step. Another. Her hand rises.

Sage moves — in a single instant.

A sharp lunge forward — her shoulder slams into Marina, not to knock her down, but to disrupt her rhythm. A knee to the stomach — fast, brutal. Marina jerks back, raises the knife — but it’s too late.

The hatchet flies up and crashes into her elbow — not the blade, but the blunt back, heavy and cruel. A sickening crack. Marina’s arm jolts. The knife falls.

Then — the real strike.

Sage doesn’t think. She just does. To the chest. Not too deep. Another — to the side.

Marina grabs at her, fingers slipping across Sage’s jacket. Her face twists — from pain or shock, it’s impossible to tell. She says something — but Sage doesn’t hear it. There’s only a roar in her ears. Her mind, blank.

Just survive.

She shoves Marina away. Hard. Marina falls. Heavy. Tries to rise — but can’t. Her body is weakening. Her breath comes fast, like a fish pulled from the sea. Her hand reaches for something — dirt, air, the past.

Sage stands over her. The hand with the hatchet is trembling. Or maybe it’s her fingers. She doesn’t know. She just stares. They’re both breathing. Both silent.

And then — only one strike. Heavy. Final. Without hesitation.

Not for pain. Not for cruelty. Only for the end.

The sound is dull. Like something in the world itself has snapped. The air goes still. Even the wind doesn’t dare move.

Marina no longer breathes.

Sage stands over her, unmoving. The hatchet still clutched in her hand, but her fingers no longer feel its weight. It’s part of her now. Fused to her skin.

It’s over. Only her. And the thunder of the cannon — like a shot to the back of the head. Sharp. Hollow. Too loud for the silence it shatters.

And then — the voice. Amplified. Rehearsed. Falsely enthusiastic:

“Ladies and gentlemen, we present to you the victor of the Sixty-Eighth Hunger Games, Sage Bradbury! Long live the tribute from District Eight!”

The name — her name — sounds foreign. As if they’re speaking about her in past tense. As if she’s no longer quite a person, but an idea carved from flesh. As if it’s not her standing here, in the half-light of the barn, covered in blood and dust, gripping a hatchet fused to her palm, with someone else’s death staring out through her eyes.

Sage doesn’t move. Her body won’t obey. Or maybe it obeys too well — frozen in a perfectly measured pose, as if the Capitol is watching every muscle. As if falling isn’t allowed. Flinching isn’t allowed. A victor must stand.

But everything inside her trembles. Something in her chest tightens, refusing to let go. The adrenaline fades, and in its place rush everything at once — cold, emptiness, ringing silence. And then — pain.

Her shoulder.

She winces. Her hand shakes slightly. Only now does she truly feel how badly it hurts. Inside, outside, through every thread of muscle. She shifts, and the pain flares up like fire. Warm wetness seeps beneath the fabric. Blood.

Claudius Templesmith’s voice still echoes in the air. The hovercraft’s beam slices through the silver mist of dawn, drawing her out of the shadows. She blinks. Takes a step. Her legs are numb. The world sways — not around her, but within her. Everything melts into one: the scent of ash, the blood under her fingernails, Marina’s eyes — no longer seeing.

Sage moves forward. Now… she’s just breathing. And even that feels impossible.

She stands in the open. Moves slowly, like she’s pushing through water. The hovercraft looms above. She steps into its shadow. Her back is straight. She forces it to be.

And then — one more step. The wind brushes her face. The faint, distant hum of the hovercraft whispers from above. And Sage… lets go.

Her knees give out. Everything inside her breaks. And with a strange kind of gratitude, she collapses into the darkness — warm, soft, like forgetting.

***

Sage opens her eyes slowly, as if everything around her is buried under a thick layer of fog. At first, her sight is useless: the light is dim, the ceiling blurred. Then come the sounds—breathing, faint voices, the click of the IV drip. But she… doesn’t feel like herself yet. She's inside this body—broken, faded, and unfamiliar.

The room is bright, too sterile. The sheets smell of green mint and something chemical, and beneath them lies all the exhaustion of the arena. She tries to move. The monitors react. A voice calls from behind the door—loud, theatrical, and painfully familiar:

"Well, here she is! Our heroine, the victor! Bravo, bravo!"

Alcyon enters. Slender, with long fingers and the posture of an actor ready to take the stage. On his face—a grimace of curiosity mixed with sharp self-admiration.

"Ah, Sage, my dear, welcome back to the land of the living!" he proclaims grandly, like a host at a premiere. "How do you feel? Chest intact? Shoulder under control?"

Sage tries to move her lips, but only a faint “hurts” comes out. Fluid drips into her veins from the IV, and there’s a compress on her cheek. Alcyon steps back, theatrically keeping distance. His voice lowers, almost intimate:

"Don’t worry, they patched you up nicely. You’ll be good as new soon. Between us, they even touched up your nose. You’re quite the beauty now! Honestly though, at first you looked like they’d just dragged you out of a grave. They wanted to plump your lips too, but Cecelia almost killed them for even suggesting it."

He nods to the nurse, who hands Sage a tray with clear soup. It smells like chicken—or something that’s supposed to resemble it. The soup is warm, a little salty, the steam rising lazily, as if it too were tired. Sage looks at the tray, but doesn’t reach for it. Her fingers tremble even without moving. The skin under her bandages itches, like it’s peeling away along with the pain. Her body aches—dully, echoing inside, and every breath rattles through her ribs. Her muscles feel filled with lead. The whole body feels foreign, like it was stitched together hastily from mismatched parts and forgotten sensations.

There’s a hollow feeling in her stomach, a knot under her sternum. Not from fear—but from exhaustion so deep, it feels like even her bones are tired of breathing. Her chest rises and falls with effort. Her lungs feel like they’re wrapped in dust. Every inhale is a step on cracking ice. But she breathes—automatically. Just because the body hasn’t forgotten how yet. Time drips thickly, everything moving like syrup. Alcyon’s voice feels too loud. The light—too bright. The IV’s beep—like a hammer.

Her eyes sting. Not from tears. From the sterile air, from the light, from the fact that she’s no longer in the arena. Or worse—maybe still there. Because even now, lying under a warm blanket, she feels blood under her nails, though her hands are clean. Someone else’s blood? Or her own by now?

Sage blinks slowly. There’s a metallic taste on her lips, like a ghost of the past. A ringing in her ears. Her mind—blank. No thoughts, only images: Marina’s eyes, the final blow, the silence after. And a voice. Loud, foreign, falsely triumphant. She remembers her name echoing over the arena—disembodied, strange, stripped of meaning.

She lowers her gaze to her hand. Bruises, cuts, bandages. Clearly, they’d taken the hatchet, but her palm still grips it—in memory, in muscle, in wrist. Phantom weight. Her fingers can’t straighten.

And all of it—beneath the surface. Nothing comes out. No groan, no tear. Her face is a mask, unmoving. Only her gaze—fixed at a point near the tray. But really—past it. Really—inside.

The nurse steps away. Alcyon starts talking again—his words like background noise. And in that moment, Sage knows: she didn’t die in the arena. But part of her did. And she’s not sure if she wants that part back.

"Don’t worry, no one’s going to bother you anytime soon," he continues, quieter now, as if they’re sharing a secret. "Flora’s already sewing you a whole new wardrobe. She’s thrilled. Her first year at the Hunger Games, and she’s dressing the victor! I’m sure you were inspired by her talent. And Cece and Paisley are throwing a sponsor banquet. Darling, everyone is obsessed with you. Honestly, it was rough at first, but by the end? Everyone was rooting for you, truly."

Sage swallows—the soup is hot and simple. Alcyon keeps talking:

"Don’t squirm! Just rest. And if you had any dreams—do tell. Sleeping with your eyes open after the arena is very Capitol-chic."

The soup slowly warms her from the inside. Her shoulder still aches a little, but it’s bearable now. Sage brushes her hand along her arm and suddenly realizes—the wound is gone. She looks at Alcyon and slowly nods. He smiles back.

"Excellent. I’ll go check on how your dresses are doing. I’m right nearby if you need anything. All for the viewers, darling. You’re our top-tier star now!"

He leaves, trailing a faint scent of perfume. Sage is left alone: the IV gurgles softly, a ceiling lamp flickers, and inside—there's a hum. She closes her eyes. Can she fall asleep again? No. She’s just waiting, without knowing what exactly for.

She lies in silence, staring at the white ceiling—still, non-threatening, holding no traps. It’s over. All of it. The arena is something distant now, like a sunken ship: only the dampness remains on the skin, while the ship itself has vanished into the depths. It’s somewhere far off, buried beneath layers of memory and bandages. As if it didn’t happen to her at all—but to someone else, someone who only looked like her.

Soon, it will really be over. The endless medical checkups, the interviews, the stylists’ advice, cameras from every angle. She will go home. Truly home, back to the familiar scent of dust and thread. To walls she can lean against without fearing they’ll collapse. To her sisters. Iris, stern and weary, with a quiet, almost invisible gentleness. Rosie, who still isn’t afraid of the world. And Marigold, who will no doubt lecture her about all the things she did wrong, but then hug her tighter than anyone else.

And Henley. His face comes last—not because he matters less. On the contrary. It’s just… his face is the one she can’t think of without trembling. Because he saw her in the arena. Saw her scream. Saw her kill. He knows what her hands looked like when it was over. She’s afraid he won’t understand. Or worse—that he will.

He’ll wait for her. She believes that. He always did. He told her he would be there. She laughed at the time. Now—she can’t. Because she doesn’t know who she’ll be beside him. Or if she’ll even be anyone at all.

Sage turns her head toward the wall. As if on the other side of it—there’s her home, her district, her old world she can simply return to. Simply...

And then—Riven.

The name comes quietly. Like a pain she’d forgotten for a moment that suddenly returns—not to her body, but to her heart. Sage swallows again—her throat tightens. She tried to deny it until the very end, but from the start, it was always going to be just one of them returning. And now she has to live—for him too. As foolish as it may sound. He didn’t let her die. So she has no right to waste this life. Even if every day of it now feels like the beginning of another battle.

Sage opens her eyes. The light above trembles like film over water. She lies still. But inside—slowly, very slowly—something rises. Something like will.

She will go home. She will see her sisters. She will hug Henley. She’ll try to forget. Or at least learn to live in a way that doesn’t let the past tear her apart.

But for now—she just waits. Because morning always comes. Even after the Hunger Games.

Time passes — she doesn't know how much. The hours flow thick like syrup. The light in the room never turns truly warm, and the silence muffles any attempt to feel. Nurses come and go like ghosts, with unfamiliar hands and no voices at all. Sage barely speaks, either. She only listens — to how the humming inside her slowly quiets. Not vanishing — no — just retreating a little deeper. To a place harder to reach.

She eats when she can. Sleeps in snatches, as if caught in a dim space between dreams and what happened in the arena. One day, she asks them to turn off the screen that started playing her interviews again. She can’t watch it — can’t look at that version of herself. The one who still smiled. The one who still hoped.

But over time, things get lighter. Her head stops hurting. Her body feels loose, like after a long fever. Slowly, cautiously, she stands. Her legs don’t obey right away, but they hold. The floor is cool beneath her feet — real. And everything seems… just a little more real.

Sage walks toward the mirror. It's large, set into the wall. The room is foreign, the clothes aren’t hers, even the scent in the air feels stolen. But that — that should be her reflection.

She freezes. Looks. For a long time.

The face is hers, but only vaguely. Her skin is smoother, more even, without the old blemishes. Her nose — thinner, the bump gone. Chin — neater. Her cheeks are fuller, softer — but the cheekbones stand out, more defined now. Her hair is still dyed pale, swept back carelessly — like someone knew she wouldn’t like it if it looked too perfect. They tried. They fixed her. Made her better, brighter, more star-like.

But that’s not what holds her there. It’s the eyes. That’s what she can’t look away from. They’re… deeper. Heavier. There’s something in them now — something that wasn’t there before. Not darkness. Not anger. Just silence. The kind of silence that makes you stop talking.

She slowly touches her reflection. Her cheek. Her temple. Then — her collarbone. And still, she can’t fully believe it’s her. That the girl she was is gone. Dead? Or just disappeared the moment her name was called and the crowd began to roar?

Sage steps back from the mirror. One step. Then two. And she thinks: this face will be on screens now. People will recognize it. She’s become more serious. Not older — more serious. Like someone who no longer needs to prove anything — not to herself, not to anyone. Someone who knows she can kill. And that surviving is harder.

The door opens — almost soundless. Not like before. No announcement, no voice, no perfume cloud. Just a soft rustle. Sage turns her head — slowly, as if underwater. There stands Paisley. Just as she always was: dressed in pale, almost colorless clothes. Hair pulled into a low bun. Her face calm, like a quiet shore after the storm. No makeup, no jewels — just her gaze. Tired, but alive.

Sage doesn’t move at first. Stands there, still half-hidden in the mirror’s shadow, as if that might make her invisible. But Paisley, of course, sees her.

“Hey,” she says softly, almost a whisper.

Sage says nothing. Just looks. And at some point, Paisley steps forward — one step, then another — and simply wraps her arms around her. Like a sister in pain. And Sage, at first, doesn’t respond. Stands like stone. But then, her fingers tremble, then close around Paisley’s back. She leans in. And then — the slightest motion of her shoulders. As if, for the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to breathe. That embrace holds everything: a quiet thank you, unspoken guilt, weakness, and the life that somehow — miraculously — remains.

Paisley says nothing. Just holds her. And that’s enough. She holds Sage for a long time. Not the way people hold you to soothe you — the way they hold you when they know there is no other medicine. When all they can give you is presence. Warm arms. Steady breath.

Sage feels something thawing with each heartbeat. Not the pain — that’s still there. But the corner where the panic used to live softens. Quietly. Slowly. Like snow sliding off a roof in spring. She doesn’t cry. Can’t. The tears are too deep — beneath the scars, the bandages, the mask they made her wear. But something is changing.

“You endured,” Paisley whispers. “That’s enough.”

Sage gives the faintest shake of her head.

“I don’t know,” she replies hoarsely. “I don’t feel like… like I won. I just survived.”

“Sometimes that is the victory,” Paisley says gently, without pressure.

A pause. Their breathing becomes one. Then Paisley leans back just a little, enough to look into Sage’s face. Her gaze is calm, attentive. Not pity. Not admiration. Understanding. Quiet, grown-up, real.

“You’re not the same,” she says, almost to herself.

Sage shakes her head again.

“I don’t know who I am now.”

“You’ll find out,” Paisley smiles softly.

She takes Sage’s hand — firmly, simply. Like an anchor. And gently leads her back to the bed, as if Sage were a child just learning to walk. She doesn’t want to sit, not really. Her body still echoes with weight, but her soul — for the first time — begins to lift.

“They did something to your face,” Paisley says, not looking at the mirror.

“I noticed,” Sage grimaces.

“I asked them to go easy. Cecelia talked them into not changing too much. But you know… it still shows. That you’re real. They couldn’t take that from you.”

Sage looks at the floor. Then — at her hands. Silence. Long. The IV drips quietly. Outside, there’s a soft sound — maybe the wind.

“What happens now?” Sage asks.

“Now you’ll breathe. Eat. Sleep. Sometimes — wake up in a sweat. Sometimes — feel human. Sometimes not. But you’ll keep going. And we’ll be there.”

“We?”

Paisley smiles.

“Me. Cecelia. Woof. Your sisters. Henley. The worst part is over. You’re going home soon.”

Sage closes her eyes. And for the first time — not because she’s tired. But because she wants to stay in this quiet just a little longer.

Where there are no screams.

Where someone holds her hand.

Where she isn’t a victor. Just Sage.

The way she used to be, long ago.

Notes:

she made it out of the arena!!! 🎉✨ and now she gets to...

checks notes

...take a nap, eat a snack, and enjoy approximately 2.5 chapters of emotional stability before everything catches fire again!!!!!!!!

we all know the capitol said “congrats on surviving!! now suffer differently”, so let’s enjoy this tiny sliver of peace before the angst train hits us at full speed 🕯️💅🍵

she deserves the break. you deserve the break. we all deserve the break.

Chapter 20

Morning smells like soap and ash. The air — scrubbed clean to a sterile shine, like before a visit from important guests. Or like a morgue.

The apartment is exactly the same: same walls, same carpet, same mirrors in gilded frames — just like the day she and Riven first walked in. Two new tributes. Two shapes carved out of fear. Now there’s only one.

Sage sits on a low stool by the window. She doesn’t look outside — the glass reflects too much. The floor is safer. There’s nothing there but carpet fibers. And yet her eyes refuse to focus. Her body hums with emptiness, like a bell just after it’s been struck.

Sometimes images flash: a splash of blood, Riven’s face, the sound of bones breaking. They come and go like mosquitoes — buzzing, then gone before she can swat them.

"…and when she fell, it was incredible!" Alcyon chatters from the far side of the room, sipping something golden from a crystal flute. "The whole audience gasped! And the way you went — boom! — right in her shoulder with that hatchet? Iconic! I honestly thought the cameras were going to overheat!"

Sage says nothing. She barely hears the words — only the rhythm beneath them, like a drumroll before an execution.

"…well, let’s be honest, you weren’t the most photogenic at first, sweetheart. But now? Look at those cheekbones — that bronzer is perfect! And your eyes! They could burn down the Capitol if they wanted to!"

Sage looks at her hands. The scars are healed, but her skin feels wrong — like gloves a size too small. In the mirror, her profile flickers: sharp, stubborn. Too grown. The girl looking back isn’t Sage. But she’s not someone else either. She’s something in between.

Flora paces the room, tossing makeup brushes and powder puffs like confetti. Her dress shifts colors as she moves, and her hair is twisted high like spun sugar. Everything about her is too bright, too sweet, too loud.

"You need to smile just a little," she purrs, leaning in to fix a curl. "Not like a fierce victor. Like… a miracle. Everyone loves a miracle."

Sage doesn’t answer. The smile won’t come — not on the outside, not on the inside. She feels like a soaked sponge left unwrung. Heavy. Muffled. Sinking.

She’s already wearing the interview dress — silver, covered in glassy beads. It’s cold against her skin; they keep it in refrigerated compartments to avoid wrinkles or damage. Everything must be perfect. Sage thinks how strange it is: they can cut, break, burn trubutes' bodies — but the fabric must be protected.

"Ten minutes till shoes, twenty till the elevator. Then, of course, Caesar!" Flora snaps her fingers. "He’s so excited to see you! He’ll say, ‘Here she is — our victor!’ And you — flutter those lashes, turn your head just so — and voila. The room is yours."

Flora lifts a strand of Sage’s hair and studies it.

"You’re pale like a star before dawn. Absolutely divine. They’re going to adore you. You’re already a symbol."

"And between us," Alcyon adds, "if you cry on live TV — just one tear, mind you — it’ll be dynamite. Drama without the meltdown. Perfect."

Sage shrugs. Not in agreement, not in protest — just to keep from falling apart. Let them think she’s obedient. Let them say she’s happy to be here. Let them see whatever they want: a miracle, a symbol, a storm, a fairy tale.

She doesn’t care. She just wants it to be over. For the clothes to stop itching. For the faces to stop watching. For the words to stop sticking to her ears.

She wants to go home. Though she’s not sure it still exists. Not physically — inside her.

When Flora and Alcyon finally start arguing about the stage order, Sage rises. Carefully — no scraping the stool, no rustle of fabric. She walks to the mirror. Tall, gold-framed, nearly her full height. They don’t have mirrors like this in the District. In her bedroom, there was only a small, cracked one above the sink — cloudy, chipped. And somehow, more honest.

The reflection now stares blankly back. The face — almost familiar. Brows sharper than they used to be. Blindingly white teeth. Glitter in the corners of her eyes. Flawless skin, not a single scratch. All retouched.

And yet — something lingers in her pupils. Something they couldn’t cover with bronzer.

Sage tilts her head. Slowly. Almost like she’s dancing with the girl inside the mirror.

Who are you?

For a moment, it feels like she asked the question out loud. Maybe she did. But no voice echoed back — only a faint shiver down her spine, like the mirror was breathing with her.

Sage keeps looking longer than she should. Longer than the dress on her shoulders and the tight braid at her nape can bear. She’s searching the reflection for a trace of her old self. Or maybe waiting — for the girl on the other side to speak first. To say it was all a dream. Or that it’s time to wake up.

But the reflection stays silent.

Sage blinks. Her eyelids feel heavy. Just like in the finale — when the ground breathed blood and the sky stared, unblinking.

She steps back. Once. Then again.

“Ready?” Flora asks, turning around with a beaming smile.

Sage nods. Uncertainly. But just enough for everyone to think she’s fine.

Alcyon presses the elevator button, and together they descend to the lower level — the place where training sessions used to be held. The lighting is different here: not festive, not blinding, but steady, dim. The walls are painted gray, but still look damp — like concrete after rain. The floor responds to every step with a dull echo.

Sage walks last. The others — Flora, her assistants, Alcyon — have already disappeared behind partitions, changing, finding their platforms, lining up. By tradition, tonight’s broadcast will show the victor’s full team: first the stylist’s assistants, then the escort, then stylist and mentors. Sage will appear last. The climax. The finale. That’s the order.

How sickening.

She’s alone now. The space hums with sound. Somewhere above, beyond the stage, the crowd screams so loud the floor seems to tremble. Through the concrete and metal come deep, echoing thuds — like a giant’s pulse. Or like hammer strikes in a mine shaft. The sound is distorted here, muffled, and that somehow makes it worse.

Sage stands still. Her palms are sweating, but she’s afraid to wipe them on the dress — the fabric is too expensive. She can’t ruin it.

Somewhere behind her, something clicks — like a mechanism coming to life. She freezes instinctively. Her neck tenses like a pulled rope. Her eyes stare into the space ahead, but all she sees is the arena. For just a split second: foggy, warped, like a ghost behind glass. And as if on cue, her body reacts — heart pounding faster, fingers trembling.

Someone touches her shoulder.

She didn’t hear footsteps. Not one.

Sage flinches, jerks sideways. Almost silently, but like the floor beneath her might explode at any moment. Her shoulder burns from the sudden touch — not from pain, but from fear. Like the arena itself had reached for her. Like it was a signal: danger, run.

But it’s not the arena. It’s Cecelia.

“Sorry,” she says softly.

Sage blinks, breathes, tries to come back to the present. This isn’t a factory. Not a trap. Not eyes watching from the dark. It’s just a stage. Just a ceremony. Just a hand, touching her shoulder.

But her body doesn’t quite believe it.

Cecelia looks at her carefully. Maybe even too carefully. It seems like she wants to say something — but doesn’t. She only nods — a calm, reassuring gesture, but there’s still caution in it. Like she’s afraid to startle her.

“You’re shaking,” she says quietly. Not as a scolding, just a fact.

Sage shrugs again. The shaking doesn’t stop. It’s not in the skin anymore — it’s in the bones.

“I’m fine,” Sage replies. Her voice comes out hoarse, almost not hers.

Cecelia shakes her head — not in disapproval, just sadly.

“No. But one day you will be.”

Sage looks away. It’s hard to meet her eyes — there’s too much in them. Too much recognition. She doesn’t want anyone to see what she doesn’t want to see herself: the break, the weariness, the fear.

“You’ll get through this,” Cecelia adds. “I promise.”

Sage wants to ask how she knows. How can anyone be sure, when it feels like everything inside her has been gutted. But she doesn’t ask. She only nods. A pause — brief, but filled with quiet weight, like the air has thickened.

Time’s almost up. Any moment now, the platform will open. It’ll lift them onto the stage — into the lights, into the cameras, into the roar of the crowd. Up to where she’s expected to smile, to give thanks, to remember the dead.

Cecelia touches her shoulder again — slower this time. And holds it just a little longer than necessary. Like an anchor. Or a reminder: you’re not alone. Then she steps away. The platform clicks.

Sage exhales slowly and feels a cold point freeze inside her chest. Tiny, but steady. Like a shard of ice. Like a piece of the arena that stayed inside her forever.

She takes a step back and looks forward again.

The anthem of Panem begins to play.

It’s starting.

The platform rises slowly, like it’s emerging from deep underground. Like it’s lifting her from a grave. The light hits her eyes immediately — sharp, sudden — like a gunshot. It’s not sun, not warmth, not life. It’s stage lighting. Bright. Icy. Shadowless. Under it, everything shows: every gesture, every breath, every flicker of doubt at the corner of the mouth. The light doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It just comes.

Sage doesn’t move. She just stands there, arms at her sides, knees tense. The dress is cold against her skin — thin fabric that feels damp with inner heat, though it’s an illusion. It’s not sweat. Not warmth. It’s fear. Detached, no longer new. Familiar.

The crowd erupts when their team steps onto the stage. The acoustics amplify the sound, and it passes through her — like her body is just a shell, a conduit. People cheer. Shout. Someone calls her name. Someone waves. But it’s all like it’s behind glass. Or underwater. Or in a dream. Hollow. And too loud at the same time.

Caesar Flickerman awaits her with his signature theatrical smile. His sparkling suit — a blue so deep it’s almost violet — is studded with sequins that glitter like he’s part of the fireworks himself. His hair is silver this time, his eyes shining. He spreads his arms wide, like greeting an old friend — not a girl whose hands still remember other people’s blood.

“There she is!” he exclaims, and the hall explodes again. “Our victor! Let’s hear it one more time for our dear Sage Bradbury!”

Sage steps forward. One step. Another. On the third, the platform finally stops trembling beneath her feet. She doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t frown either. Her face is smooth — like a mask. She’s afraid that if she allows herself to feel even the slightest thing, she’ll burst into tears right there on stage. And this expression — this blankness — lets everyone see whatever they want to see.

Caesar pauses — perfectly timed, as always. He touches her hand gently, motioning for her to sit. The couch is velvet. Too soft. Sage nearly sinks into it. Around her, the rest of the team settles in like bodyguards.

“Sage, my dear,” he says, lowering his voice into something soft and sympathetic. “So many emotions… so many trials… and yet, here you are. You did it. How are you feeling?”

A pause. Sage knows she’s supposed to answer. They coached her all morning. She opens her mouth. The words won’t come. There’s something stuck in her throat — like clotted blood.

“I don’t know,” she mumbles finally. “It all… feels like a blur.”

Caesar nods with the gravity of someone receiving sacred truth.

“Understandable. We all watched. We cried. We rooted for you. But tell me—” he leans in slightly, as if to take her hand, though he doesn’t, “—was there a moment when you knew you would survive?”

For a moment, Sage glances sideways at the others. Flora gleams like a precious jewel. Alcyon smiles charmingly. At the edge of the couch — Paisley. Her gaze is different from the rest. There’s no joy in it. Only silence.

Sage looks back at Caesar. Inside, everything is storm-silent — heavy, unshakable. The pulse in her throat is louder than the applause. She knows this is a turning point. Whatever she says now — the way she moves her shoulders, how she looks into the camera — it’ll be cut into highlights, archived, remembered across Panem. Etched into history.

And all she wants is to disappear beneath the stage. Crawl somewhere quiet. Where no one sees.

But she can’t.

It’s almost over.

The pause stretches too long. The cameras wait. The audience waits. Flora is probably on the verge of a heart attack.

And Sage inhales. Sharp. Cold. Like a gust of frost just tore through her. She leans forward — just a bit — the way Alcyon once taught her. Tilts her head slightly, lips curling into that half-smile. The one that’s not joy. Not pain. A mask. Brilliant. Sparkling.

“There was a moment,” she says, her voice clearer than expected, “when I was standing knee-deep in blood, holding that metal thing in my hand… and I thought, ‘So this is how I live now.’”

She smirks. It’s almost a joke. Almost bravado.

“I think it was a useful experience. Because if I can survive that,” she adds a little louder, “then I can survive anything.”

The crowd erupts. Applause, shouting. Cameras capture her face. She knows: they’ve all just seen exactly what they wanted. The victor. Bold. Strong. Unshakable. A role model. But inside, it’s quiet. Dead-quiet, like a night on the arena.

She smiles. Because she has to. But somewhere deep inside, something small trembles. The real her — that girl who once hid in the ventilation shaft, holding her breath against the dust. The one who didn’t know how to grip a knife. The one who never thought she’d make it this far.

That girl looks at her now, from the inside.

And says nothing.

So Sage smiles wider to drown out the voice.

Caesar catches the crowd’s reaction and beams.

“Everyone’s been talking about your cleverness, Sage,” he says, his tone softening, becoming almost conspiratorial. “You weren’t the strongest. You weren’t the fastest. You didn’t have the deadliest weapon… and yet, you’re the one who’s still here. What helped you most? Instinct? Luck? Or… something else?”

Sage feels her palms grow damp. It’s a simple question. Predictable. They probably coached her on the answer during one of those moments she wasn’t listening. But now, under the spotlights, everything rushes back. Not as images — as sensations. The pulse of it. The warmth of blood clinging to her fingers. The grind of metal against bone. The sound of breath in the dark, when she was trying not to be heard. The throat clenched with thirst. The smell of dust and fear.

The world tilts for a second. Or maybe she does. Her head spins — like something inside flipped too fast. A click echoes in her chest, dull and cold, like a trap springing shut. Sage blinks. For a heartbeat, it’s not Caesar she sees — it’s Riven’s face. And she almost wants to scream.

She takes the tiniest breath. Barely noticeable. Nothing deeper will come. Her dress, glittering and heavy, suddenly feels wet. The lights slice at her eyes. The crowd’s roar is muffled, like she’s underwater. Only Caesar’s gaze — warm and sticky — pulls her back.

“I think…” she pauses, like she’s choosing her words, though the answer is already there, “...observation. People don’t always realize when they’re being watched. But I… notice.”

Laughter in the crowd. Polished, pleasant. As if it’s witty. As if it’s a game.

“And?” Caesar’s smile widens. “What did you notice?”

Sage tilts her head slightly. Now it’s almost a dance — step left, step right. Her mask is perfect. Even her gaze barely trembles.

“When someone’s too confident, they die. When someone’s angry, they do something stupid. When someone’s scared…” — she pauses for a breath — “…they start to look like me.”

For a moment, silence falls over the crowd. The kind of silence that comes when people don’t know if what they heard was a joke… or a confession.

But Caesar doesn’t let awkwardness settle.

“Oh come on, Sage,” Caesar says, shaking his head with exaggerated admiration. “You? Scared? Not for a second.”

He laughs again — a little theatrical, but not unkind. His voice is warm, like a blanket you can hide under. For the audience, it’s a signal: relax. This isn’t a confession. It’s still a show.

“You were confident, focused, even cold when you had to be. And I know, I know — you’re going to be modest now,” he squints playfully, like he’s letting the whole of Panem in on a secret, “but you looked like you knew exactly what you were doing. Always.”

Sage smiles. She knows the look — the corner of the lips, the slight lift of the brows. A touch of flirtation, mixed with gratitude. But inside, she’s tight as a wire. Almost aching.

She hears the crowd respond — some laugh, some nod, some clap. They like this version. This legend. The strong, ice-cold, dazzling victor. They don’t want to know how her hands shook. How she clenched her jaw to keep from screaming.

“You flatter me,” she says at last, her voice sweetly innocent, like she’s explaining herself to a teacher. “I was scared. A little. Just didn’t tell anyone. Not even myself.”

She lifts her chin slightly, her gaze playful. A hint of squint — like an actress who knows exactly where the camera is. Her voice dances with mischief. She’s not hiding behind a shield now, but behind ornamentation.

“But honestly,” Sage adds, her smile widening, “fear’s a strategy too. The key is just to pretend it’s part of the plan.”

The crowd erupts with laughter and applause. Caesar claps first, shaking his head with a grin:

“Oh, you sly one. That’s how you win the Games, my friends. Not brute strength — but this.” He gestures at her, as if words fail. “Charm.”

Sage laughs — light, almost real. Almost, because the true version of her is still curled somewhere beneath the glitter and bronzer. But the laugh suits her. And the audience eats it up.

“Alright then,” Caesar continues, “let’s go back to the beginning. To the moment you first entered the arena. What did you feel?”

Sage makes a show of thinking. Tilts her head, like she’s sifting through memories — though they never really left. Paisley taught her this: always leave a pause, like you’re searching for honesty inside yourself. The cameras love it.

“Honestly?” she raises her brows. “I thought: ‘Oh, how beautiful.’”

Laughter ripples through the hall. Surprised, bright.

“Really?” Caesar smiles.

“Uh-huh,” Sage nods, shrugging lightly. She pauses, then adds with a soft, almost impish smile: “It looked a lot like my home sector. For a second I forgot why we were even there.”

Her voice is light, nearly playful. Caesar takes a breath — the kind a performer uses to shift tone — and smoothly changes the subject:

“We’ve already heard about how clever you were, how well you hid, how you turned your opponents’ mistakes against them. But here’s what I want to know: was there real friendship in the arena? You and Mr. Alden seemed… genuinely close. Was that real?”

Sage isn’t ready for that. Or maybe she’s too ready. The cold knot returns to her chest. But on the outside — she giggles. Slowly. Carefully.

“You know, Caesar… in the arena, everything feels like a ‘almost,’” she gestures in the air, tracing the shape of that almost. “Almost friendship. Almost food. Almost sleep. Almost feelings. You even become almost a person for a while. But Riven… he was real. As real as anything can be, in there.”

“Such wise words from our wise victor!” Caesar exclaims. “And at such a young age! Panem, did you hear that?”

More applause. The stage lights stab at her eyes. Cameras catch every tilt of her head, every flicker of emotion. Inside, everything in Sage begins to tilt off balance. The air grows thick, like honey — foreign, suffocating. A haze spreads across her vision: first light, like steam from boiling water, then thicker, heavier, until the faces in the audience blur. Like someone spilled water on a painting and smeared the world.

Her pulse beats in her temples — dull, like fists on a locked door. Everything feels distant. Unreal. The audience’s laughter is muffled, like sound through deep water. And Caesar — he’s a puppet, his face moving, lips shaping words, but the sound is always a beat behind.

In her chest — that knot. The cold one. Like a root, like an anchor pulling inward. It won’t let her breathe. But she has to breathe. Has to smile. Has to look.

Sage holds herself at the surface by sheer force, like hanging from a rope above a pit. She reminds herself: this is not the arena; this is a stage. But her body doesn’t know the difference. Her body is still there.

She blinks — once, twice. Too slow. And forces herself to focus again. On Caesar’s voice. On the light hitting her cheeks. On the chair beneath her. All of this is real. All of this is now. She just has to sit through it. Play it out. Survive — again.

“And now, Sage,” he says, his voice softening, sensing her tension, “we have to ask. That moment… the end. The final one. When it was just the two of you. You — and her. Tell us. What did you feel then?”

Sage freezes. Her eyelids flutter for half a second. In her head — flashes. A scream. Breathing. The warmth of blood on her fingers. The crunch of skull beneath a hatchet. That last look — no hatred, just... exhaustion. Resignation.

She lifts her eyes to Caesar. Then, higher — to the crowd.

“I felt like it was finally over.”

The room hums. The stage drowns in noise. Sage leans forward slightly, lets the wave carry her. She’s seen. She’s heard. They adore her. But inside — still, silence. The lights burn brighter, as if trying to erase the honesty that slipped through.

The interview goes on. Too long, maybe. Caesar is still shining. The audience still in love. And Sage? She’s on autopilot. Her smiling face flashes across giant screens, words spilling out — rehearsed, distant.

She laughs. Nods. Waves. It’s all right. All perfect. Everything exactly as it should be. But time stretches. Space blurs. The stage becomes a ship adrift in emptiness, and no one knows where it’s going.

Finally — applause, a bow, the curtain. And Caesar leads her backstage, through a hallway, past grins and congratulations, toward the throne — oversized, theatrical, carved with flourish, crimson cushions puffed like blood-soaked velvet. She’s placed down gently. Flora’s assistants adjust her dress, spread her curls over her shoulders. The lights glare in her face again.

And the screen lights up.

Three hours. Montage. Recap. “The Most Dazzling Moments of the 68th Hunger Games.” Music. Commentary. Monologues. Deaths.

Sage leans back. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. She’s learning not to look. To look but not see. To count numbers in her head. To listen to her pulse. To imagine what a bird would look like with teeth. What rain would smell like if it were lemon-scented. Anything — anything to not be here.

And everything is smooth. Until that scene.

The one where Riven no longer moves — but still watches.

In that moment, something inside Sage twists so sharply she can’t even draw breath. The world tilts. Everything inside surges up. Her throat tightens. And suddenly she knows — she’s about to throw up. Right here. In front of all of Panem.

She inhales through her nose. Slowly. Until her shoulders shake. And exhales just as slowly, as if rushing would break something irrevocably. Her stomach churns like something alien has nested there — vile, sharp. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t show it. Swallows hard, teeth clenched, and presses herself deeper into the throne’s seat, holding herself together.

She learns to exist in two dimensions. In one — her body: calm, composed, perfect. In the other — her consciousness, curled at the far edge of her skull, trying not to touch anything. She looks at the screen, but doesn’t let herself see what’s on it. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t register dialogue. Ignores the last deaths, the blood, the contorted faces. She tries to discreetly count the stars painted on the ceiling above the stage. Then — the spotlight patterns on the silk of the armrests. Then — the number of folds in the fabric draped over her knees.

When the sound of the film dies, it feels like someone has ripped off her skin. Too fast. Too bare. The applause crashes like thunder — harsh, deafening. The lights shift. The whole space explodes with bright, cutting light. She has to move again. Has to be here again. Right now.

She rises. Her knees are cotton, but they hold. Her back is straight. Shoulders — gently squared. Her smile — soft, restrained, nearly tired. Just like they told her. Just as it should be. She’s in the spotlight again. And being real is not an option.

President Snow steps onto the stage. Majestic, like a mountain. His shadow stretches longer than the stage itself. His hands in gloves. His smile — thin as ice on a lake’s surface. He approaches Sage slowly. Solemnly. Cameras catch every step. A small girl walks behind him, carrying a velvet pillow. On it — a crown. Not a tiara. Not a wreath. A crown. Heavy. Gleaming. As if forged from other people’s lives.

Snow stops in front of Sage. Looks her straight in the eye. Time freezes. Then, at last, he lifts the crown — and places it on her head.

Something rings inside Sage’s chest. Not with triumph — but like a blow. Like cracked glass. Darkness flickers at the edge of her vision. The crown is cold. It presses on her temple. On her skull. On her heart. The hall erupts into applause again. Cameras. Faces. Anthem.

Sage stands tall. As if it wasn’t her who won — but her shell. As if the real her is still back there, in the dirt and the blood, staring at the body of one dead boy.

But her face wears a smile.

And when the crowd rises to honor her, she nods. Slowly. Gracefully. Like a hero. Like a legend. Like an icon.

The 68th Hunger Games end here.

And Sage remains. Still standing.

Under the crown.

Under the lights.

Under the weight.

***

The presidential ballroom is stifling, thick with powder, champagne, and bodies. Everything at this party gleams with gold-tinted sweat. Light bounces off the crystal, scattering rainbows across the hall. Everything booms, everything sparkles. Laughter rings out — loud, eager, just a little too staged. Beneath the music: the crunch of glass, the clicks of cameras.

Sage stands on a soft carpet, surrounded by flashes and reaching hands — wanting to shake hers, to touch her dress, her crown. Her cheeks ache from smiling, but her face holds — flawless. She accepts congratulations, bows, thanks everyone. Her champagne glass is always full — refilled silently, perfectly, instantly.

Alcyon stands beside her like a sentinel, listing names too fast to remember. Every person is “important,” “legendary,” “a family friend.” Some laugh too loud, some kiss her hand with exaggerated grace, some say she inspired them. Sage nods. Her eyes glisten — from champagne or exhaustion, it’s hard to say.

“That’s Minerva Sykes, you have to speak to her,” Alcyon whispers, already nudging her toward a woman wrapped in gold. “She’s the greatest actress of the last decade. Don’t let on you don’t recognize her.”

Sage smiles and nods, and at that moment more hands descend — “Photo!”, “One more!”, “Smile, sweetheart”, “A bit closer.” Someone calls her “our little lioness,” another — “a silk beauty.” Someone asks for an autograph on a napkin.

They lead her from group to group, flute to flute, until Sage stops trying to remember anything. Names don’t stick. Faces blur into a lavish mosaic — white teeth, earrings, feathers, flashes. One person smells like cinnamon, another like wine and tobacco, another like roses and something sharp that prickles the throat.

“This is Mr. Arlo, the victor of the Thirty-Fourth Games,” says Alcyon, and Sage lifts her head just slightly.

He’s taller than she expected. Silver hair slicked back. A thin chain around his neck, with a laurel-wreath pendant. His hand is warmer than the others. He smiles — calm, effortlessly.

“Welcome to the family,” he says. Then leans close and whispers in her ear: “Take a tip. If you ever wake up in a cold sweat, just remind yourself — you’re not in the arena. Usually works.”

Sage drinks again. Laughs again. They bring her to a pair — brother and sister, the victors of back-to-back Games. They look identical, like dolls. The brother tells a story about being kissed by some ancient pop star after his victory. Sage laughs with them, as if it’s actually funny.

Somewhere, music starts. Someone begins to dance. Someone asks her to waltz. She declines — gently. Her feet are sore, her dress too tight, the crown too heavy.

The air hums with voices, like a hive. Around a corner appears a young man in a crimson suit, fake rose in his lapel. He bows too deeply. Introduces himself. Funny name. She forgets it before he finishes saying it.

“You’ll never forget what it was like, will you?” someone whispers in her ear. “It’ll stay with you forever.”

Sage answers with a smile, takes another sip of champagne, and swallows the urge to flee.

And it keeps going. Glasses. Scents. Cameras. Gilding. Makeup. Fabric. Voices. Laughter. Hands. Hands. Hands.

Until everything smooths into a soft, even hum — like she’s standing underwater, and all that remains is her heartbeat, just a bit too fast.

Eventually, Sage hides in a corner, beneath a small balcony, where the ceiling is lower and the light is no longer so bright. It smells of old wine and incense — a mix that makes her stomach quietly rebel. Her glass holds yet another round of champagne, warm as bathwater. She doesn’t drink. Just holds it, to keep her hands busy.

In this corner, no one touches her. The music is duller. The laughter — more distant.

Finally, she can breathe.

She doesn’t see him approach — only feels the movement nearby. A shadow, a faint scent of mint balm. Then a voice — smooth, a little lazy, like he’s mocking the luxury around them just by the way he speaks:

“Seems we were never formally introduced.”

Sage turns her head. And of course, she recognizes him instantly. His head is tilted slightly, like an apology for intruding on her solitude. And yet, he doesn’t step back.

She replies without a smile, but with a spark in her voice:

“Given the circumstances, is that really necessary?”

He chuckles, as if she said exactly what he was hoping to hear. Ridiculously handsome — like someone drew him from memory and got carried away.

“Failing to introduce myself would be terribly uncouth,” he says, taking a glass from the tray of a passing servant. “And we are refined creatures these days — allegedly.”

“Okay then, Mister-Mysterious-Definitely-Not-Finnick-Odair,” she says with a mock curtsey, her dress swaying lightly. “I’m Sage Bradbury.”

“A pleasure. Or at least intriguing,” he says. “You hide beautifully.”

“I suppose that’s a talent,” she replies, tone even.

A dumb thought flits through her mind: would she look like a fool if she apologized for what she did to his tribute?

Finnick raises his glass in silent acknowledgment and then asks:

“How’s the evening? Too loud?”

Sage shrugs:

“All by the script. I’ve stopped trying to remember names — too many celebrities.”

“You know, I once pretended I’d lost my hearing. Whole party. Worked like a charm.”

“No one noticed?”

Her head tilts slightly — genuine curiosity.

“Everyone assumed it was post-Games trauma. They gave me oysters and sympathy and didn’t ask a single question. Best night of my life.”

Sage laughs — short, soft, almost real.

“Sounds like I should pick a diagnosis too. Got any recommendations?”

“Fame-induced vertigo? Selective name amnesia?” He leans back against the column like he’s taking a break. “Or maybe ‘Too Beautiful to Remember Anyone’? Worked for me.”

“How charming,” she rolls her eyes. “Miss Bradbury, the belle of the ball, currently suffering from acute glamour fatigue. Prognosis: will survive — unless someone asks another question.”

“And so modest, too. I’m impressed.”

A pause. Somewhere in the hall, laughter bursts again — too bright, too polished, as if it’s been rehearsed. In the distance, one of the top sponsors toasts yet another faded star — another soul run through the golden meat grinder. The rustle of gowns over marble sounds like water along the shore — smooth, echoing, but with every step it feels like everything is drifting farther from Sage.

And suddenly, she catches herself breathing just a little more evenly.

“What about you?” she asks, softer now. “Haven’t you grown tired of all this?”

Instead of answering, he leans in slightly, raising his glass to hers.

“To beautiful and impossibly modest stars. Like us.”

She laughs, clinks her glass with his, and takes a sip of champagne. The music shifts. Someone calls her name from across the room — probably Alcyon. She glances over her shoulder, then back at Finnick. He dips his head, as if to say “Go on.” She nods — lightly, almost without looking — and turns to leave.

But not with the same stiff grace as earlier in the evening. With each step, the hem of her gown brushes the floor more freely. Her breath evens out.

And for the first time that night, she truly feels — it’s over.

Notes:

twenty chapters, twelve emotional breakdowns, three near-death experiences, and one (1) extremely unhinged author later… THEY FINALLY SPOKE 🙌 ten lines of dialogue? baby that’s a meal

we are finally going back to the district, goodbye to the capitol’s rich freaks and their little trauma circus — we will NOT be missing you. catch me kissing the dusty ground of district eight like it's the holy land.

Chapter 21

When Sage returns to the apartment, it’s already light outside. The streets of the Capitol are shrouded in a faint haze — early morning, pale and washed-out, with neon reflections on the wet asphalt. The door closes behind her almost silently. Inside, it smells like air conditioning, fresh paper, and something sweet, as if someone had tried to freshen the air but only ended up mixing the scents.

The apartment is empty. No Flora. No Alcyon. No sound at all.

She takes off her shoes without a word, like in someone else’s house. The dress falls in a heap on the couch. The crown lands on the table next to an unfinished cup of coffee that’s been there since the previous morning. Sage slips on a robe and sits on the edge of the couch. Then lies down, uncovered. Her eyes don’t close — maybe from exhaustion, maybe the champagne, or maybe just disbelief that the nightmare is truly over.

Her body goes still, but the noise inside her doesn’t stop. Something keeps ticking, like an alarm clock someone forgot to turn off. At one point, her shoulders twitch at a loud sound from outside. Her hand instinctively reaches for a metal rod — but her fingers only grasp at air.

They told her to pack for the journey, but there’s nothing to pack. The clothes she wore for the Reaping ceremony were taken long ago. Everything she has now is someone else’s. On the hanger, the dress for her final broadcast — chosen by someone who knows her size. The suitcase in the corner is empty. It’s not for her, but for the image.

Sage waits. She washes glitter from her hair, makeup from her face. Rubs her skin too hard, like she’s trying to scrub off someone else’s hands. Flips through TV channels aimlessly. Every one plays music, light, voices. She lowers the volume, then turns it off completely. On screen — her own face, live. For a second, something inside her freezes. Then she presses a button, and the image vanishes. The room sinks into dim silence.

And once again — only ticking.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The sun rises, and the room grows warmer, but not cozier. In the end, Sage just sits on the windowsill, barefoot, arms wrapped around her knees, watching the sky change color. No sleep, no thoughts — just white noise in her head.

Finally, the door opens. First comes the sharp scent of perfume, then the click of heels. Only after that does Flora appear in the doorway: no longer in her evening dress, but in a sharp, acid-pink suit with wide lapels and the thinnest organza inserts. She looks like she’s slept no more than two hours — yet not a single strand of hair is out of place. Her face glows with that flawless sheen. But her eyes betray her: even she’s tired.

“Good morning, Sage,” she says in a cheery tone far too bright for this hour, and nods toward the door. “Everything’s ready. We’ve got your back, but you’ve got this. The audience adores you. You’re our new legend. Don’t forget your neck — hold it like you’re wearing all the Capitol’s gold.”

Alcyon appears next — theatrical as always. Hair perfectly styled, hand on heart, face noble and weary. He’s holding a tablet he doesn’t even look at. He’s already in a new outfit — black velvet embroidered with comets and fiery trails.

“Well, Miss Bradbury,” he says solemnly, “if anyone still doubted you were the queen of the ball, you can tell them I personally saw three award-winning singers nearly come to blows over who’d offer you champagne first.”

He pauses, perfectly timed and dramatic.

“One even wrote you a poem. Rhyming ‘Sage’ with ‘courage,’ but I think there’s a kind of poetry in that too. I saved it.”

Flora rolls her eyes, but silently. She smiles too — just the corner of her lips, but genuinely. After all, even she can appreciate it when the evening doesn’t end in disaster. And when the girl they barely managed to get across the finish line hasn’t fallen apart along the way.

Alcyon takes the sunglasses from her hands as if they’re a crown and ceremoniously presents them to Sage.

“Put these on. The Capitol must never see real heroines squinting in the sun after three hours of sleep and twenty-seven glorious minutes under the camera flashes.”

He winks.

“Don’t worry. You look divine — especially compared to a certain stylist — not naming names — who thought apricot shots on an empty stomach were a brilliant idea.”

Sage shakes her head, but can’t help smiling.

“Let’s get moving already,” Flora grumbles. “It’s not like we’ll have another chance to shine anytime soon. Might as well use this one.”

The car pulls up at the back entrance. Sage climbs in. The windows are tinted, the leather seats glide under her palm. Someone helps her with the seatbelt, someone adjusts the collar of her dress. The sunglasses on her face feel like yet another mask — unnecessary, but required. Outside, buildings flicker past in fragments, broken up by the reflection of her own face.

No one speaks. No music plays.

At the station, there’s bustle — but muffled. Sounds are filtered through the walls and glass. When Sage steps out, people are already waiting — two guards at her sides, someone with a camera, someone with a clipboard, a whole film crew already boarding the train. Cecelia and Paisley are speaking with the director. The smiles are all business. Hands are full. Every second accounted for.

Flora kisses Sage on the cheek — quick, a little tense. Hands on her shoulders, eyes looking past her.

“You did well,” she says.

Sage doesn’t answer. She just nods. There are no words — not the right ones, not when there’s still so much clattering inside her that anything she says would come out wrong.

As a farewell, Flora steps closer and hugs her. For a moment, Sage hesitates — then hugs her back. Not right away, but firmly. And in that moment, it’s the only thing in her that still feels alive. They’ll see each other again in a few months, when the Victory Tour begins — but until then, it’s okay to pretend that everything’s behind them.

When the train doors slide open, everything inside is already arranged: flowers in a vase, pillows perfectly lined up, the air filled with an expensive scent. It smells of metal, clean sheets, and luxury soap. Everything — like a showroom. Sage walks down the aisle slowly, like a girl from another life who’s still not sure she’s allowed to touch this kind of elegance. Her fingers graze the soft back of a chair. For a moment, she almost expects Riven to appear from around the corner.

Sage sits by the window. The train hasn’t moved yet. Outside — the platform, slightly blurred by the interior light. In the reflection — her own face, warped a little, like drawn on damp paper. And behind that reflection, people gather. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. A dense but restrained crowd. Journalists, photographers, assistants — some with microphones, others with earpieces and the hungry look of hawks that just lost sight of their prey and are about to launch into the air.

A flash pops — once, twice, a third time. The light slices through the glass and skims across her cheek. Some knock on the window, others call her name — loudly, as if that might make her turn, wave, give one last smile. But Sage doesn’t move. She knows she’s supposed to. But she can’t make herself do it. She just stares through them — through the faces, the flashes, the chaos — as if none of it is about her. As if she’s still back in that gray apartment building, where life bustles on the other side of the wall and has nothing to do with you. As if there’s not just glass between her and all those voices — but armor.

One woman in the crowd waves — insistently, with a fake cheerfulness, remembering that this is the new star. Sage meets her eyes. Just looks. Without anger. Without irritation. Almost with pity. Then slowly pulls the curtain closed. The fabric is thick, heavy — like a stage curtain after a long play.

A moment later, the doors lock with a soft click, and the train begins to move.

Almost immediately, she’s called to lunch. The dining room is perfectly set — as always. Tablecloths pulled taut, cutlery aligned with surgical precision, glasses sparkling. In the center of the table — baked fish, salads sprinkled with decorative petals, bread in a woven basket like something out of a window display. Everything looks flawless, but Sage can barely taste a thing.

Paisley sits beside her and takes her hand under the table — thin, cold fingers. Not tightly, not possessively, more like she's just checking if Sage is really here. Sage doesn’t pull away. She simply lets her stay close.

Meanwhile, Alcyon is rambling on: about some fashion show, a romance between two past victors, how ridiculous a TV host looked in glowing shoes, or some actress who redid her face — again — to look like Wendeline Grey. Sometimes he waves his fork in the air, sometimes in the empty space between him and Cecelia.

“Did you hear,” he says to Sage, “they’re planning a whole series based on the Games? A real series! Nights and glamor, blood and gloss. Just like last night. Only without the hangover.”

Sage smiles — almost out of habit, just barely, more with her lips than her eyes. Then she picks up her glass and takes a sip of water. The food on her plate is touched, but untouched. Her body refuses to accept any of it.

Soon after dessert arrives — an unnaturally airy pastry with petals on top — someone from the crew suggests rewatching the interview. Everyone gets up and heads toward the screen, not noticing how pale Sage suddenly goes.

“I think I’ll lie down for a bit,” she says. “Headache. Or stomach. Something hurts.”

The others nod sympathetically. The sound tech offers her some pills. She smiles back, politely, with effort, but declines — and leaves quickly.

In her private cabin — quiet, dim light, everything perfectly in place. Pillows arranged just so, the blanket soft and plush. Sage takes off her shoes, lies down without changing, and stares at the ceiling for a long time. Her fingers still remember the chill of Paisley’s palm. In her ears — the echo of Alcyon’s voice, crew laughter, the clink of spoons against porcelain. But inside — silence. Not fear, not dread. Just… silence.

She’s going home now.

At least, that’s what they say. That’s what the script calls it: the return, the hugs, the Victor’s Village, the next chapter. As if you can return to a place you were torn from. As if the one who came out of the Arena is still you.

She doesn’t know yet if she’ll ever truly come home. Or if there’s even a road back. Maybe that girl is still out there — between frames, amid crumbled factories, between twenty-three freshly dug graves. Like that victor from District Eight who didn’t speak for months, then started drinking, and years later jumped off the factory roof before the Reaping day. No one really talks about him anymore, and now Sage understands why.

She blinks. The ceiling doesn’t change. The air is thick, like before a storm. She’s still here. Alive. Almost.

And now she has to decide what to do with that.

She turns on her side, facing the wall. The wallpaper is smooth, cold — like a dead man’s skin. She runs her fingers along it, half-expecting the material to ripple like water and let her fall through into another world — one without fame, without cameras, without those ridiculous petals on her plate.

But the wall stays a wall.

And then — sharp, like a blow to the ribs — her body tightens. Her throat closes. Her vision darkens. And suddenly, after all this time, Sage realizes she’s finally about to cry. Really cry.

She inhales sharply through her nose. Slowly. Until her lungs start to burn. Her fingers clutch at the edge of the mattress, tendons straining pale against her skin.

She exhales — even slower, as if holding herself together depends on it.

But the tears are already coming.

The first slips down her temple — hot, unexpected, like blood from a wound. Then the second. The third. They flow silently, without sobs, without trembling shoulders. They just spill, as if some dam inside her has finally burst, and everything she’s been gripping tight for days and weeks now pours out.

Sage doesn’t wipe the tears away. Doesn’t try to stop them. She just lies there, feeling the dampness gather in the hollow of her neck, the pillow soaking up the salt, her eyelids growing heavier with each drop. And the strangest part — there’s still no relief. No catharsis. No cleansing rush. No triumphant sense that soon, she’ll be reunited with her family.

Only emptiness — vast, like the Arena, like those cursed cameras, like the future, now stretching before her as an endless, hollow corridor.

She feels ungrateful, and that only makes it worse. Because everyone expects something else from her. Tears of joy, not grief. Long embraces, a happy return to her old life. This country wants a proud victor — not some weepy girl wallowing in self-pity after all she's survived.

Sage knows she should be grateful. Grateful for her life, for the chance to come home. For the indescribable luxury that the other twenty-three tributes will never know — a fate that, by chance, fell to her.

Is it fair to them — to act like she’s the victim here?

Somewhere beyond the wall, someone laughs. A door slams. Alcyon is probably already dreaming up a new story: "The touching reaction of the young victor." But here, in this cabin, there’s only Sage. And silence. And tears that can no longer change anything.

Then — suddenly — a knock at the door. Light, playful, like the start of some Capitol talk show.

“Darling, not bored in there, are you?” Alcyon’s voice slips through the door — syrupy, performatively sweet. “They’ve just brought us the most divine treat! Vanilla cream, caramel, and on top—”

Sage goes still. Something rises in her throat — guilt, or maybe anger.

“Please go away.”

Her voice sounds rough. Not like her. But Alcyon doesn’t hear — or doesn’t want to.

“Oh, don’t be such a grump!”

He’s already turning the handle, and the door cracks open, letting in a strip of harsh light.

“We all get that you’re tired, sweetie, but come on — it’s a celebration! You’re now—”

“I said — go away.”

She doesn’t recognize her own voice — usually quiet, hesitant. Alcyon freezes in the doorway, his face a mask of polite confusion. But he still doesn’t shut the door. Instead, he takes a step inside, reaching out like he’s about to pet a disobedient animal.

“Now, Sage, let’s not be dramatic…”

And then Sage snaps. Her face is wet, flushed — whether from tears or a sudden wave of anger, she can’t tell. But her hands stay still — cold, like a corpse’s. As if only half of her body has allowed itself to feel.

“Fuck. Off.”

Silence.

Alcyon stands there, mouth half-open, as if she didn’t just curse but spit in his face. His eyebrows shoot up toward his perfectly styled hair; his fingers clench the doorknob.

“Well, I…” He tries to keep his tone light, but his voice falters into a mumble. “Fine. We’ll talk later…”

The door closes slowly. Sage is alone again. Her hands tremble. Her throat tightens. And inside — a strange, almost painful feeling. A tangle of shame and a sharp, vindictive satisfaction.

She doesn’t understand where the anger came from — so sudden, so raw — but for the first time in weeks, she’s done something real. Not because someone told her to, not because a camera was rolling, but simply because she wanted to. And deep down… she likes it. Even if it was something small — telling that pompous idiot to go to hell — it was hers. Her first real choice since the Reaping.

Sage slowly wipes her face and looks at her fingers — alive, shaking, but no longer foreign. The tears are finally drying, but everything inside still churns: violent images, harsh noises, the hollow in her chest. Memory, stuck like a broken record, replaying the same scenes over and over. Her heart pounds — for no reason, or maybe for far too many.

She sits up slowly, settles at the edge of the bed, wrapping her arms around her knees. The silence now feels louder — filled with her own thoughts, her breath, every rustle in the room.

Sage knows: wounds don’t heal fast. And this silence — it’s not peace. It’s the calm before another storm. But tomorrow will come. And maybe then, she’ll find the strength to talk to someone. Maybe she’ll ask Cecelia, Paisley, even Woof — those who truly know what surviving means. Or maybe the knowing will just come, the moment she sees Henley again.

She stays sitting there, knees hugged close, breathing slowly. Inhale — less ragged. Exhale — a bit longer, a bit steadier. Her heart still thuds in her temples, but it no longer tries to break free from her chest. The tension, long coiled in her back and shoulders, finally begins to let go — drop by drop. As if someone is patiently untying her knots, not rushing, but relentless.

Outside, something murmurs — maybe the wind, maybe footsteps in the corridor. But inside the cabin, everything gets quieter. Her thoughts slow down, as if reality itself is giving her a reprieve. Her cheeks are still damp, but the tears have stopped. She no longer feels like crying. Not because things are better — but because there’s no strength left. And that, somehow, is comforting. Like after a long illness — she’s still weak, but knows the worst has passed.

She lies down again, stretches out on the bed, buries her nose in the soft blanket, feeling its texture, its warmth, its weight. Slowly closes her eyes. Her eyelids heavy — but not with pain. With exhaustion.

Her last thought before slipping into half-sleep: at least I’m alive. Still here. Still breathing. Maybe someday, I’ll remember how to live again.

Silence had always been her sanctuary. And now she needs it more than ever.

***

The train pulls into District Eight in the early evening. The sky is the color of worn-out fabric—gray, sagging, endless. Outside: factories, alleys between warehouses, soot-streaked walls. Everything looks a little smaller than she remembered. Or maybe it’s her that’s changed—bigger, sharper, out of place.

They pass the square where the stage had stood. It's gone now. The banners have been taken down. No trace remains of the day her name was called at the Reaping. As if it never happened. As if it was all just a show that ended—and that’s all. The applause faded, the cameras shut off, the props packed away. Life goes on.

Alcyon chatters cheerfully in the next compartment, performing joy like a pro — as if no one yelled at him earlier today. Someone from the film crew mutters about how hard it is to get a good shot in settings like this. Sage sits by the window, watching the gray buildings blur past like scenes from some washed-out, old film. Paisley is beside her, silent. Their shared exhaustion is oddly comforting.

When the train finally stops, the welcome committee is already lined up. Children holding flowers, adults with strained smiles. Everyone pretending this is a celebration, a long-awaited homecoming. The doors hiss open. Warm, dusty air rushes into the car, thick with the smell of wet concrete and something faintly chemical—textile production, familiar to Sage since childhood.

The noise is loud, layered, but muffled, like wrapped in cotton. Sage rises, smoothing the folds of her dress.

“Ready?” Paisley asks quietly.

Sage nods. Though she’s not sure it’s true.

She steps out first. Walks slowly, feeling the weight of every glance—on her face, her gait, her eyes. The crowd doesn’t cheer. No one screams her name. No one surges forward with cameras like they did in the Capitol. These people aren’t fans. They don’t see her as a star. They just stand there. Watching. Some smile—faintly, wearily. Some only nod. And some look straight through her. As if she’s a ghost.

Sage realizes: they’re not proud of her. They’re not in awe because District Eight has another Victor now. They’re just relieved she made it back. That she didn’t become the twenty-fourth grave. That at least one of their own survived this year. It’s not triumph. It’s relief. Quiet—like the first sip of water after a fire.

These people—tired, weathered, their hands calloused from endless work—they’re not expecting heroics. They don’t want grand speeches or stories about what it’s like to kill someone. It’s enough that she’s standing here. On her feet. Alive.

Sage shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, and suddenly she catches herself thinking she wants to go back to the train. Not because it was comfortable there. But because, at least on the train, she could still be invisible. There, it was just endless motion. Here—familiar streets wait for her, streets that now will never look the same.

Inside, it’s all still the same: silence and that quiet, pressing weight, like an old wound under bandages. She smiles, but only out of habit.

“That’s all it is,” whispers Cecelia somewhere behind her. “They’re not judging you. They just remember it could’ve been their child.”

Someone reaches out with flowers. A little girl, maybe seven, in a worn-out coat. Her eyes shine like Sage is some storybook hero. Sage takes the bouquet, unsure of what to say. She just gently touches the girl’s shoulder. And then someone nearby starts clapping—hesitantly. One clap. Then another. Then more. The whole square fills with that strange sound. Like echoes in an empty hall.

The film crew is already springing into motion, lining up the shot. The cameraman walks backward carefully, keeping Sage in frame. The lighting tech lets out a squeal as he adjusts the shoulder-mounted lamp. The sound guy waves frantically: quiet, we’re rolling.

“Sage, just a step to the left… perfect. Hold that!”

That’s Alcyon—cheerful as always—bounding out of the train car like he just won the Games. A second later he’s beside her, taking her arm gently, but without real warmth. Like she’s not a person, but a moveable part of the set.

“Now this way, sweetheart, toward the car. A little smile, yeah? Like you’re home again—well, you are home technically, but you know what I mean!” He peeks into her face, winks. “Close-up. Real emotion.”

She says nothing.

When the car door clicks shut behind them, his tone shifts—just a little—as he leans in, like they’re sharing a secret.

“Listen, darling, the reunion scene with your sisters—that’s gotta hit hard. Cameras will be right up on the porch. You walk out, they run to you, you... I don’t know, kneel down, throw your arms open, cry if you can. It’s the moment, you know? The people’s heart. We’ll use it in the promo later, trust me.”

Sage doesn’t react. She just stares out the window. They pass factories—the same ones, where old machines hum, where the air smells of oil, sweat, and despair. A strange feeling—like a new layer has been added to her life. Glossy, clean, but transparent. And beneath it all—everything remains the same. Dirt, fear, the noise of the factory. It’s inescapable.

“What if I don’t cry?” she finally asks, her voice flat.

Alcyon pauses for a moment, then theatrically shrugs.

“Well... at least give me a strong hug, okay? Remember, you’re not just their sister anymore—you’re a Victor.”

He pulls out powder, quickly dabbing it on her cheek, neatly smoothing a strand of hair.

“We’ll be filming from two cameras at once. One on you, the other on their faces. Play with the contrast: you’re strong, but vulnerable. They’re moved, but proud. Subtle. Like you do.”

Sage exhales quietly. The car turns off the main street, and almost immediately the surrounding scenery changes. The gray, multi-story buildings are left behind—standard, narrow, tired. Identical blocks with peeling walls, windows taped up, laundry strung across ropes like banners of poverty. Wilted trees in crooked flowerbeds, asphalt pocked with holes, the smell of burnt fabric soaked into the air. This is her district. The real one.

But here—it’s like everything’s been swapped out.

The Victors' Village begins abruptly. A wide, cobblestone street, unnaturally clean. On either side, neat two-story houses, each with a unique façade, as though architects tried their hardest to create the illusion of "individuality." One with columns and a balcony. Another in pastel tones, with carved shutters. A third with a decorative pond in the yard. Perfect lawns, perfect fences. Bushes trimmed to symmetry. Flowers—perhaps even artificial—never wilt, never bend in the wind. It’s as if this place wasn’t meant for living, but for a show set.

Every window shines like polished glass in a storefront. Sunlight bounces off the cornices, the wrought-iron handles, the gleaming nameplates with the winners’ names—like the Capitol specifically wanted their names to sparkle against the backdrop of someone else’s poverty.

For a moment, Sage wonders—if she’d been born here, never knowing what lay beyond those fences, maybe she would have thought it was beautiful.

But the thing is—she knows.

Behind her are the buildings of her childhood, with their rotting stairwells, tiny kitchens that always smelled of damp fabric and black mold. People there live crammed together. Here, the houses stand empty. The village has only a few residents, and the silence feels different.

The car slows. Tires crunch softly over the gravel path leading to her house—new, large, “earned.” Out front: a small garden, a perfectly manicured flowerbed where blooms have opened exactly on cue. An open porch. Lights by the door. A flag bearing the symbol of District Eight fluttering politely in the breeze.

Sage looks at it all and feels something rising in her—a nausea of sorts. But she knows: there’s no choice. This is part of the performance. And she’s still in it.

“You ready, sweetheart?” Alcyon whispers again. “They’re waiting. Cameras too.”

Sage nods. Though she’s not sure it’s true.

The moment she steps out of the car, the cameras come alive—operators tracking her every move, every flicker of her expression. Light glints off the lenses. There’s a hum of nervous energy in the air, but she doesn’t care anymore.

All her focus is on her sisters.

The director has clearly staged them on the porch: Iris in her best dress, Marigold beside her, clearly rattled by the presence of the cameras, and Rosie with a crooked hair bow and a nose flushed red from crying.

“Hi,” is all Sage manages, not knowing what else to say.

“Sage!” Iris is the first to leap from the steps and wrap her in a hug so tight it’s like she’s afraid someone might come and take her away again.

Rosie is right there too, latching onto Sage’s dress with her small fingers. Her eyes are huge and shining, like this is the happiest day of her life. Her voice is barely a whisper:

“You came home.”

She reaches up, trying to touch Sage’s face, like she needs to check she’s real.

The cameras keep rolling—someone murmurs a request to turn slightly, to smile—but Sage doesn’t react. The last thing she cares about right now is the right angle.

Iris still has her by the shoulders, holding tight, like if she lets go, Sage might vanish. But Sage barely feels her hands—not because she doesn’t want to, but because her body hasn’t quite caught up to being here.

The touches are too bright, too sharp, like her skin has gone thin over the past few weeks. Everything inside her twitches at the contact, like at a sudden sound. But she doesn’t let it show. She knows: her sisters are just happy. They missed her. And she has to be here—with them. Real, warm, safe. So she doesn’t speak. Doesn’t pull away. She just endures the strange tension that tightens her shoulders and steals her breath, like a dress one size too small.

Marigold lingers a little behind. She takes a step—and stops, as if unsure she’s allowed. Her face is tense: she’s smiling, but her lips tremble like someone flinching from a pinprick. She’s wearing a pale shirt, freshly pressed, the collar neat and carefully arranged. She tried—Sage can see that.

“It’s okay,” Sage murmurs, to no one in particular. The words come out automatic, like a reflex.

Iris steps back, gives her a quick once-over—head to toe, like a doctor checking for wounds. Then she hugs her again, this time more gently.

“You’re here,” she says quietly, like she needs to convince not just Sage, but herself. “You came back.”

Sage nods. That much is true.

She looks down at Rosie—her thin shoulders, her tangled hair. She strokes the top of her head. A soft motion. It’s all she can manage right now. Her chest still feels hollow and echoing, like a drawer someone forgot to close.

The cameras click somewhere off to the side. One of the operators asks again:

“Can we get a closer shot? Hugs, emotion.”

“I missed you all so much, girls,” Sage says, with as much sincerity as she can find. “It’s so good to see you. I didn’t think this would ever happen.”

“We made you a pie,” Marigold says softly, her voice a little shaky, like she’s afraid it sounds silly. “With blueberries. The kind you like, remember?”

Sage gives a small smile—brief, but this time real.

“Thank you, sunshine. I remember.”

Rosie tilts her head up, finally gathering the courage to speak:

“And our faucet doesn’t drip anymore! And we have a new TV! With a giant screen!”

She straightens her back proudly, as if she’s proud of the house—and of Sage too.

“Really?” Sage lifts an eyebrow.

“Well yeah, from the Capitol,” Iris snorts. “A gift. Along with a new fridge, a washing machine, and about a ton of food. We live like queens now.”

“And I have my own room!” Rosie announces, gripping Sage’s hand again.

“Very important,” Sage whispers, picking her up and kissing the top of her head. “The most important thing.”

And at that moment, almost like on cue, Alcyon’s cheerful, sugary voice rings out:

“Well, well, ladies, the scene is lovely, very heartfelt — but how about we head inside now? We need to film you walking into the house, Sage seeing it for the first time, that sort of thing. We’ve got sunset lighting, it’s perfect — let’s not waste it.”

Iris rolls her eyes but silently takes Rosie’s hand. Marigold straightens up, smooths her hair. It seems they’ve already learned the rules of this new game: footage first, reality second.

Sage slowly turns toward the porch. The house is large, almost flawless — and far too quiet. It doesn’t feel exactly foreign — more like mistimed. As if this house was meant to exist in someone else’s life.

“Come on, come on,” Alcyon urges, clapping his hands. “Sage first, then your sisters, then a close-up of the door. And emotions, please! Show that you’re home, that you’re happy. Just a little.”

“I’ll try,” Sage mutters under her breath.

A moment later, one of the cameramen pushes the door open for her with his shoulder. The floor inside gleams. There’s a rug — soft, new, a pleasant beige color. In the hall: a sideboard with a fake orchid, a neat coat rack, a lamp shaped like a globe.

Sage leans toward Marigold and whispers:

“Wait, we have stairs now that aren’t about to collapse?”

“And a bathtub,” Marigold murmurs back. “With hot water. Always.”

Iris steps inside, cautiously, like she’s entering a museum. The cameras follow, capturing the moment Sage pauses on the threshold and glances around — as if she can’t quite believe this place is really hers.

“Well,” she breathes, “Welcome to the miracle village.”

Alcyon starts rambling about something enthusiastically, but Sage isn’t listening. Because Rosie is already dragging her into the kitchen to show her the candy jar. And Marigold is calling from upstairs — to come see the room they’ve prepared for her. Iris takes the bouquet from Sage and places it in a vase, then settles onto the armrest of the sofa and, at last, simply smiles — calmly, quietly.

For a moment — just a fleeting one — Sage feels it: she’s home. And nothing can hurt her here.

Then begins the long, monotonous process: the crew asks them to repeat scenes, reshoot lines with different tones, Alcyon remembers a few tweaks to their blocking. Two hours stretch like eternity, but finally the film crew gathers at the door, satisfied. The cameras shut off. The lights dim.

"See you soon, gorgeous," Alcyon says as he leaves. "Rest up — big things still ahead!"

Sage nods, like she's waking from a long dream, and with the greatest pleasure closes the door behind him. The room falls suddenly quiet. Only her sisters remain — no cameras, no director, no audience.

Iris is the first to rise. She walks over and hugs Sage tightly — not for the cameras this time. Marigold and Rosie join them too, a little awkwardly, but warmly. For a moment, Sage barely breathes. She’s tense, as if afraid something will crack or fall apart again. But nothing bad happens. Rosie presses into her side, and Marigold — with her usual shy tenderness — strokes her back.

And with every second, little by little, the tension in Sage begins to ease. She rests her forehead against Iris’s temple and closes her eyes. She feels truly warm — not from the heat of stage lights, not from sweat or someone else's blood. The tension unwinds, slowly, like someone unscrewing tightly coiled springs inside her. Her shoulders lower. Her jaw unclenches. For the first time in ages, her heart isn’t pounding wildly — it’s just beating. A quiet warmth blooms inside her, like light seeping through closed blinds.

"I'm so proud of you," Iris whispers, kissing her cheek.

Sunset spills into the room — soft and golden. It paints quiet stripes across the walls, the couch, the candy jar Rosie left on the floor. In this hush — no background chatter from interviews, no footsteps of producers, no clicking cameras — something settles. For the first time since all this began, Sage realizes she can finally take a full breath. Like there's room inside her chest for life again.

And into that silence — gently, as if afraid to shatter it — comes a knock at the door.

Sage doesn’t move right away. Rosie, now curled against her side, lifts her head.

“I’ll get it,” Iris offers, but Sage raises a hand.

“I’ve got it.”

In the hallway, she pauses — just half a step from the door. A familiar tremble rises again, like her body still expects the worst. But her hand is already on the handle. The door opens.

Henley is on the threshold.

He looks like he ran the whole way from the factory to the village — shirt wrinkled, hair a mess, eyes red with exhaustion. He’s clearly rehearsed something on the way, because he starts speaking right away:

“I’m sorry, I… I had a shift, and then all this stupid paperwork… I couldn’t come right away, I...”

He doesn’t get to finish.

Sage steps forward and kisses him. No warning, no words. Just reaches up — and kisses him.

Warm lips. The scent of fabric she knew by heart — from a life before the Arena crashed into hers. His hands — startled at first, then settling on her back. Gentle. Real.

For one fleeting moment, the whole world narrows to this: the taste, the touch, the sound of his short breath. Everything else — the Capitol, the cameras, the arena, the fear, the blood, the show — vanishes, burns away, disappears. Like it never happened. Like it was someone else’s nightmare.

Sage pulls away first, looks into his eyes — and realizes, this time, she’s smiling for no one but herself.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “I’m here.”

And for now, that’s enough.

Chapter 22

The silence inside is louder than ever.

Sage wakes up sharply—like she’s been thrown to the surface from underwater. The silence in the room rings, like after an explosion. Her heart is pounding, her throat tight, as if a scream is stuck there. She doesn’t remember the whole dream, only scattered frames: the clash of metal, a stranger’s face, a scream that never made it past her lips. And blood. Always blood.

Her breathing stumbles. Her palms clutch the bedsheet, damp with sweat. The room—familiar, safe—feels too narrow for a moment. There’s not enough air in her chest. She sits up, trying not to wake Henley.

He’s sleeping beside her, facing her. Officially, they don’t live together yet, but he’s been staying over more and more often. One of his arms is stretched toward Sage, like even in sleep he’s still reaching for her. His breathing is steady, quiet. His cheek pressed into the pillow, hair messy. Everything about Henley is familiar, home.

Sage looks at him and feels something inside her begin to settle. Her heart is still beating in her throat, but slower now. Almost breathable.

She lowers her feet to the floor, stands, and walks to the window. Outside, it’s that pre-dawn gray—not quite morning, not quite night. In this strange space between dreams and waking, Sage feels nearly transparent. Like she’s still halfway there, in the past, where everything smelled of fear and metal. But then her fingers touch the cold glass. Then, the wooden floor beneath her feet. And behind her—the bed. Warm. Soft. And him.

It’s been months. She’s home again. She’s alive again.

But the anxiety is still there. It no longer explodes inside her—it doesn’t tear her open or slam into her chest like it used to. It just... exists. A constant background hum. A faint whine behind the wall of her thoughts. Like a single drop of water falling on the same spot for hours.

Sage still maps out escape routes in her head, just in case someone decides to come for her. She still refuses to sit with her back to the door. But at least she no longer reaches into the air for a weapon. Almost never.

Everything seems normal. She has a home—neat, arranged, almost cozy, if not for the too-new walls and too-clean floors. Her sisters are close. Sometimes Rosie falls asleep hugging her like a teddy bear. Iris takes care of the kitchen, whispers “don’t overthink it,” and still slips an extra spoon of honey into her tea. Marigold turned thirteen—now already a teenager, but still earnestly packs her school bag each morning and makes sure Sage has breakfast before she leaves.

Henley doesn’t ask, doesn’t push, doesn’t pull. He just... comes and stays. Brings food. Fixes the heater. Sits next to her in silence when she can’t speak. Sometimes he tells her funny stories about his coworkers, or how Mari slipped him a note saying, “Don’t forget the milk, since you’re always here anyway.” And Sage laughs: on good days, genuinely; on bad ones, as a reminder to herself that she can’t hide under the blanket forever.

A faint sound behind her—a soft breath, the rustle of sheets. Then a voice, still rough with sleep:

“You’re up early again.”

Sage doesn’t turn around right away. She’s still looking out the window, where the sky is just starting to lighten. But her shoulders ease slightly.

“Had a nightmare,” she answers honestly. “I don’t remember what, exactly. Just the feeling.”

Silence. Then the soft sound of him sitting up in bed, the blanket shifting, feet touching the floor.

“Want me to make you some tea?” he asks. “Or coffee, since you're the center of attention again today.”

Sage lets out a quiet chuckle, still not turning around.

“Wait. We had a deal. You were supposed to pretend you didn’t know what day it is.”

A pause. Then Henley replies:

“Yeah, but I’m a terrible actor,” he yawns. “Especially before seven in the morning.”

Now Sage turns to face him. His hair is sticking out in all directions, his t-shirt has slipped off one shoulder, but he’s looking at her like she’s the center of the world. Even now, in this half-light.

“Happy birthday,” he says. No fanfare. Just warmth.

She blinks, and something tightens in her throat.

“Thank you,” she replies, and after a short pause, adds, “It feels weird.”

“What, having a birthday?”

“No. That I actually made it to one.”

Henley doesn’t say anything at first. Then he gets up, walks over, and gently wraps an arm around her shoulders. Not too tightly. Not intrusively. Sage leans her cheek against his chest and feels it—he’s warm. Safe. And he’s here.

“Well,” he murmurs into her hair, “now you have no choice but to celebrate. You know how it goes. What you don’t want always finds you.”

Sage laughs—a hoarse little snort, almost accidental.

“You got a plan?” she asks, still not moving away. Her voice is a bit strained, but the usual heaviness is gone.

“Of course,” he replies, stepping back slightly but keeping hold of her hands. “I’m the grand master of plans. First—breakfast. Then—presents. Then maybe a walk. Or maybe we’ll do absolutely nothing. Your choice.”

Sage tilts her head.

“Doing absolutely nothing sounds… unexpectedly appealing.”

Henley grins.

“Then it’s officially scheduled. I’ve already set an alarm for ‘lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling.’”

She snorts.

“You forgot ‘in pajamas.’”

“Obviously. Pajamas only. That’s the dress code. Violators will be shot.”

Sage looks at him a moment longer than necessary, like she’s trying to memorize this moment deep inside her. For a few seconds, they stay quiet, listening as birds begin to wake outside the window. Somewhere, a light switch clicks—sounds like Iris is up.

"I'm eighteen," she says suddenly. "Sounds... like a lot."

"Sounds just right," he answers gently.

"Then okay. I guess I have to be an adult now."

Henley runs his hand along her arm — slowly, as if memorizing the texture of her skin. Sage smiles — slowly, a little to the side, almost shyly, but her eyes are glowing. She sits on the edge of the bed, and he reaches for her, fingers lightly touching her knees where they peek out from under the blanket.

"Is this part of the ‘do nothing’ plan?" she asks, leaning closer.

"Only if we do absolutely nothing. With great dedication," he replies — and in the next moment, his lips are brushing her neck.

The light outside is warming, but the room is still dim — soft, closed off from the rest of the world. The blanket slips as Sage lies back down, pulling Henley in with her, and there's no rush, no hesitation — only quiet, warmth, and the sound of fabric shifting.

Somewhere in the house, Iris turns on the kettle, but in their room, everything stills. Only breath, touch, and the sense that maybe, in this morning — in these simple, everyday gestures — there’s something that finally feels like a real future.

Sage knows: tomorrow might be hard again. The anxiety never really goes away — it just hides, learns to live alongside her, to breathe in sync. But today... today the sun is warm, the air smells like apples and cinnamon, and the people she loves are nearby. It’s not perfect — but it’s real.

When Sage and Henley come down to the kitchen, the scent of toast and cinnamon is already in the air. Iris is at the stove in her nightgown, hair hastily pinned up. Rosie sits on a stool, swinging her legs, fiercely cutting out paper hearts — clearly busy since early morning. Marigold flips through a notebook, checking her list with the air of an overworked secretary on a party-planning committee.

"Morning, sleeping beauties," Iris says without turning around. "Sage, sit. Today you're not allowed to do anything except be the birthday girl."

Rosie nods seriously and proudly hands her a slightly crooked card.

"This is for you! There's a drawing inside. Just don’t shake it, or it’ll fall apart."

Sage laughs, carefully accepts the gift, and feels something warm and calm spreading through her chest.

"Thank you, little one."

Iris sets a mug of tea in front of her.

"We didn’t throw anything big. But there’ll be cake, candles, gifts — and maybe Marigold will read her birthday speech if she works up the courage. Paisley and Ester said they’d come by later tonight."

Marigold snorts without looking up from her list.

"I’ll write the speech. Someone has to take this seriously."

Henley grabs two plates, helps with the toast. He doesn’t try to take over — just stays nearby, fitting easily into the rhythm of the morning. Sage looks at him, at her sisters, at the light coming in through the windows, and thinks that maybe — just maybe — today is simply a good day. No hidden catches.

While they have breakfast, there’s an almost rare ease in the house: soft conversation, Rosie’s laughter, the taste of hot tea with honey. And in this day, in these ordinary things—crispy toast, stray confetti stuck to the table, slightly burnt pancakes that everyone praises out of respect for Iris—Sage finds something important. A life that belongs to her.

By midday, they head outside. It’s early spring, still chilly, but the sun is trying—warming their hands, catching in the tips of their hair. Henley and Iris fuss over the fire pit, trying to light it so they can toast marshmallows later, the kind from the candy shop they could never afford before. Rosie skips through the grass with a dandelion crown, humming her own made-up tune, no words at all. Marigold brings out a deck of cards, and they sit on the porch, arguing, laughing, cheating, drinking juice.

For a moment, time feels suspended—as if they’re kids again and all the hard parts have been edited out.

“Okay,” says Marigold, laying out the cards with the face of a seasoned poker pro. “Reminder: no blackmail, bribery, or telepathic mind-reading.”

“Damn, I thought that was my secret weapon,” Henley sighs. “Guess I’ll have to play fair. First time in fifteen years.”

“Bribes are allowed if it’s candy,” Rosie chimes in, hopping past them. “Or pencils. Or if you promise I’ll win.”

“You can’t ask to win,” Marigold protests. “That breaks the basic principles of fair competition!”

“I’m just smart,” Rosie says solemnly, adjusting the flower crown on her head. “All good commanders do that.”

Iris snorts quietly, and Sage laughs, pressing a cold glass of juice to her cheek.

“Alright, enough with the strategies,” Sage says. “Loser does the dishes.”

“No!” comes the chorus from all sides.

“There you go,” she grins. “Now we’re motivated. Deal the cards.”

The day melts into patches of sunlight. They eat dried apples with honey out in the open air. Iris wraps Rosie in a blanket. Marigold reads a passage from a speech with great seriousness, then flushes when everyone claps. Sage finds herself smiling more than she expected, and with each smile—carefully, like feeling her way through the dark—something inside her begins to loosen.

There’s still that knot in her chest—tight, watchful, always on edge—but today it seems to pause. It listens. It doesn’t disappear, no, but for the first time in a long while, it quiets down a little. As if even that knot is listening to Marigold’s voice, to Rosie’s laughter, to the crackle of the fire, and can’t quite believe it’s real either.

Only closer to evening does that familiar feeling begin to rise. Like a gray fog creeping in at the edge of her vision. The same one from her dreams.

She doesn’t even notice when she stops laughing. She just grows quieter. A little distant.

Somewhere inside her—barely noticeable—a countdown begins. Like in those days when she waited for the blow, feared the sound of the cannon, searched for a way out. Only now, it’s not fear, but a strange, collected tension. She suddenly remembers what’s still ahead of her.

“Ready?” Henley asks when Rosie’s already yawning and Iris is carrying the last of the pie into the kitchen.

He’s holding a bag stuffed with barely fitting boxes: a jar of jam at the bottom, some cheese, tea in gold-embossed wrapping. All of it far too expensive for most people in the district to afford. All of it bought with a kind of cautious generosity—like someone trying to give away a bit of their excess to someone who still remembers what it means to go without.

Sage nods. A bit stiffly. She smiles, but the corners of her mouth tremble. She feels it—that faint chill, like a draft running through her somewhere deep inside.

They walk. The edge of Victor’s Village isn’t far. Henley doesn’t rush. He knows her pace: a little slowed, as if she’s still expecting something to click behind her.

“You don’t have to,” he says after a few minutes of silence. “You can wait, or…”

“I know,” she cuts him off. “But I want to do this.”

And it’s true. It’s just that this want comes with something else. That tension under the skin, like her muscles still remember how to brace.

Sage walks beside Henley, but every corner they turn, she pays more attention than needed. Watches the shadows a little too closely. She even flinches once, startled by a door slamming somewhere nearby.

“It’s okay,” he says gently, stopping, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “It’s quiet here. No one’s going to…”

“I know,” she interrupts again. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head.

They pass rows of drab concrete buildings—each one identical, like stamped copies of the same mold. The windows reflect the sky dully; a few faded curtains hang in them. The smells change as they go: fabric dust, fried flour, freshly washed laundry.

On a landing above, someone’s arguing in a low voice. Through a half-open door, muffled thuds can be heard—maybe someone beating a rug. Henley walks just ahead, but turns back every time Sage slows down.

The Aldens’ apartment is on the third floor. The railing is chipped, and some of the steps creak underfoot. When they reach the door, Henley knocks with his free hand.

A woman opens it—a knitted vest over a worn house dress. Riven’s mother. Her cheeks are hollow, shadows beneath her eyes, hair pulled into a tight bun. The moment she sees Sage, her gaze sharpens just slightly—not hostile, but cautious, like someone who doesn’t yet understand everything and has learned to be polite anyway.

“Hello,” Sage says. “I’m sorry for… coming by. I’ve wanted to meet you for a while.”

“Hello, dear. Come in,” the woman replies, stepping back to let them in.

Henley squeezes down the narrow hallway first, setting the bag down by the wall. The air smells of soap, dried herbs, and something frying—flatbread, maybe. From deep in the kitchen, something sizzles.

The room is dim; the curtains are mostly drawn. A small couch, a table with a faded cloth, shelves cluttered with jars and boxes of buttons. An old armchair sits nearby, one leg a little crooked but clearly still loved.

A boy darts out of the kitchen—blond, with flour smudged on one cheek and a thread stuck to his elbow. Glenn. Eight years old, all skinny limbs like a seedling just pulled from the ground. He stops when he sees Sage—not afraid, but curious.

“Is it really you?” he asks. “The one who—”

“Glenn,” his mother calls sharply.

He bites his lip but doesn’t run.

“It’s okay,” Sage says softly. “Yes, it’s me.”

She sits down on the edge of the couch, feeling something stiff beneath the upholstery—maybe a mended spring. The woman is already unpacking the bag, shaking her head slightly, as if in surprise or discomfort.

“All this… you bought it yourselves?” she asks.

“I didn’t earn that money,” Sage shrugs. “It’s fromtheh Capitol.”

“We thought you might need it,” Henley adds.

The woman looks at the tea, at the jar of jam, like they’re foreign objects. There’s gratitude in her face, but wary, restrained. She doesn’t like feeling indebted. Sage understands that all too well.

“Thank you. Of course, we’ll use it,” the woman says. “Glenn, go wash your hands. Then we’ll eat. There’s pie today.”

The boy nods and slips away, walking on his toes. In the hallway, water begins to run.

Sage stays quiet. Her throat feels tight, like with cold. She watches it all from a strange distance—as if through fogged glass.

It helps her hold it together. A little.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” Sage finally manages. “If it weren’t for Riven, I probably wouldn’t be here now.”

The words sound foreign, like they weren’t spoken by her. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands. The air in the room feels dense—too real. Henley sits beside her. He doesn’t touch her, but the nearness of his shoulder is an anchor. Something steady in this fragile, barely held-together reality.

Mrs. Alden nods. She doesn’t cry—just stares at one spot, as if afraid everything might fall apart if she moves.

“I know.”

“I...” Sage swallows. “I couldn’t protect him. I’m sorry. But I did everything I could to make sure no one else would be hurt by the one who did it.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Alden says. Softly. Without strain, without anger. “That… matters.”

She inhales, straightens her back, as if trying to collect herself again.

“Glenn misses him. He doesn’t always understand what happened, but he feels that someone’s missing.”

Sage only nods.

“If there’s anything I can do… anything at all… just say the word,” she says. “I have more privileges now than most.”

“We don’t know how to live anymore,” the woman continues. “Everything seems to move on… but he doesn’t.”

A pause. Mrs. Alden looks at her—really looks—for the first time since the conversation began.

“Just… live,” she says. “For him too.”

Outside, someone shouts at the children not to play near the road. A door slams somewhere in the building.

Sage presses her hands into her knees and exhales.

Mrs. Alden doesn’t reply. But a moment later, she steps closer and rests a dry hand on Sage’s shoulder. Only for a second. Silently. Then returns to the stove.

Henley picks up the now-empty bag.

“Ready?”

Sage nods again. In the hallway, she hears Glenn humming to himself—something silly and sad at once. They step out into the gray evening. The air is cooler than it was that morning, and the street already feels a little quieter.

They walk back to the village slowly. Neither of them says much — just a few scattered phrases, as if any word might shatter the fragile balance this visit has become.

The sun is nearly touching the horizon. The streets have quieted: work shifts are over, windows glow with warm yellow light, someone bangs a spoon against a pot, someone else is yelling at kids to get off the porch.

Sage stays close to Henley, though still a step behind — as if she needs a little more time to return from wherever she’s been inside herself.

He senses it. Doesn’t rush her.

When they reach the house, the door swings open abruptly — like someone had been watching and waiting.

Iris stands in the doorway. She’s wearing a homey sweater, her hair is tousled, and her eyes are narrowed with worry.

“Where were you?” she asks. Not shouting, but her voice is sharp, like the edge of a knife. “Sage, you disappeared. We were worried.”

Sage exhales.

“It’s okay. We… went to see his family. I just… needed to talk to them.”

Iris crosses her arms. Henley steps forward half a pace.

“It was quick. I stayed with her.”

Iris looks at him, then back to Sage. Her expression softens — just slightly.

“Next time, let someone know. Please. You’re not alone.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

Iris stares at Sage for another second — then exhales, gives a small nod, and suddenly grabs Sage by the hand.

“Come on. We’ve got something to finish.”

She pulls her through the hallway, into the living room, where the others are already gathered. On the table — a bit lopsided — sits a pie. Not a cake, tall and frosted, but a proper pie: golden-crusted, dusted with sugar, the kind you make with whatever’s on hand. But in it, there’s warmth. Care.

And candles.

Seven small ones and one taller, thinner, with a blue wick.

Rosie bounces in place, clapping her hands.

“We waited for you! I thought the pie would get cold and the candles would melt!”

Marigold holds the match with solemn care, like she’s about to perform a sacred rite.

“Well then, birthday girl. Ready?”

Sage suddenly realizes her fingers are trembling. Just a little. From exhaustion, from tension, from the way the day still hums inside her like a pulled wire.

But she nods.

Marigold lights the candles one by one. The glow touches their faces — soft and golden. The room falls completely silent.

“Make a wish,” Henley whispers beside her. Quietly, almost into her ear.

Sage closes her eyes. She doesn’t think about the Capitol, or the arena, or the shadows gathering on the edge of the world. Only about those who are still here. The children who can still laugh. Pajamas, toast, imperfect pancakes.

And that maybe — just maybe — the peace might last a little longer.

She opens her eyes — and blows out the candles.

Applause, laughter, clapping hands.

Rosie throws her arms around Sage’s neck, shouting:

“You’re not getting older, you’re growing up! That’s better!”

Sage smiles — truly smiles. And this time, the corners of her mouth don’t tremble.

The evening stretches out — slow and warm, like no one really wants the day to end.

They finish the pie straight from the dish with spoons, argue over who’s the best at slicing it, and laugh when Iris swears she’ll never bake again.

Rosie curls up on the couch, wrapped in the same blanket where it all began, slowly falling asleep in the middle of telling herself a story she’s making up as she goes.

Marigold leans back against the armchair, dozing off quietly with a book on her lap.

Iris yawns and whispers to Sage:

“You’re still my little sister. Even if you’re grown up now. Go rest. Tomorrow will be... just a regular day.”

Sage nods. She follows Henley down the hallway, gently closing the bedroom door behind her.

The room settles into soft twilight, smelling faintly of wax and slightly burnt crust. The windows are cracked open, the breeze stirs the thin curtain, bringing a breath of cool air.

Henley sets the tea mugs on the bedside table, and when he turns around, Sage is already sitting at the edge of the bed, barefoot, unbuttoning the cuffs of her shirt.

He watches her for a long moment — like he did the first day she came back from the Capitol. Not hungrily, not in haste, but with quiet, steady presence.

“Tired?” he asks.

She shakes her head.

“Not in my body, at least.”

He comes closer, sits beside her, his hand brushing her shoulder. Her skin is a little cool, and he warms it with his palm.

Sage turns to him and gives a small, sad smile — but it’s peaceful, too.

“The Victory Tour starts in a week,” she says softly, almost a whisper. “It feels strange... to be part of it all again.”

Henley nods.

“But this time it’s finally ending,” he says, not just believing it — knowing it. “I can wait a little longer.”

Sage leans her forehead against his. His breath is warm. His arms wrap around her — careful, but firm.

She leans in and kisses him — tentative at first, testing. Then deeper. As if trying to say, in that kiss, everything she won’t say in front of the cameras. He kisses her back with the same gentleness — not rushing, as if he knows this moment is given to them, and it matters more than any tomorrow.

Clothes shift slowly, carelessly — like something that doesn't really matter. Their movements aren't rushed, not burning with passion — but hungry in another way. Like people learning to believe it’s possible to touch without flinching. To be close without pain. To breathe without bracing.

Henley strokes her back gently, as if afraid to wake something fragile. Sage memorizes the warmth of his hands, the taste of his skin at the base of his neck, the sound of his breath in the dark. Every time he says her name — softly, like a prayer — something inside her begins to thaw.

Afterward, lying close beneath the blanket, Sage turns toward him, nestling her forehead into the hollow between his collarbone and neck.

“Promise me you’ll water my plants,” she whispers. “Iris will forget again, and I’ll be left with just the cactus.”

Henley snorts and kisses her temple.

“Even the cactus would miss you.”

“You see?” Sage sighs. “So I’ll have to come back. For the plants. For justice.”

He laughs but doesn’t answer.

Just holds her a little tighter, covers her fingers with his — and doesn’t let go until sleep takes them.

Notes:

sage is safe for like... five minutes??? 😭💖
no one’s crying, everyone’s breathing, there’s actual joy in this house tonight!!!!!

also: HENLEY. my soft sunshine boy. writing him is like giving my brain a warm cookie.

shameless spoilers but he’s not gonna die. that’s right. we finally got one. a sweet boy who gets to keep the pulse 🙌💖 let’s cherish this rare and beautiful event together

…possibly something worse might happen to him. kidding.

(or am I) 😇🕯️💔

enjoy the peace while it lasts, besties. we earned this. they earned this. LET THEM NAP.

Chapter 23

The house is quiet. Unusually quiet—like before a storm, or in those early morning hours when you wake before everyone else and for a few moments forget who you are and what’s coming.

Sage sits on the floor of her room, legs drawn up, back resting against the wall. The blanket has slipped off her shoulders, but she isn’t cold—the room is warm, almost stuffy. The air feels thick, scented with wax, dust, and something sweet—maybe a leftover trace of last night, when she and Rosie stuffed themselves with jam sandwiches until they couldn’t laugh anymore. Through the slightly open window she hears someone open the gate below. A clack—a creak—and then silence again.

Henley is half-reclining on the bed, rumpled, a book resting on his stomach and the look of someone who just lost an argument but is still smug about it.

“They’re going to recolor you,” he says, without looking up.

Sage blinks.

“What?”

“Your hair. I’m just preparing myself emotionally so I won’t react like an idiot when it happens.”

He finally lifts his eyes from the ceiling and nods toward her. She instinctively touches the top of her head—her hair has grown out. Her natural color is showing at the roots, a dull, mousy brown. Just like Iris’s. Just like their mother’s used to be.

“They won’t like it,” Sage says. “Too… district-looking.”

“Well yeah, you’re a brand now,” Henley mutters. “The official face of victory and color-safe conditioner.”

Sage snorts. Then falls quiet. She looks down at her hands, laced together on her knees. They’re trembling slightly, as if her body already knows it’ll have to move soon—and is trying to vanish in advance.

“I don’t want it,” she says suddenly. “The touching. Again. Painted nails, plucked brows. It’s gross.”

“I know,” Henley says.

He says it simply. No pity. Just a fact. That’s how he talks when he wants her to know he’s here—and nothing needs to change.

They exchange brief, tired, but warm smiles. And one more look — teetering on the edge of a kiss, on the edge of something vast, something that maybe isn't quite time for yet. But soon. Very soon.

“Think they’re already on their way?” Sage asks.

“I think the stylists are hiding in the bushes with binoculars, waiting for you to walk out in your pajamas,” Henley says. “And the cameras are already set up in the kitchen. Gotta get the emotional coffee moment.”

She smiles without looking at him.

“Very realistic. Especially since I burned the coffee pot two days ago.”

“Even better. Adds to the narrative. ‘Victor overcomes loss of kitchen equipment.’ I’d watch that.”

She chuckles, then stands, rolls her shoulders back. Walks over to the mirror. Looks at herself—not for long, but long enough to see that the new face has nearly become familiar. It’s tired now, slightly older, with shadows under the eyes. A bit more steel in the jaw. A little less softness in the gaze. It already knows how to hold a camera smile. How to speak so the words sound like gratitude and courage and “thank you for your support”—without a hint of truth behind them. But at least, for now, it feels like hers.

The Tour begins today.

Sage knows it not just because Iris spent all of last evening scrubbing the house or because the floor downstairs is already creaking under familiar footsteps, though morning has barely started. She feels it in her body—like the first day of spring, when the air suddenly changes. Becomes sharper, more transparent. Only instead of spring, it’s an endless winter. Instead of anticipation, there’s a weight pressing against her chest, like when she was a child, standing in line for rations and terrified the sack would run out just before her turn. Only a thousand times worse.

Soon, the house will be full—voices, footsteps, flashes, strangers' hands. But for now—just for now—there’s still this. The room. The silence. And a few spare minutes to just be alive.

“There’s still time,” Henley says. “We could stage a protest. Build barricades. Go on strike for fifteen more minutes under the covers.”

Sage turns away from the mirror, crossing her arms.

“Too late. Iris is in military mode. If anything goes wrong, she’ll serve us for dinner.”

“In that case,” he says solemnly, “I leave behind my will. My entire estate—one and a half socks and a pebble shaped like a dog—goes to you. Remember me.”

Sage snorts, walks over, and sits down next to him on the bed. From outside comes the sound of approaching transport—heavy, even wheels crunching on gravel. Then someone clinks dishes in the kitchen. Someone coughs. The house is waking up, but here, in Sage’s room, a fragile peace still lingers.

“It’s stupid, but I really don’t want them to dye my hair again,” she says quietly. “I don’t care what it looks like. I just… I’m tired of feeling like a mannequin.”

“Then tell them,” he replies. “Or tell Iris. She’ll hit them with a broom.”

Sage lets out a laugh.

“Oh, she would. Especially before coffee.”

“And you can too,” he adds, more gently now, no longer joking. “Set boundaries. You know how—even if it doesn’t always feel like it.”

She looks at him. There’s still sleep and anxiety clouding her eyes, but at the corners—gratitude.

“When you’re here, yeah, I can. Without you… I don’t know.”

“I’m here,” he says. Simply. Calmly. As always. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Sage closes her eyes. Inhales slowly—until her shoulders tremble. And exhales just as slowly, as if she’s afraid a sudden movement might break something.

This is all that’s left. Touring the country. Smiling. Shaking hands. Answering questions that were written in advance. Looking into faces—living, envious, grateful, frightened—and remembering that she’s still part of the show. Still a trophy. Still a living advertisement for the meat grinder she somehow came out of whole.

And then—silence.

After the Tour, they’ll leave her alone. Stop tugging at her, stop smearing someone else’s gloss on her face, stop telling her where to stand and where to look. Maybe she’ll have to be a mentor, but that’s only a few weeks a year. The rest of the time, she’ll be able to pretend the Capitol doesn’t exist. At least, that’s what they say. That’s how it’s supposed to be.

Funny, how little she wants—not happiness, not peace, not even freedom. Just to be left alone. Just to lie in bed without thinking about how she’ll look on camera the next day. Just the kind of silence where she can remember what it’s like to be a person again, not a function.

Just this one last journey. That’s all. And then she can go home for good.

Henley lays his hand over hers—simple, wordless. Her fingers are trembling, but she doesn’t pull away. She just squeezes back.

“Hey,” he says after a pause, “you’re doing that face again.”

Sage cracks one eye open, glancing at him.

“What face?”

“You know. That one. Same as when we first met. With the serious chin and all. Very intimidating for this early in the morning.”

She snorts.

“That’s the face of a tired woman who has to pretend to love the Capitol Mascara No. 82 again.”

He smiles, tilts his head slightly, studying her.

“You’re still beautiful,” he says, more softly now.

Sage rolls her eyes.

“Okay, that’s it. I’m calling Iris to throw you out.”

“You’ll miss me first,” he replies, and leans in to kiss her temple.

Sage tilts her head back slightly, looks at Henley—and there's that look she only gets in rare, unguarded moments: tired, warm, calm.

"You know," she says, "you’re unbearably sweet. It’s annoying."

He leans in closer, and she starts to meet him halfway—almost kissing him, but—

knock-knock-knock.

Sage flinches. Henley mutters a quiet curse. Outside, Iris’s voice:

“Sage? Are you up?”

She straightens a little, sighs.

“Yeah, Iris. I… I’m almost ready.”

“Okay. Just… just wanted to remind you the stylists will be here soon. And also… please hurry. Someone wants to see you. Right now. Look presentable.”

Henley shakes his head, doing his best not to roll his eyes. Sage frowns. Who could possibly want to see her this early? The camera crew isn’t due until closer to noon. Alcyon’s supposed to show up with them—and he’s never one for unannounced morning visits; he prefers dramatic entrances. Flora’s probably still half-asleep in her champagne bathtub somewhere. And the official part of the Tour doesn’t start until later today.

So it must be someone else.

Something cold and tight clenches inside her like a fist, but she forces herself to take a deep breath. She hates how suspicious she’s become.

“All right,” Sage replies. “Thanks.”

Iris seems to hesitate. Then she adds:

“If you need… anything. Just say the word, okay?”

“I’m fine. Really.”

The answer sounds calm, but both Sage and Henley know: Iris isn’t telling them everything. Her voice is just a bit too fast. There’s too much worry beneath the surface, hidden behind casual words. She lingers at the door a moment longer, as if she’s on the verge of saying something else—but then walks away.

“Well then,” Sage says, turning to Henley. “Time to find out who decided to ruin my morning. See you before I leave?”

He glances toward the closed door, then back at her, exhaling quietly.

“Nope. I’d rather jump off the balcony than see my face plastered under a headline like ‘Who Is the Mysterious Man in the Victor’s Home?’”

He’s already on his feet, moving to the window, carefully pulling back the curtain. Outside, it’s still gray and quiet, that early morning stillness when even the birds aren’t quite sure whether it’s time to wake up.

“And what exactly are you planning to do?” Sage asks, arms crossed. “Jump into the thorn bush?”

“There’s a drainpipe outside your window,” he says, already unlatching the frame. “I checked.”

“You checked?”

“Why do you think I always disappear right after breakfast?”

He pulls himself up, swings one leg over the windowsill with practiced ease. For a second he hangs there, one hand gripping the frame, the other holding the edge of the roof. His shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of skin at his waist. Sage glances away instinctively—but a faint smile lingers on her lips.

“If you fall and break your neck, I’ll have to admit we slept together,” she says.

“Well, now I have a reason to survive,” he whispers back, grinning. “Just remember—I’m the hero.”

“Heroes don’t sneak through bushes to protect their reputations.”

“Heroes absolutely sneak through bushes when their asses are on the line.”

He plants his foot on the ledge, shifts his weight carefully, then slides down the pipe with the kind of grace that says either training—or a lot of practice. At one point he jumps, landing softly, almost silently, like a cat. He looks up at Sage from below. From a distance, he’s just some guy walking through the Victor’s Village. No one would guess he just climbed out of her bedroom window.

He nods at her, then makes a little gesture as if tipping an imaginary hat, and disappears around the corner. Sage stays by the window for a few more seconds. Her face shows nothing in particular—just a trace of sharp-edged warmth. In another minute, it will be neutral again—camera-ready, as they say in the Capitol. But for now, in this brief pause between footsteps on the stairs and words that will need to be spoken, she simply stands and breathes.

Sage steps back from the window and exhales through her nose, as if shedding something extra, and heads to the mirror. Her movements are quick and precise—not because she’s in a rush, but because her body has long since learned that these morning rituals matter. She brushes her hair and ties it into a simple braid—stylists will redo it anyway, but she doesn’t want anyone to see her disheveled. She pulls on a dark sweater, tugs on a pair of pants. Her fingers tremble slightly—not from fear, but from a sense of anticipation. Something about this morning feels off.

Then Sage opens the door and steps into the hallway. Iris is already waiting, standing pressed against the wall as if trying to take up as little space as possible. She looks… strange. Too still, too composed. Pale. Her hands are clenched into fists, but she quickly hides them behind her back as soon as she catches Sage’s gaze.

“You okay?” Sage asks, trying to keep her voice light.

“Of course,” Iris replies too quickly. “It’s just… everything’s starting. You know. The usual chaos.”

She turns away, takes a step to the side, but Sage doesn’t move.

“Did something happen?”

“No, no. It’s just going to be a busy day. We’re all a little… tense. It’s normal.”

She still won’t meet her eyes. Her voice too flat, too composed. Sage recognizes this state. Iris spoke the same way when she was checking the lists of the missing after the fire that killed their father. Looked away the same way when she couldn’t get the medicine their mother needed.

Sage wants to ask another question—but then hears footsteps. Two men walk past them in the hallway—dressed in bright, expensive coats, clean-shaven, holding identical tablets. One throws her a quick, polite but chilly glance; the other doesn’t look at her at all. They don’t smile. They don’t greet her. Something tightens in Sage’s chest. These aren’t just visitors. They're obviously from the Capitol.

“Who are they?” she asks, quietly.

“They… they're checking if everything’s ready,” Iris says. But the words come half a second too late, too carefully. As if rehearsed. “Listen, someone wants to speak with you. It’s urgent.”

“What is going on?”

Iris raises her eyebrows silently, implying she can’t answer out loud. Together, they walk down the hallway. The house no longer smells like breakfast. It smells like perfume, someone else’s hairspray, and metallic equipment. Somewhere deeper in the house, there’s a sharp sound — not a domestic one, more like something being moved. Or locked.

Sage spots another person — a woman with a frozen smile and a tablet, wearing a bright blazer. She’s speaking into an earpiece, nodding quickly, and doesn’t even register Sage’s presence, as if she’s part of the furniture. This doesn’t feel like prep for departure. It feels like an inspection. Or an arrest.

The unease in her chest grows. Over the past few weeks, she’s received dozens of letters — full of schedules, itineraries, lists of duties and rules. Every minute of the Victory Tour was accounted for. What to wear, what to say, whom to hug on camera. How long to spend in interviews, how long in reverent silence by the memorials.

And yet, never — not once — did the morning feel this staged, this unnatural.

The Tour was supposed to begin with a speech. With cameras. With Alcyon draped in some ridiculous emerald cloak, delivering something theatrical. Not with strangers walking around the house like it already doesn’t belong to her.

Sage stops at the top of the stairs, unsure whether to go down. Her back feels tight — painfully so. As if taking a step will place her inside something she won’t be able to walk back out of. But she steps forward anyway, because there is no other choice.

Iris says nothing more. Just nods — quickly, as if she doesn’t trust her voice to carry the right tone — and gestures which way to go. They pass the sitting room, then another hallway — one that’s usually unused. It leads to the study Iris converted into a sewing room. The door is open. There’s light inside.

Sage walks in — and stops cold.

In the middle of the room, seated in a tall-backed chair, is President Snow.

He’s wearing a dark blue suit, perfectly pressed. A snow-white pocket square. A flower on his lapel — sickly pale, as if it had been grown in a sterile greenhouse instead of soil. His hands rest on the armrests, long fingers interlaced like someone used to being brought things, not fetching them.

He doesn’t stand when she enters. He just looks at her. Like he’s assessing a purchase.

“Miss Bradbury,” he says at last.

His voice is smooth — the kind that strokes the surface of water just enough not to cause a ripple.

“Congratulations on the beginning of your Tour.”

He inclines his head slightly, a gesture that passes for respect. Polite, in theory. But there’s something in it that sends a chill down her spine.

Sage straightens instinctively, like it’s been drilled into her.

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

She hears her own voice — calm, just like the stylists taught her. Not too warm, not too cold. Submissive, but never pitiful. The kind of voice no one can criticize.

“The Victory Tour,” Snow continues, “is a remarkable opportunity. A chance to inspire the nation. To reinforce faith in peace. To show that a Victor doesn’t just gain privilege — they become a symbol.”

He pauses.

“A symbol that the Capitol never forgets its heroes.”

Sage nods. She knows she’s supposed to nod.

“I chose to greet you personally because… you’re a special case.”

He says it with a faint smile, as if it’s a compliment.

“Not every Tour begins with this level of public engagement. You’ve captured hearts. There are quite a few influential people in Panem who’ve been moved by your story. Your sincerity. And, to be frank, your face. It deserves recognition.”

Sage says nothing. Her heart is pounding somewhere in her throat. He’s smiling — but not the kind of smile meant for cameras. This one is thin. Almost imperceptible. Like a crack in the wall someone might watch you through.

“I hope you’ll make the most of this opportunity,” Snow adds.

His voice is still gentle. But it’s not a suggestion. And it’s not a request.

“Of course,” Sage replies.

She doesn’t know where this voice inside her comes from. It’s as if that other girl — the one who knew how to survive — is waking up again.

Snow watches her for a few more seconds. Then, slowly, he rises. He steps closer, just enough for Sage to catch the scent of his breath — sharp, sweet. Floral, but with a note of something rotting underneath. He moves through the room unhurriedly, as if surveying his property. Hands behind his back. Footsteps almost silent.

“After the Tour is complete,” he says, “there will be a... special event in the Capitol. Private. No cameras. Many would be delighted if you honored us with your presence.”

Sage doesn’t answer right away. The words hang in the air like a thin spiderweb — nearly weightless, which only makes them more suffocating. She stays still, trying to grasp the meaning behind them, but it keeps slipping away. The language is too vague, too smooth. There’s nothing to push against — no way to protest, or decline, or even ask a question.

Something shifts inside her. Not a thought — an instinct. Cold, dense. Like water suddenly seeping under the door. First up to her ankles. Then higher.

Something’s wrong. He came in person. The President. Just for an invitation? Why?

A strange feeling wells up in her chest — not quite fear, not yet — but something close to it. A sticky kind of revulsion, like someone asking her to wear a dress sewn from someone else’s skin, and smile in it at a party.

“Of course,” Sage repeats after a pause, her voice too even to be natural.

Snow nods, as if satisfied. He doesn’t smile, but his expression softens — or pretends to. He walks to a side table, picks up a glass pitcher, pours himself some water, and takes a sip. Then he sets it back down. Slowly. Carefully.

“It’s an informal gathering,” he goes on. “We won’t burden you with protocol. Just company. Light conversation. Wine. People who care about you.”

He looks at her as he says care about you, and despite his pleasant tone, his eyes are cold. Like ice in a glass. Sage wants to ask: what people? Who exactly cares? — but her mouth doesn’t open. Every question here feels like a step across a minefield. No — worse. As if she’s already standing on the mine, and just hasn’t moved yet.

Snow steps closer. He doesn’t touch her — doesn’t even look directly — but the pressure of his presence is almost physical. And again, that scent — cloying sweetness with something bitter hidden inside.

“The Capitol knows how to appreciate. Truly appreciate,” he says, voice lowering. The tone adults use when they want children to believe they've figured something out on their own. “Especially those who give themselves not only in the arena, but beyond it.”

Sage bites the inside of her cheek. She can’t let herself look afraid. Not now. She nods again, slowly. Her face is calm, nearly blank.

“I understand,” she says.

She suddenly remembers how it all began: sitting across from Riven on the train, with the taste of metal on her lips and the sense that none of this was real. The Games are over — but that feeling isn’t. The arena is still here. Still watching. Walking through the room, examining furniture, ceiling, books on the shelf — like it’s not just a stranger’s house, but a domain it has returned to, after being gone too long.

Sage lowers her gaze to hide how tightly everything inside her is wound. She can hear her heartbeat, loud and heavy. A ringing in her ears. Like just before a blow. Her neck feels wooden, stiff.

Snow turns toward her, wearing polite, polished smile.

“This is tradition,” he says. “Outstanding victors who spark a certain interest are occasionally invited to private gatherings. To maintain connections. Strengthen affections.”

He steps closer. His tone is casual, as if discussing dinner schedules. Sage feels dizzy. From the heat. From the cloying sweetness of his breath — like syrup left on fingers too long. She says nothing. She’s afraid that if she opens her mouth, it won’t be words that come out — but vomit.

“Certainly, there’s no pressure,” Snow says. His voice is almost gentle. “But you understand how these things work. A bit of goodwill can shift destinies. Yours. Your family’s. That young man’s.”

Sage feels herself tighten inside. Henley. Snow hasn’t said his name — and still, the blow lands clean. He’s been watching. Of course he has. She should’ve seen it sooner. There are cameras everywhere. She’s a brand. And he — he owns the brand.

“You have nothing to worry about,” Snow adds softly, as if reading her thoughts. “It’ll be entirely voluntary. We value sincerity, above all.”

There’s a smile on his face, but it feels more like a mousetrap. A clasp clicking shut midair. He’s just a man, speaking gently. He hasn’t threatened her. He’s even smiling. There’s nothing in his words you could point to, if you tried to complain.

Sage lifts her head. And in that moment, there’s no fear in her face. No submission. Only a cold, level blankness — the same one that helped her survive the arena.

“I’ll do whatever is required of me,” she says. Her voice is steady. Clear. “I... appreciate the opportunity.”

Snow says nothing. He watches her — not like one person watches another, but like a scientist watches a subject. Like a gardener studies a fragile stem, wondering how best to bend it so it grows the right way. Something close to satisfaction flickers in his eyes. Like someone who’s caught a wild animal and now sees it learning to sit quietly on a leash.

“Excellent,” he says. “You’ll be informed as the date approaches. The organizers are already making arrangements. It will be... refined.”

He leans in a little.

“I’m sure you’ll manage. You always do, Miss Bradbury.”

Then he walks out, as if nothing happened.

Sage is alone. Or rather, the room is empty — but she knows now: he’ll always be with her.

Something inside her sinks. Slowly. Thickly. No matter how deep she tries to bury it — it will stay.

She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t shake. Just stands and stares at a spot on the wall, as if there’s a way out hidden there. There isn’t.

But she nods. Once. Quietly. For herself.

She understands everything now.

***

By the time the production crew arrives, Snow and his entourage are already gone. No goodbyes. Not even footprints on the carpet. As if they were never there. Only the faint scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air, and the office door gently closed — as if it had never even been opened.

Iris appears beside Sage almost immediately, as if she’d been hiding just around the corner the whole time. Her hands are trembling — she clenches them in the folds of her skirt to hide it. She steps close, like she’s afraid someone might be listening.

“What did he want?” she whispers. “Sage… why was he here?”

Sage looks her in the eyes — calm, steady. Then lifts the corners of her lips just slightly, like she’s tired, but not too much.

“He just came to... congratulate me. On the start of the Tour,” she says quietly. “That’s all.”

Iris blinks, nods uncertainly, like she wants to believe it. She doesn’t. But she doesn’t argue either. That, somehow, is almost a relief, even though inside, everything’s still trembling. Like Sage isn’t a body anymore, but a house with cracks in the walls.

From the outside, it’s still standing — but inside, the plaster is already crumbling, and cold drafts blow through stairwells no one’s walked in years. That’s what Sage feels like now: standing straight, breathing steady, saying the right words — and beneath it all, something sickening stirs.

Snow hadn’t threatened her. Not once. No sharp words, no direct orders. Just smiles. Just congratulations. But in his voice, in the pauses between his phrases, in the way his thin fingers were folded across his chest — everything screamed one thing: you no longer belong to yourself.

And Sage knew — too well — what that meant. If he came here in person, if he sat in a chair in their house, it was already done. The Tour, the speeches, the scripted charm — all of it was window dressing. The real story was behind the curtain. And it didn’t smell like flowers on a lapel. It smelled like control.

What comes next? Sage doesn’t know — and isn’t sure she wants to.

She suddenly thinks how little it takes to lose yourself again. A glance. A flower. A visit no one’s supposed to know about. And just like that — it’s the Games again. Only this time, the arena stretches across the entire country. And it’s even harder to escape.

Sage inhales deeply, as if trying to take back control. But the air feels too thick, like someone else has already breathed it in before her. She’s about to lie to Iris — something gentle, comforting — when the doors swing open and Alcyon sweeps into the house like a storm wrapped in expensive fabric. Velvet trailing behind him, catching the light. A cape lined with gold. His face lit up with the kind of excitement people rehearse in the mirror.

“There she is!” he exclaims, arms thrown wide like he’s about to hug Sage — but thankfully remembers just in time that her makeup isn’t done yet. “Our star! Our everything! I’ve missed you terribly. How are you? Ready to shine?”

Sage smiles slightly — not warmly, but with just the right dose of charm expected of her.

“Of course. I’m thrilled.”

Alcyon turns to Iris and snaps his fingers.

“We have exactly twenty minutes before the cameras roll. Where’s my team? Where’s her glam? Where’s lighting, where’s camera, where’s my almond milk latte?”

Iris hurries off, nearly at a run, leaving Sage alone with her reflection in the nearest mirror. As always, it distorts her just slightly. Or maybe — it doesn’t distort her at all. Maybe it shows her too clearly. The girl standing in the spotlight. The one they’re about to repaint, restyle, teach to smile again.

She hears the crew moving into the living room, lights being set up deeper in the house, Alcyon barking instructions with mock ease, Iris snapping responses through clenched teeth. And Sage just stands there thinking: if all of this is a show, then who am I in it? The leading role… or the puppet?

She doesn’t know yet. But one thing is clear.

There’s no more exit from this stage.

Chapter 24

The Victory Tour begins with District Twelve.

Ironic, if you think about it — starting from the bottom, the end, the coal dust and gray faces, only to rise step by step toward the polished façade of District One. As if the route itself is designed to emphasize the gap between them — between the ground and those who think themselves gods.

Sage struggles to fall asleep her first night on the train. She dreams of staircases that spiral underground and corridors with no doors. She wakes with numb fingers and a mouth full of ash. Her whole body aches from the mask of calm she’s been wearing for days. The Tour has only just begun, and she already feels exhausted.

In District Twelve, they are greeted by the scent of coal and damp — not even Alcyon’s cologne can mask it. He walks onto the platform with a spring in his step, like they’ve arrived at a photo shoot, not a place where every third face watches Sage with either suspicion or quiet hatred.

The ceremony starts on time. Cameras. Flowers. Prewritten words.

Sage reads the speech: about the Capitol’s generosity, the unity of Panem, how the Games make them all stronger. Her voice doesn’t shake. Her smile is soft, even. Everything is perfect.

Except for Haymitch Abernathy.

After her speech, protocol demands a tour of local landmarks and a shared dinner with the other Victors from the district. Haymitch shows up late — very late — and already dead drunk. His shirt’s wrinkled, his eyes beyond tired. He mumbles something at Alcyon, laughs at all the wrong moments, and then, just as Flora rises to deliver her toast — vomits on her skirt.

Sage sits in perfect silence. A drop of water drips loudly from an old pipe somewhere overhead, and only Alcyon tries to salvage the scene, clapping his hands and summoning waitstaff with forced enthusiasm. Flora leaves the room in tears. Haymitch is escorted out. Filming is halted.

“Well,” Alcyon says once the doors close behind him, “the first stop is always the hardest.”

Sage stares at her wine. It barely ripples. And still, she feels like it’s about to spill — because everything inside her is already shaking.

Later, back in her cabin, she turns on the water in the shower but doesn’t go in. She just stands nearby, listening to the steady patter of droplets on tile. Thinking how nice it would be if she could wash off the feeling of a stranger’s hand on her shoulder. A stranger’s gaze on the back of her neck. A stranger’s control. Like dust. Like blood.

She tries not to think about the conversation with Snow. Not to remember his tone, his pauses, the smile that was really a mouth full of teeth. She pushes it away — like a dream that leaves your stomach in knots when you wake. As if, by not touching the memory, she can make it less real. Something she can forget. Or at least postpone. Until the Tour is over. Until… something.

Of course, it doesn’t work.

The other districts blur into a cycle of faces, speeches, and identical, copy-paste banquets. In some places, the smiles are genuine. In others — there only because they’re required.

Cameras everywhere.

Flowers everywhere.

Speeches — the same, word for word.

Sage repeats them like an incantation, and each time it gets easier not to think about what they mean.

In District Ten — in a field near a memorial statue — the wind snatches her hat, and for the first time, she laughs. Quietly, into her hand, when no one’s looking.

In Nine, they’re caught in a downpour so heavy it nearly drowns out her voice. But she keeps speaking — stubbornly, through wet strands of hair — and the cameras love it.

"Great shot. She looks strong, determined,” the director whispers.

Sage is pretty sure she looks more like a soaked chicken.

In District Five, she stumbles over the word “hope”, but luckily, Alcyon pretends not to notice and doesn’t make her start over. It all feels like a dream on fast-forward. Faces, stages, words. She smiles, waves, listens to speeches that aren’t hers, gives her own — all of it correct. All of it as it should be. As if she’s been programmed.

And yet, when the train begins to slow at the platform of District Four, something stirs inside her. As if this is the turning point — the moment where things might get even worse. Or where they might truly begin.

Here, the square isn’t cracked or dusty — it’s paved with smooth stone, like a ship’s deck. The air smells of salt, damp wood, and something sharp and unfamiliar — seaweed, maybe. Or iodine.

The people watch differently. They aren’t angry, but they aren’t smiling either. Their gazes are like harbor water — calm on the surface, but dark, with a depth you can’t see right away.

Sage gives her speech with the ocean behind her. Not as a backdrop, but as a reality — as something that doesn’t belong to the Capitol. The wind tugs at the edges of her cape. The microphones pick up every breath, every word — “honor,” “unity,” “remembrance.”

Seats have been reserved at the front of the stage for the families of the fallen tributes — draped in mourning cloth, each one marked with a white flower. Sage knows exactly where Marina’s family is sitting. And she forces herself not to look. Not once. Not to meet their eyes. Not to think.

She speaks again, as expected. No mistakes. And still, something inside her trembles — something foreign, elusive. Not fear. Not anger. Something else.

After the speech come the “sites of memory”: the harbor, a monument to the fallen, a museum where old crossbows sit behind glass beside fragments of naval tags. Sage nods, listens, pretends to care. Alcyon, ever the host, narrates with the tone of a talk show presenter.

Cecelia lingers just behind, checking the schedule. Paisley walks on the left, closer to the Peacekeepers. She says little but notices everything. Sometimes, Sage catches her looking — and in those brief moments, there’s something more in her eyes. As if Paisley knows Sage is hiding something. Or suspects it.

When the official portion ends, the crew starts unloading gear onto a luggage cart, and Sage gets a rare pause — fifteen minutes at most, while they adjust the lighting.

She looks toward the shoreline. The sea is right there — so close it almost smells metallic. Steel-blue with white crests, foam rolling across the sand. Something in her reaches for it, almost against her will.

“Can I… just for a moment?” she asks Alcyon softly. “Just… there. To the water.”

He’s about to say no. But Paisley steps forward and nods, barely noticeably:

“We’ll make it. If it’s quick.”

They descend the sand. The camera stays on the hill — off, for now. And yet the Peacekeepers follow half a step behind. The sea crashes. Cold. Real. Sage has never seen it before — and for the first time on this tour, she feels something unscripted.

She slips off her shoes and carefully steps into the surf. The sand is gritty, flecked with tiny shells, the salt stings her heels. The water is freezing — but she doesn’t pull away. She just stands there, breathing in deeply, like it’s not just air but the only thing keeping her afloat.

The sun hides behind a cloud. Waves lap at the hem of her dress. Cecelia calls softly — it’s time. But Sage wants to stay. Just another minute. Just one more breath.

But the crew is already coming down the hill. The cameras are turning back on. Alcyon gently takes her arm, as if not to disturb the moment — and yet his fingers feel like an anchor.

“Stunning image,” he whispers, awestruck.

Paisley looks away. The Peacekeepers are already near. And Sage obediently heads back to the crew. Brushes sand off her feet, slips on her shoes. Smooths down her dress. Puts her smile back on.

Later — dinner. The decor is nautical: fish, coral, candles nestled in shells. Everything is too elaborate, too carefully themed. They’re seated under the cameras’ gaze. The victors are already at the table — more than a dozen, each one a legend in their own right.

Sage sits beside an elderly woman with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Frail, small, with a kind face and alert eyes. She barely eats — just nods when someone raises a toast and keeps resting her hand on the arm of the woman next to her: younger, with cropped hair and a scar across her throat. The younger woman nods back, curtly, gratefully.

On Sage’s other side sits Finnick. He leans back in his chair, holding his wine glass with casual ease, like he was born with it in his hand — looking somehow entirely relaxed and completely on guard.

“So,” he says, tilting toward Sage, “how’s the victor life treating you? Enjoying the luxury? Or already dreaming of running away to a cave and living off moss?”

She feels the eyes of the cameras, feels the way her back tightens under the fabric of her dress. Finnick is still watching her — not critically, not appraisingly, more with a sort of amused curiosity. Sage watches him back just as closely — and replies quietly, under the hum of conversation.

“Loving every minute,” she says, deadpan. “Every day now starts with champagne and ends in existential dread.”

“Ah, the classics,” Finnick smiles, leaning back again. “Your routine’s almost identical to mine.”

The first course arrives — something seafood-based, fragrant with pepper and lemon. Before anyone is allowed to touch the food, the camera crew films it from every angle. As always. Cameras. Speeches. Smiles. But under the table, Sage’s feet still remember the touch of the ocean.

Finnick twirls his fork in his fingers, like he’s bored. But his boredom, like everything else about him, feels too deliberate. Too perfectly composed to be accidental.

“So, Bradbury,” he says, looking down at his plate. “Ready to pretend you know the difference between shrimp and langoustine?”

Sage raises an eyebrow at the neatly arranged seafood, slowly spears a glossy pinkish morsel — probably shrimp, though she wouldn’t bet on it — and brings it carefully to her lips. The taste is buttery, sharp-salty, with a spiced undertone she can’t quite place. Too elaborate, like the food itself is also trying to impress her.

Finnick watches her eat with a faint smirk, as if it’s the most interesting thing happening all evening.

“Well?” he asks. “Did it exceed your culinary expectations, or are you still longing for jelly sandwiches?”

“At least jelly doesn’t pretend to be better than it is,” Sage mutters, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

“I’ll be sure to pass that on to the chef. I’m sure he’ll be devastated.”

She lets out a small laugh. Not out of politeness — out of exhaustion. With the travel, with the food, with the celebration. But he catches that — and answers with the same look. Like, yeah. He knows. It’s all happened before. It’ll happen again. And none of it has to be taken too seriously.

“Are you always this grim,” he asks, “or is this just your special occasion mode?”

Sage glances at him from beneath her lashes.

“Only on special occasions. For mere mortals, I have a ‘passive threat’ mode.”

“Charming. And which one did I get?”

“‘Sarcastic observer.’ With a bonus of unseemly charm.”

Finnick laughs.

“Unseemly charm is my middle name.”

“Magnificent,” Sage drawls without malice, leaning her elbow on the table. “Even your jokes sound like slogans for the Capitol shampoo.”

“You’re just jealous, admit it.”

“Of you being a walking cliché?”

“Of the fact that the cliché works,” he winks.

But before she can fire back, a clear, slightly theatrical sound cuts through the air — ding-ding. Alcyon is tapping his glass with a fork, commanding attention. His face is radiant, hair shellacked to a crisp shine, and his seafoam-colored cape fans out behind him like a peacock tail.

“Friends!” he exclaims, rising to his feet. “Before we’re overtaken by the next culinary tempest, I’d like to say a few words — from the heart, and perhaps the liver, since tonight’s dinner comes from the sea.”

A polite chuckle rolls through the hall. Sage notices one of Flora’s assistants near the center press a hand to their chest, as if Alcyon had truly said something touching — rather than just warming up the crowd. Paisley, seated at the far edge, discreetly rolls her eyes — not enough for the cameras to catch, but just enough for Sage to notice.

“Tonight we’re not only celebrating an exceptional Victor,” he goes on, casting a pointed glance at Sage. “We’re rejoicing in the chance to be part of her journey — a tour through Panem that will remind us all: even from the darkest depths, light can rise.”

Finnick tilts his head toward Sage and murmurs:

“And here I thought you were from District Eight, not the darkest depths.”

Without looking at him, she replies quietly:

“Apparently, my origin has become poetic metaphor. Alcyon’s a bit unhinged — don’t mind him.”

“Is he always like this?”

“Only when there’s a camera pointed at him. The rest of the time he’s busy reading anti-aging cream ingredients and doing calisthenics to opera.”

“Sounds scarier than the Arena.”

Meanwhile, Alcyon carries on — impassioned, theatrical, with the kind of pauses that beg for commercial taglines. He paces slowly along the table, catching eyes, raising his glass, waving it like a victory banner.

“In Sage, we see not just a Victor. We see an example of resilience, determination, rebirth!”

He pauses dramatically, sweeping the crowd with his radiant gaze.

“Just think about it: a poor orphan from District Eight, who had never held anything heavier than a needle and thread, surviving such a brutal arena… against so many dangers… against some of the brightest tributes, including…”

He tilts his head slightly, as if recalling something especially touching.

“…even a brave girl from right here…”

A pause. Awkward. Lingering.

“…and still standing,” he finishes too quickly, as if unaware of what he just said.

Sage freezes. Her jaw clenches, but she doesn’t move. Something flickers deep in her chest — cold and burning all at once. From across the table, Paisley lifts her head sharply, checking her reaction. Sage takes a sip of water, though her lips are dry. There’s a knot in her throat. Her whole body tense, as if someone had peeled her out of her skin and hung her over a cliff.

Alcyon is already charging ahead — arms wide, saying something about “a new era” and “inspiration for future generations,” while the crew nods, applauds, laughs on cue.

Sage doesn’t breathe. Her eyes lock on the reflection in her glass — a warped silhouette, light bent through crystal. A thought pierces her like a splinter: what if Marina were sitting here instead?

And then another: what if this was never meant for me at all? What if I stole this seat? I killed a girl and took her place, I, Sage Bradbury, did it, I killed a person, I really did...

A tight knot twists in her stomach. The air in the room turns thick. The lights too bright. The sound muffled, distant, like underwater. Everything warps, trembles. Her heartbeat stumbles, erratic. Inside her, it’s like someone cut all the brakes — and now she’s falling. Fast. Quietly. Inward.

Breathe. Just breathe.

But it won’t come. The air isn’t there. Her throat clamps shut. Her fingers grip the edge of the napkin — too hard. She stares down at her plate, as if it might hold an answer. It’s just squid. Smells like lemon. Nausea rises.

Not now. Not in front of them. Not on camera.

Finnick leans closer, and his voice — suddenly not teasing, not playful — is soft. Almost serious.

“You okay?”

Sage nods, barely. Once. Twice. Then slowly turns her head, like it takes real effort to return to her body. She inhales. Again — sharp, shallow. It doesn’t help, but at least she’s upright.

“Just…” her voice is barely audible, “…remembered something.”

He watches her a second longer. Barely blinks. But doesn’t ask more.

“Sometimes counting forks helps. Or spoons.”

Sage grits her teeth. Nods. Looks down, starts counting: one spoon, one fork, one knife. Napkin. Glass. Plastic rose by the candle. Another breath. A little better. The sea air, the scent of lemon and salt, the distant waves — all start to return.

She lifts the glass of water to her lips and becomes, once again, who she’s supposed to be.

She doesn’t say thank you — she can’t. But the corner of her mouth twitches.

And at the table, the show goes on. Speeches. Cameras. Laughter. The universe pretending nothing ever happened.

Gradually, the panic recedes — like a wave pulling back after a storm. It doesn’t vanish — just sinks beneath the surface, giving way to the familiar undercurrent of dread. The kind that’s lived in her since the Arena, a shadow stitched beneath the skin. Sage sits almost still. As if nothing happened. As if her heart hadn’t tried to claw its way out.

She starts hearing again — the words around her. One of the victors, an older man with a yellow handkerchief, is telling a fishing story that’s steadily morphing into a joke. Someone laughs. Cameras click. Glasses clink.

Sage doesn’t laugh.

Sage counts.

Seconds. Minutes. Forks scraping plates. Toasts being raised. Each action a tick on the clock, a countdown to the moment they’ll finally let her disappear. Back to the train. The cabin. The silence where the walls don’t press quite so hard.

And then — at last — something shifts in the rhythm of the dinner. The crew begins packing up. One operator pulls off his headset, another checks battery levels. Everything says “evening well spent” — and “we’ll pick this up again tomorrow.”

Sage is already stepping toward the exit when she feels Paisley’s fingers wrap deftly, almost gently, around her wrist.

“Just a moment,” she says. “Personal.”

Without waiting for a response, she steers her toward the nearest restroom — calm but unyielding. They pass cameras, assistants, even Cecelia, who glances over but doesn’t intervene.

The door shuts behind them. The room smells like lavender and antiseptic. Paisley lets go, leans against the sink, and looks into the mirror — at herself, at Sage, at everything reflected there.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “Anything you want to tell me?”

Sage doesn’t answer right away. She looks at Paisley like the question was too simple — so simple, it’s impossible to answer. A droplet taps in the sink. Inside, she feels hollow — even fear now sounds muted, distant.

“I…” she begins, then trails off. Tries again, more steadily, though barely above a whisper: “Before the crew arrived, I spoke to… the President. I told Iris he just congratulated me. That’s not true.”

Paisley tenses, but says nothing yet.

Sage turns away, braces her hands against the stall wall, inhales — like if she gets this breath right, everything might disappear. It doesn’t.

“He…” Sage swallows. Her fingers clench like they’re the only thing keeping her grounded. “He said I was a ‘special case.’ That I… made an impression.”

“An impression?” Paisley’s voice is very soft. Not shocked, not outraged — more like someone hoping very, very much they’re wrong.

Sage nods. Once. Barely.

“He talked about my face. How I looked. That powerful people in the Capitol were moved.” Her voice drops further. “He said he hoped I’d make the most of the opportunity. And it didn’t sound like advice.”

Silence. The stall seems to shrink around them. Outside, the faucet keeps dripping, measuring seconds.

“Did he threaten you?” Paisley asks at last. Calm. Careful. Almost gentle.

"No. I mean... not exactly." Sage exhales, her voice a little hoarse.

"But you do understand what he meant, right?"

"I’m not an idiot, Paisley."

Someone walks past — the rustle of fabric, the click of heels on tile.

They both go still. Silence. A few seconds — muffled voices, the soft thud of a door opening and closing. Then the footsteps fade.

Paisley speaks first, barely audible:

"You know what I hate? That I can’t tell you it doesn’t mean anything. That I can’t tell you you can just say no."

Sage turns away from the wall, covers her face with both hands, then lowers them and stares up at the ceiling.

"I’m sorry I didn’t warn you this could happen," Paisley says. "But I’m not even sure we’re not being listened to right now. I... I was hoping we’d be lucky."

Sage nods. As if that’s the only thing left she can do.

"Does it… happen a lot?" she asks, not quite looking up. "To other Victors. To you?"

Paisley doesn’t answer right away. She watches Sage for a long moment, like she’s weighing truth against a lie that might hurt less.

"Not to everyone. But yes," she says at last. Plainly. Without decoration. "To me too."

"Cecelia?"

"She doesn't know anything."

Sage freezes. Looks into Paisley’s face — into her calm eyes, her neatly arranged hair, the tight line of her mouth that trembles now, just a little.

"What do I do?" she asks finally. Her voice is almost a whisper, almost a child’s. "I don’t know where to run."

Paisley says nothing for a long second. Then, slowly:

"Right now? Nothing. Keep your face. Keep your posture. Smile when they’re looking. And then…"

"And then what?"

"Then we figure out how to survive it."

***

The train is moving again. Outside the window — blurred lights, like someone else’s dreams sliding across the glass. Sage lies on her side, forehead pressed into the cool pillow, listening to the steady rhythm of the tracks. It’s the only sound that doesn’t lie.

The cabin is dark. Only the control panel by the door glows faint green, casting a dim reflection on the polished metal walls. She took the dress off long ago. Now she’s in a soft cotton tank top Flora gave her for "rest hours." And still, she feels like she’s wearing someone else’s skin.

She used to think she was afraid of death. Then — of pain. But now it turns out the scariest thing is the lack of choice. The fact that her life no longer belongs to her.

Sage remembers the feel of water — standing barefoot on the beach, sand sticking to her heels. Something small, but for some reason it feels like the most important memory now. Because in that moment, she almost believed this would end. That the Tour was just a formality. That the worst was already behind her.

Stupid.

She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling. It’s covered in fake stars — tiny lights that shift colors with the time of day. Right now they’re bluish. Too perfect to be real. Too far away to help.

She thinks of her sisters — how they’d react if they knew what kind of mess she’s in. Iris would probably launch herself at the first Peacekeeper she saw, screaming. Mari… Mari would just look. Wide-eyed, silent — and then, when it was all over, she’d hug her so hard Sage’s ribs might crack. And then she’d make her drink cocoa.

And Henley. He always knows — even when he doesn’t say it. He’d understand, she’s sure. He wouldn’t ask questions. He’d just stay.

“You don’t have to explain anything,” he’d say. Or maybe: “Tell me if you need to break something.”

She almost smiles — almost. But not quite.

And then she thinks of the other Victors. The ones she’s met on the Tour. The old man from District Seven, who cracked jokes all evening and fell silent the moment a camera came close. The woman from District Five, whose face held something familiar — the same unbearable stillness as Paisley’s. The girl from Eleven — barely older than Sage — who spoke in memorized lines, like every word was a trap.

How many of them had that same conversation? Felt that same touch, faced that same second battle — this time, without an arena?

Sage closes her eyes and slowly clenches the bedsheets in her fists.

To her own surprise, she thinks of Finnick — of his whisper at dinner, of how easily he jokes, and how quickly he understood what was happening to her. Maybe he’s been in this place too. Maybe he lay here once, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out how to survive the next day.

Maybe he still does. Maybe he just got better at hiding it.

Or maybe he doesn’t. She hopes he doesn’t.

Sage exhales slowly and shuts her eyes, hoping sleep will come, even just a little.

She doesn’t know all the victors’ stories. Doesn’t know how each of them coped. But she feels it — many of them, at some point, sat just like this. In the dark. With nothing but the cold light of fake stars. With the same fear burning in their chest.

And with the same question — the one with no answer.

What now?

Chapter 25

The Tour ends where everything always ends — in the Capitol.

The city glitters. It shines like a jewel placed in a display case — as if it wants every district to see, through the screen, what a true victory is supposed to look like. Towers of glass and steel slice through the sky. The streets are unnaturally clean. The people — like dolls, dressed up and airbrushed. Everything here is as expected. Everything is too bright. Too much. And too far from anything real.

On the day of the final ceremony, Sage stands on stage, in a dress she can’t breathe in and shoes Flora picked out for her. The crowd chants her name, cameras follow her every move, and her smile is calculated — a perfect formula. She waves. Nods. Does everything that’s expected of her. It’s almost become routine.

“And here she is,” Caesar announces again. “Our incomparable, irreplaceable, utterly enchanting Sage Bradbury!”

Applause. Light. The roar of the crowd. Sage smiles, mechanically. Caesar takes her hand and lifts it slightly — a smooth, practiced gesture. The cameras catch it. Everything’s going according to script.

“Sage, you’ve captured the hearts of all of Panem!” he says with his dazzling grin. “How does it feel to step into your new life as a Victor?”

Sage inhales. Stands tall. Smiles just a bit wider.

“I feel grateful,” she lies. “For the opportunity. For the support. For the generosity of our President.”

Caesar nods with performative admiration. The crowd claps on cue.

After the interview — one more short ascent up the stairs, one more flash, one more smile. President Snow steps onto the platform, leans in for a handshake — his palm is dry and warm. He smiles faintly, but with too much confidence. He gives a speech he’s likely given a hundred times — words about honor, duty, the greatness of Panem. The cameras catch every tilt of his head.

Sage listens without blinking and pretends it’s all just noise. Pretends her body is just a storefront window — a rehearsed, polished shell. She remembers when he came to their house. How he stood there, in white, among the worn-out cushions and old photographs, and spoke to her gently. Almost kindly. Almost like a father. And inside, everything in her howled.

Now — the stage. The lights. The applause. And his hand in hers. And his voice, still so steady.

Sage stands tall, even when every part of her wants to curl inward. She focuses on a spot just above his shoulder — something abstract, bright, and distant. To stop thinking. To stop feeling. To keep from folding in half under the weight of how wrong all of this is.

When it finally ends, fireworks burst into the sky — perfect, symmetrical, sparkling like gems. The crowd gasps. Caesar claps. Snow vanishes as suddenly as he arrived. Someone yells her name. It all looks beautiful. And too clean — as if anything real had been scrubbed away before the broadcast.

Afterwards — the limousine: velvet seats, dim lighting, the faint scent of jasmine from somewhere above. It’s comfort that feels all wrong, like it was thrown in as a garnish to something poisonous — an aperitif to a slow-acting toxin.

Sage leans back into the seat, tries to exhale, but the air feels thick, heavy, cloying. Like syrup poured over something rotten to mask the smell. It feels like she’s back on that night — the night of her coronation. Everything’s too familiar: the same car, the same silence, the same polished gleam on every surface. Then, just like now, they were driving her through the night — through a festive, glittering emptiness.

The difference was that back then, she still felt something. Everything was fresh — terror, survival, exhilaration, disgust with herself. It all erupted outward, tangled with hope that the worst was finally behind her. Now — nothing. Just a dull deja-vu. Just the thought that she’s being driven somewhere again — and that no one asked if she even wants to go.

She closes her eyes. Inside — emptiness. Only fatigue and a cloying sense that what ended wasn’t the worst, but the most vital thing. And whatever happens now is just endless “after.”

The limousine stops before a building resembling an ice-bloom: glass petals, crystalline facades, each line softly lit from within by lilac light. A column of live people stands at the entrance, so immaculately dressed they resemble a living stylist’s lookbook more than a true crowd of guests. Fabrics glitter, masks sparkle, eyelashes glow, shoes appear carved from gold. One man wears a necklace of dragonflies in amber; the woman next to him laughs, drawing on something like a plastic cigarette that exhales violet smoke.

Alcyon opens the door for Sage, bowing slightly in a graceful half-curtsey:

“You look wonderful. Just smile, okay? Tonight’s a celebration in your honor.”

He offers his hand. She places hers in his because that’s what’s expected. Because a photographer in the throng of journalists at the entrance has already chosen this moment — and if she doesn’t hold it, they’ll make her pose again. The real Sage Bradbury is somewhere behind glass. She watches it all, unable to knock.

Inside, the building is even more dazzling. The hall’s like an inverted dome — mirrored and warped, with jellyfish-shaped lights floating in the air. The space is filled with scents of flowers, spices, sweets that Sage has never tasted and couldn’t name. The air shimmers like thick neon.

Ahead, the hostess of the night steps forward — the celebrity whose mansion hosts all this. Her name is Sybill Tranjent. Her skin is the color of peach caramel, her hair like silvery threads arranged into a crown. Around her neck gleams a necklace with a tiny diamond star at the center.

“Sage, my love!” she exclaims, arms wide in theatrical flourish. Her voice is high, almost musical. “You’re just a marvel! Congratulations, congratulations, congratulations!”

She kisses the air beside both Sage’s cheeks and hands her a sparkling cocktail.

“We’ve been so happy you could come. Everyone missed you. Absolutely everyone. Well, except for a few jealous types, but who cares about them?”

She laughs — loud, as if she needs to fill the entire hall with her presence. Sage giggles in response. There’s a camera, flashes, and Alcyon — with his perpetual half-smile, leaving his true thoughts unreadable.

“Thank you,” says Sage. “This is… very kind.”

“Kind? No, darling, it’s love. You’re our brightest star. You deserve so much more. Tonight, all of Panem is at your feet.”

Sybill takes her arm and leads her deeper into the hall — past bars serving flaming cocktails, others so cold the glasses sweat; past dancing guests, past musicians. Someone is already calling out: “Sage! Look this way!” — “Sage, you look stunning!” — “Have you seen the new dress by Andromeda Madorian?”

Sage walks beside Sybill, nodding, smiling, answering questions, accepting compliments, sipping a cocktail through a clear straw flecked with gold glitter. Polished. Practiced. Like onstage. Like on the first day of the Victory Tour. Like on the first night after the Arena. And inside her, there’s still that cold, dense point — like a peach pit. Invisible, but there. Now — always there.

Time begins to blur. Words melt into a single, sticky backdrop — echoing, pulsing with camera flashes and fragments of music. Someone is dancing nearby — just half a meter away, close enough that Sage can feel the air shift as fabric brushes past. Someone touches her shoulder. Someone laughs too loud. Someone hands her a fresh glass — and at the bottom, inexplicably, there’s a sprig of sage. It takes her a moment to catch the pun.

Sybill leads her into another room, this one strung with crystal columns and a ceiling that ripples like mercury. More people. Louder noise. A cloud of sugary perfume clings to the air, sweet and dizzying. Sage keeps smiling — again and again — though her cheeks begin to ache. She listens as someone shares gossip about Victors from District Two. Someone asks for an autograph. Someone begs for a photo. Someone says they cried when she won.

She nods. Says it’s an honor. That she’s touched. That she loves them all too.

And then — between shifting phrases, in the tiny pause between someone else’s laughter — a thought slips in. What if I just ran?

At first, it’s only a fantasy. A passing idea. What if she turned now and walked the other way? What if she didn’t answer the next “Sage!”? What if she vanished into this buzzing landscape, where everyone’s too busy trying to shine to notice if one person quietly fades?

Sage smiles once more, bows her head politely, murmurs something like “Excuse me, just a minute,” and takes a step to the side. Then another. Then turns the corner — as if heading toward the bar. Then past the couches. Then through an arch covered in garlands.

She doesn’t rush. Moves with quiet confidence. As if she knows exactly where she’s going. This isn’t a city — it’s a show. Everything here is performance. And if you play your part well enough, people believe the act.

In one of the far rooms, everything softens — the light is dim, the space nearly empty. It smells like chilled grapes and something woody. A plate of fruit rests on a low table. In the corner stands a bright red couch, cluttered with cushions.

Sage sinks down and goes still.

The noise outside is muted now, like it’s coming through glass. The music is fainter. Voices fade into background hum. It’s cool here. Quiet. No one calls her name. No one laughs too loud. No one says she “inspired” a new song by burying a hatchet in someone’s skull.

She sets her glass down, stretches out her legs, leans her head back against a pillow. Exhales — slowly.

No one stopped her. No one followed. No one noticed. It can almost be called luck.

She sits. Silent. Breathing. And for a few minutes — just a few — she feels like she belongs to herself again.

Then, behind her, the door creaks — soft, barely there.

Sage doesn’t flinch. She only tenses slightly, the muscles in her shoulders winding tight like springs. She doesn’t turn around. Just stays there, the same politely relaxed silhouette, as if nothing’s changed.

“There you are,” says a man’s voice. Calm. Smooth. Like warm bathwater slowly filling — so slow you don’t realize you’re burning until it’s far too late.

Sage turns her head. In the doorway stands a man in his fifties — tall, dressed in a white suit that gleams like pearl under the lights. His salt-and-pepper hair is neatly slicked back. A golden dragon brooch clings to his chest, as if it’s sunk its claws right into his skin. His smile is wide, his teeth too white. His eyes are assessing. Slow. Like someone who’s used to choosing.

“I'm sorry,” Sage says, rising to her feet. “I just needed a moment…”

“I understand,” the man nods, without moving. “Sometimes, there’s too much noise here. Too many admirers. Too much light.”

He steps forward and adds:

“I’d have slipped away too, honestly. But I don’t have your grace. I’m Gennadius Marlowe. Producer. Representing one of Panem’s largest studios.”

He doesn’t offer a hand — just watches Sage with calm expectation, as if he already knows what she should say and is waiting for her to catch up.

“Perhaps you’ve heard,” he continues. “We’re launching a new project — Victor’s Truth. One-on-one with the camera. Minimal makeup, maximum emotion. Stories never told in public. Personal. Raw. Intimate.”

He pauses — just a beat, barely noticeable.

“I think it would suit you. You’re rare, Sage. There’s a truth in you you can’t fake.”

Sage lifts an eyebrow — just slightly. Barely.

“My team handles these discussions,” she replies, voice perfectly steady, flawlessly polite.

“Of course. But some things are best talked about face-to-face. It can be… much more effective.”

Gennadius  steps closer. For a brief second, she feels the brush of his sleeve against her arm — light, but intentional.

“You have a stunning face, Sage. The camera adores you. And you adore it back. That’s obvious.”

He tilts his head. His voice lowers, becomes nearly a whisper, almost conspiratorial:

“If you’d like, we could arrange a private shoot. No fuss. Just you, the lens… and me. I think you’d be surprised how free you can feel, if you let yourself… relax.”

Sage steps back. Just enough. Just within the bounds of courtesy — as if merely shifting her stance.

“Thank you,” she says. “I’ll think about it.”

“Do,” Gennadius echoes, still watching her. “But not for too long. The best offers tend to expire.”

He smiles again. There's not a trace of pressure in his expression — only polite charm, tinged with the tired confidence of a man used to getting what he wants.

“You see,” he says smoothly, “in the Capitol, victors have always drawn a certain kind of attention. Naturally. There’s strength in them. Beauty. Real experience. And a special kind of allure. The kind that only exists in youth. It can’t be manufactured.”

A pause. Long. Intentional.

“For some, that kind of attention opens doors they never even knew existed.”

Sage doesn’t answer. She only looks at him. Her eyes seem just a shade darker than they were a moment ago.

“And you… open doors like that too?” she asks slowly.

Gennadius smirks, just at the corner of his mouth.

“I can point out where to look. After that… it’s up to you.”

His fingers brush her elbow again — lingering just a bit longer than necessary — and then he steps back.

“I do hope we’ll see each other very soon. You deserve to be seen for who you really are. Panem wants that.”

He leaves. Sage remains standing, still taut like a drawn string. Her breathing is shallow. Something inside her coils tight, like someone has twisted a piece of fabric in her chest into a knot.

From outside, music drifts in again. Laughter. Someone calls her name.

Sage sits back down on the couch. Takes a sip. The sweetness of the drink closes around her throat. Her palms are damp. Her pulse flutters somewhere near her collarbones — quiet, uneven. As if her body hasn’t yet decided what stage of fear it’s in.

Not fear, no. Fear left her before the arena. This is something else. This is that sticky sensation of standing at the edge of something you’ll never be able to unsee.

You, the lens, and me.

Each word still seems to hang in the room like perfume. Gennadius’s scent — musky, woody — seems to linger in the air. He’d spoken gently, with respect. Almost tenderly. And yet he’d looked at her like she was a beautiful thing. Rare. Valuable. Like an offer already made — even if not spoken aloud yet.

She takes another sip. Then another. Sets the glass down. Picks it up again. Jasmine mixes with grapes and liquor, turning into a thick syrup that seems to cling to her insides.

Warmth spreads through her stomach. Her legs feel heavy.

Everyone missed you.

Victor’s Truth.

Panem wants that.

It used to be so simple. Back then, before the Reaping, food was food, water was water, death was death. Everything she felt had been raw, unguarded. Even pain. Even guilt. Everything was sharp. Now, everything around her is veiled. Wrapped in shine and smiles. And somewhere deep inside — Sage Bradbury, like a fly trapped in amber.

The conversation with Snow rises from memory, like from underwater. She doesn’t remember the exact words anymore. Just the tone. Just the look. Just the moment he hinted that he knew about Henley. And how he smiled — as if everything happening to her was some kind of blessing.

Sage lets out a short, bitter snort. Then quickly cuts herself off. Drinks again. And again.

The drink slides down like an oily lie — sweet, polished, but each sip leaves a film on her tongue. She almost hopes that if she drinks enough, everything from the past year will flush out of her — with sweat, or sleep. That the memories will dull. That Gennadius’s voice will dissolve. That the knot inside her — tight as a noose — will come undone.

Eventually, she stops counting the glasses.

The music fades into a muffled blur. Faces blur into smudges, colors into brushstrokes. Everything drifts. She giggles when her elbow accidentally bumps into a vase.

Someone peeks into the room — she waves a hand and says something like,

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Just resting. Just… resting.”

And then — she forgets what she wanted to say. And just stays there, sitting. Her head sinks onto the cushion. Her knees fall apart. The world turns soft, like cotton. And for the first time all evening, she isn’t afraid. Because she doesn’t care.

Sage doesn’t remember how long it lasts. Maybe fifteen minutes. Maybe an hour. The music sounds like it’s coming from underwater. The vibration is in her chest, her stomach. Something heavy drips down her spine — not fear, not anxiety. More like exhaustion wrapped in silk.

She stands up. At first — carefully, as if unsure whether her legs will take her back. Then — more confidently. One heel slips off. She laughs, picks it up, holds it like a glass, and walks into the hallway.

Her movements are fluid, slightly swaying, like after a third back-to-back interview. No one stops her. On the contrary — someone waves from the hall, someone claps. Someone snaps a photo.

“Sage!” someone shouts. “Our goddess of victory returns!”

She giggles. Brushes her hair back from her face. Nods. Looks over their heads like she really is stepping off a pedestal.

Goddess of victory, she thinks, who doesn’t even belong to herself.

Sybill rushes up to her — all glitter, like a firework, with a flash instead of a smile.

“Oh darling! Everyone’s been looking for you!” she laughs. “I thought you’d run off back to your District!”

“Almost,” Sage whispers, but Sybill either doesn’t hear or pretends not to.

The music — louder now. The heat — thicker. The wine — sweeter. Sage smiles at everyone. Says some thank-yous. Pats someone on the shoulder. Air-kisses a stranger’s cheek.

“There you are,” says Alcyon, appearing at her side. His look, for a split second, is sharp. A little too alert. He sees her state — and smiles even wider. “The star of the evening shines again.”

“Of course,” Sage replies. “I’m the people’s darling, aren’t I?”

She raises her glass, though she doesn’t remember where she got it. Somewhere in her mind, a voice suggests: take a break, go back, rest — but her body’s no longer listening.

“Allow me…” Alcyon begins, placing a hand on her elbow.

Sage slips away.

“Allow me. I can still walk. Almost.”

She laughs. Brightly. A little too loud. And disappears into the crowd — glowing, stumbling, flirting, not waiting for replies. A single flash. A burst.

She dances. With someone, with several someones. Leans back, closes her eyes. Someone grabs her waist. Someone kisses her fingers. Someone whispers something ecstatic that doesn’t even settle in her mind.

Inside, everything is diluted. The leftovers of fear, of guilt, of her past life. All that’s left is sweetness and warmth. And this lightness, almost freedom, almost flight — like in yesterday’s dream, where she walked barefoot on the rails and knew the train would never come.

And somewhere at the edge — Gennadius. His gaze, his voice. His sleeve brushing her skin. And Snow. And Alcyon. And the arena. All of it inside her, like in a bottle of warm wine — stirred up, indistinct, ready to come back as a headache in the morning.

But not now. Now she laughs. Poses for a photo. Tells someone she’s thrilled to be back in the Capitol. And laughs again. Because no one’s really listening. Because she’s too drunk to care.

“Sage, come here, let me introduce you...” a voice breaks through the noise. Maybe Sybill’s. Maybe someone else’s. She can’t tell anymore.

They lead her to a man with long red hair pulled into a sleek knot and eyes the color of ink. His jacket is embroidered with fiery feathers. Teeth too white. Skin flawless, like it’s been edited straight into real life.

She recognizes him: Xenon Ray. Actor. Legend. Universally adored. Starred the leading role in the movie about the founding of Panem. Starred in a perfume ad with a real tiger. Starred, it seems, in everything.

“I have to admit, I was hoping I’d see you,” he says. His voice is low, enveloping — like velvet steeped in smoke. “You’re stunning on screen.”

Sage is still swaying just a bit more than necessary, and his words reach her with a delay, so she doesn’t respond in time.

Xenon steps closer. Casually, not pushy — just confident. Like someone used to being the one people lean toward.

“I’ve seen all your interviews,” he goes on. “You’re so... real. That’s rare. Especially here.”

“Usually it’s just hysteria disguised as a speech,” Sage slurs a little. “But thanks.”

“Doesn’t matter. People don’t hear the words anyway,” Xenon says. “They listen to the voice. They watch the eyes. You know how to be silent beautifully.”

She laughs. Almost genuinely.

“And you know how to flirt like we’ve already been married five years.”

“Or maybe I just feel it. Chemistry. Potential.” He pauses. “Would you go to the movies with me?”

Sage tilts her head back. Her laugh rings out a little louder than it should.

“You mean — to act in one? Or to watch?”

“The second. For now.”

She narrows her eyes, still smiling.

“Tempting. But I’m afraid I’m too much a District girl. I can’t compete with the six rich girls you’ve been spotted with in the past six months.”

“You’d be surprised how romantic I can be,” he replies. “Sometimes we really do just watch the movie. Well — at least the first half.”

He says it too close to her ear. Too softly. His hand brushes her elbow — the motion seemingly harmless, but Sage already knows exactly how much intention gets packed into touches like that. And how much is hiding behind them.

“Besides,” he adds, “I like girls who can still walk in heels even like this. There’s something... touching about it. Like you’re still fighting, even when you’re supposed to give up.”

“Maybe I just don’t like falling,” Sage replies, the corners of her mouth keeping that same polite smile.

“Or maybe,” he counters, “you just haven’t met the one worth falling for.”

His voice drops, lower, thicker.

“You’re the kind of girl who seems sharp, until someone touches you. And then…”

He doesn’t finish. Just looks at her. Slowly. Appraising.

“You’re not afraid to be alive. Even in this farce. That’s... exciting. You should’ve seen how everyone lit up when you punched that idiot from Eleven.”

Something inside Sage freezes.

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares.

“What?”

“Don’t take it the wrong way, it was a compliment,” Xenon goes on, still lazy, like he’s recounting a party anecdote. “The moment she killed that guy, you just snapped, and I was like — that girl’s got so much rage, she sparks even when she’s just drinking water. I bet in bed, it’s absolutely divine. I mean that in the best way, don’t get me wrong.”

Sage smiles. Wide. Silent. For a second, it looks like she’s about to burst out laughing.

But she doesn’t.

“Amazing,” she says, voice flat, almost deathly calm. “I always dreamed of finding out what people were chatting about at banquets while I was dying of an infection.”

He leans back a little, and for the first time, there’s uncertainty in his face.

“Hey, I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, you got it just right,” she cuts in. “I’m just in that kind of mood right now. Warm lights, adoring fans, everyone wants a piece of me. Pure celebration.”

She takes a step back. Then another.

“Thanks for the chat,” Sage says. “Hope you get cast as a piece of furniture in your next film. I think you’d do a great job staying still and not touching women you don’t know.”

She turns and walks away — still drunk, still unsteady. But no longer soft. No longer warm. The hardened mask is back on her face, the one no one notices under makeup. Because if they did, she’d explode.

The crowd swallows her again, but it’s no longer gentle. Too bright. Too loud. The lights sting her eyes, and people’s touches — shoulder, waist, elbow — suddenly feel sticky.

Sage pushes through the music like it’s thick milk. The smile is gone. All that’s left is exhaustion, laced with a fine thread of disgust — with herself, with the party, with the city.

“Sage.”

A voice beside her. Clear. Measured. Familiar.

She flinches. Alcyon. A glass of champagne in his hand. His expression calm, but something in it has frozen. He looks at her like he’s counting for her: steps, mistakes, minutes.

“I’m fine,” she says, too sharply. “I just—”

“—are completely drunk,” he finishes. Not accusing. Just stating. “And right now, either you come with me, or some journalist grabs your arm and starts yelling exclusive.”

Sage says nothing. She feels one fake eyelash scratching her cheek. Her hands might be shaking. Or her legs. Or the whole world.

“Let’s go,” Alcyon says again, leaning in a little. “I’m not demanding. I’m asking. While you can still walk on your own.”

She nods. Barely.

He guides her through the room with practiced ease, cutting through it like silk — short movements, precise pauses.

Somewhere to the side, Sybill’s voice calls out:

“Where are you going? Sage, darling!”

“She’ll be back tomorrow,” Alcyon throws over his shoulder without turning.

Outside, the air is different. Real. Cold and clean, like water from under a stone.

Sage blinks. Leaning on Alcyon goes from comfortable to necessary. He settles her into the back of a dark limo, and only then says:

“You can’t drink. And you don’t know how to be angry quietly.”

“I can do everything,” she mumbles, letting her head fall back against the seat. “I just don’t want to.”

“Of course you don’t,” he says.

He presses a button between the seats, and a thermal cup rises from the armrest. Something hot. Sage looks at Alcyon, then at the drink. Takes it. Then takes a sip. Bitter tea. Mint, and something spicy, maybe. Her lips twitch.

“Are you always this prepared for a breakdown?”

“When you’re in the room, I’m prepared for a lot of things.”

She looks at him. For a long time. In the car’s dim interior, his face is barely visible — just the outline, just the voice.

“I thought you were the kind who says, ‘It’s just a show, baby. Don’t be dramatic.’”

“I’m the kind who knows where the show ends and the depression begins.”

She takes another sip. Softer this time.

“I almost punched Xenon Ray. That would’ve been very Capitol of me.”

“But you didn’t. I’m proud of you.”

“Why are you so... normal?”

He snorts, but doesn't respond.

The car moves through streets lit by neon. Inside, it grows quieter. Warmer. Sage closes her eyes. For a second. Maybe two. The cabin sways gently with each turn. The street noise fades behind double-glazed windows, turning into a muffled background hum.

She clutches the cup with both hands — like it’s the only anchor keeping her in her body. The drink’s warmth seeps through her fingers, into her skin, into her chest. Her head tilts back. Her eyelids grow heavy. Thoughts scatter like papers in a draft.

The last one to slip through: maybe I’m already there — home, in the Victor’s Village, in my bed, with the curtains drawn, alone?

And after that — only darkness. Shallow, like the shadow of a hand on her face.

***

The light changes first.

First — neon, then the soft glow of an underground entrance. Something clicks. The car comes to a stop. Sage flinches at the motion, not immediately aware of where she is, who she is, or that she's still holding an empty cup.

“Hey,” Alcyon leans toward her slightly, not touching, only speaking. “We’re here.”

She lifts her head. Blinks. Her lips are dry. Her head hums, but it’s not spinning — not yet.

Sage rises slowly — as if her body is deciding where to begin: with her head, her knees, her spine. She opens the car door herself, stubbornly, as if refusing to admit she needs help. A rush of cool air hits her face, and she shudders — either from the sudden light or from reality catching up to her outside.

One step down — in heels, a little unsteady. Her fingers slip against the glossy edge of the door. Alcyon takes a step, ready to catch her, but she straightens up on her own. The ground is concrete, smooth and polished to a shine. Someone ahead looks away. The silence here is thick, formal. Capitol-like. No one dares to say “You look awful.” Everyone just smiles, as if she’s heading into an interview, not stumbling through her own drunken night.

Alcyon says nothing. He simply walks beside her — wearing that half-smile that could mean either “I’ve got this” or “I’m about to leave you on the curb.”

Sage’s fingers curl into a fist, her nails pressing into her palm. It’s surprising how much that helps her stay upright.

They reach the elevator. Sage throws one last glance over her shoulder — back at the car, at the street, at the night. As if a part of her was left behind there, crumpled and forgotten like a napkin in the back seat.

The elevator opens with a soft chime, and she steps in, swaying slightly. Alcyon follows.

“Want me to say you broke a heel fighting off an overly eager admirer?” he asks, pressing the floor button.

“Only if you add that he was with a tiger and now I’m allergic to all redheads,” Sage replies hoarsely, leaning against the cabin wall.

The doors close, and Sage feels suspended in between — between laughter and breakdown, past and future, between doors. And right there, in that in-between where no one is watching, she allows herself a short exhale. Almost tired. Almost human.

The cabin jolts softly and begins its ascent. Her legs feel slightly numb, and in her head, it’s like someone is twisting the volume knob — turning all the sounds up and down at once.

Alcyon remains silent, but his silence isn’t uncomfortable. Sage actually likes that she doesn’t have to hold a face here and now.

Ding.

The doors slide open. The hallway floor is soft, noiseless. Their footsteps vanish into the carpet’s deep pile. Everything here still looks far too luxurious for tributes — even victors. Sage feels that familiar queasy sensation rising again — like after something too sweet.

Alcyon walks her to the apartment door, presses the panel, and it slides open with a soft click. The light inside comes on automatically — warm, diffused.

He turns to her with a smirk — a different one now, the kind she knows well.

“There we go. Delivered safe, drunk, and hopefully not entirely disillusioned,” he says. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall retreat before you decide to punch someone in the face.”

“Wise,” Sage mutters.

“I’m known for my exceptional strategic prowess,” he replies with a mock bow and vanishes without looking back — just as a proper Capitol socialite should.

Sage is left alone in the foyer. She sets the empty thermal cup on the shelf. Slips off her shoes mechanically. The heels have left a faint mark on her ankles, and she pauses for a moment, staring at her bare feet as if not sure they’re hers.

She walks deeper into the apartment, barefoot on the cool floor. The main room light is already on. It smells like bread.

Paisley is sitting on the couch in her pajamas. There’s a cup in her hands, a soft velvet headband in her hair. An open book rests on her knees — unread.

“Well, well. Look who’s discovering the joys of high society,” she says without looking up. “You’re breathing loudly. That’s never a good sign.”

Sage snorts, dropping into the armchair. So abruptly it nearly slides out from under her.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Cecelia’s asleep. I’m an anxious person. We don’t sleep. We monitor the situation, construct worst-case scenarios, and listen to see if anyone’s tripping in the hallway,” Paisley replies, still not lifting her gaze.

Sage rubs her face with her hands, then lets her head fall back against the chair and stares at the ceiling.

“Can you believe I almost punched Xenon Ray tonight?”

“Considering how he shakes his hips in that coconut oil commercial, he might’ve enjoyed that.”

“In the face,” Sage clarifies. “Hard.”

A pause. Paisley sets her cup on the side table.

“That’s worse. Though I wouldn’t rule out him liking that too.”

They fall silent. The air between them is easy, slow, laced with the scent of night and something homey.

“I feel awful,” Sage says finally. Flatly. “Not because of him. Because of everything.”

“I know.”

“I want to rip it all out. Everything that’s built up. Everyone. Even myself.”

Paisley nods, this time looking straight at her.

“But you won’t, will you?”

“No,” Sage replies hoarsely. “Iris would kill me if I self-destructed.”

“And she’d be right to,” Paisley says, raising her cup again but not drinking. “I’d even help her. Hold your hair while she hits you with a slipper.”

Sage lets out a crooked, weak smile — but it’s real.

“You’re not very good at motivation.”

“I do what I can.”

Sage tucks her legs under her, like a child. Her knees are cold. Her skin — doesn’t feel like her own.

“I thought I’d manage. After the arena. After… everything. That I’d get used to it. That I could be this version of myself until it was all over.” She gestures vaguely, like she’s trying to taste the shape of her own shell. “But now I’m not even sure if it will ever be over. And every time I think I’m holding it together, I suddenly remember that all of this is actually happening.”

Paisley doesn’t answer right away. She just watches her — closely, but gently. Like someone who knows that too much kindness can sting just as badly as cruelty.

“That’s the weirdest part,” she says at last. “That it’s not a nightmare. It’s just life, and it suddenly turned into this. Without warning.”

Sage nods. Slowly.

“Didn’t even apologize.”

“Figures.”

Paisley places the cup back on the table. Moves a little closer — but doesn’t touch her.

“I had the same thing,” she says calmly, without turning it into a confession. “When I came back, it felt like my body wasn’t mine. And inside... there was just nothing left. And no one knew.”

Sage listens in silence. Just breathes — a little faster now.

“Everyone was just happy I survived,” Paisley says softly, her voice growing quieter, as if the air itself had thickened. “And I kept wondering why. Not because I wanted to die. But because what was left of me…” — she clasps her hands lightly, as if still holding something invisible — “wasn’t me. I was in love with a boy who got taken with me. Silly kind of love. We didn’t even really kiss. But it was… more than what the arena was supposed to allow.”

Sage doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

“I don’t know if you remember him. You were still little then. But he protected me,” Paisley says. “Not because he was some kind of hero... because he was human. And then they killed him. Right in front of me. And two days later, I killed the ones who did it. Not because I wanted to. Just… it happened. They came for me at night. I went after them in the morning. And that was it. End of the story.”

She looks away, squinting slightly, as if against a light that isn’t there. Sage presses her lips together, and when she finally speaks, there isn’t a trace of irony in her voice:

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. Just… I’m sorry. That it’s like this.”

Paisley smiles faintly. Sadly. Almost tenderly.

“I’m alive. Not the best outcome, but not the worst.” She falls quiet for a moment, then adds, softer: “Sometimes it feels like I’m living someone else’s life. But still — I’m living.”

Sage lowers her head to her knees, wrapping herself tighter in the blanket.

“And then I met a gloomy little cactus in the middle of her rebellious phase,” Paisley goes on. “And I had to figure out how to stay alive just to make sure she didn’t set the world on fire.”

Sage lets out a quiet laugh. Barely audible. Her cheeks flush slightly.

“You’re a good aunt.”

“I’m not your aunt,” Paisley snorts. “I’m only seven years older than you.”

“Exactly why you’re good at it.”

Paisley rolls her eyes, grabs a pillow, and tosses it at Sage with playful carelessness. Sage blocks it with her shoulder — and finally laughs for real. Quietly. Tiredly. But genuinely. And in that silence, for the first time in a long while, it feels like there’s room to breathe.

“Will you stay?” Sage whispers, on the edge of sleep.

“Where else would I go,” Paisley replies, picking up her book again.

And they sit there — in quiet, in warmth, in the night air where, for once, nothing presses in.

Notes:

rip sage, you would’ve loved manchild by sabrina carpenter

on a more chaotic note, i moved out of my country with a tyrannical government to europe this week, so now i can write about another country with a tyrannical government in peace. irony is dead. i buried her myself

Chapter 26

Notes:

this chapter contains graphic depictions of non-consensual sex and drug use. please take care of yourselves and skip if needed, your well-being is more important than anything i write.

if you're in a vulnerable place, maybe come back to this chapter later (or not at all — i promise you won't miss anything critical to the plot that you can't piece together later).

also: fuck this shit.

Two days later, she’s told they’d be delighted to see her at a private event that evening. Unofficial — no cameras, no audience.

“Just a friendly gathering, if your schedule allows,” the coordinator says with a tight smile. His voice is steady, but too quiet — the way people sound when they’re reciting someone else’s words, terrified to get them wrong. He tells her the limo will be waiting by the south exit, that the dress code is informal, that “it’s only friends in attendance.”

He even adds: you can relax. Those words catch in Sage’s throat like a bone.

And now, she’s here.

The mansion is too lavish, too big, with corridors where everything feels temporary — the furniture, the paintings, the people. Laughter bounces off the walls like a ball, drunk and sticky. There’s glass and mirrors and leather everywhere. The air hangs heavy with the scent of alcohol, perfume, smoke, and something else — sweet and synthetic — clinging like fog. People drift through it like ghosts, too loud and too bright, as if trying to outshout themselves.

Sage stands by the wall, in a corner. By a window. Between a curtain and a potted palm, trying to pass for furniture. She’s wearing a dress Flora picked out again — shiny, slippery, showing more than she’d like. Normally, heels make her uncomfortable, but right now she can’t even feel her feet. Her whole body is numb — like that moment before a fight, when the brain still tries to think, but instinct has already gone silent.

She doesn’t know exactly where she is. Some private estate in an elite corner of the Capitol, far from the official halls, far from the tributes and the monuments. No one here talks about Panem’s unity. In fact, no one really talks at all — they laugh, whisper, drink, embrace too tightly and for too long. Someone snorts white powder off a table. Someone dances, kicks off their shoes, forgets who they came with. Someone moans in the next room.

Sage knows almost no one here.

But everyone, apparently, knows her.

“There she is!” someone calls, raising a glass. “Sweet Sage, our star of the arena!”

She doesn’t reply. Just smiles politely. That’s all she does tonight — smile, and sip champagne slowly. It tastes like soap. Her mouth is dry.

And now she knows: there really are no cameras. And somehow, that makes it worse. No protocol. No script. No saving glare of spotlights to hide behind. Just her. The dress. And dozens of eyes. Too focused. Too hungry.

All these men and women in velvet and fur, laughing like they own everything here. And maybe they do. The people, the bodies, the futures.

Sage shifts a step sideways, ducking behind a column. Music spills from the speakers — something with a jazzy beat, fake and bright in this glittering hell. People approach her. Smile. Try to chat. One man with slicked-back hair and painted eyes offers her grapes from his fingers. She declines, politely. He laughs and walks away.

And that’s when she sees him.

He’s here too. Xenon. Smiling again, as if that other evening was just a pause between acts. His hand is already reaching for a glass, but his eyes — they’re on her. And the look in them now is different. Confident. Expectant.

A chill slides down her spine.

He walks up like an old friend, takes her elbow immediately — like there’s already something between them. Sage doesn’t pull away. She can’t. She feels like she’s back in the arena. One wrong move, and the audience will lose interest. Or worse — get angry.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he says. His voice is soft, like fur lining the jaws of a trap. “But I’m glad. Really.”

As always, she smiles without thinking. Because there’s no other way left to act.

“Sorry for what I said,” she says, voice smooth, even warm. Like she means it. Like she doesn’t feel the coil tightening inside her ribs. “I drank too much.”

He smiles wider. Drunk, or just in a good mood? Hard to tell. His hand is still on her arm — just a little too firm. Like an anchor. Or a leash.

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t apologize,” Xenon says. “It’s been a long day.”

He leans in closer. His lips almost brush her temple as he whispers, “And now we have the night.”

Sage smirks. Barely. Almost involuntarily. That’s all she has left in this world — almosts.

Xenon leads her through the crowd, effortlessly, like a dance. The room is massive, marble and glowing like the inside of a palace — except here, the crown is champagne flutes, and the throne is a leather sofa stained with spilled liquor. Laughter bounces off the walls. So does glass clinking, the scent of alcohol, powder, sweat, and that chemical-sweet haze that stings the nose. Someone drinks straight from the champagne fountain. Someone else laughs like they're on the verge of sobbing. And someone just watches.

Watches her.

At the far end of the room, a group lounges by a low table — two men and a woman in black, wearing electric blue eyeshadow like war paint. One of the men gestures wildly mid-story, performing like he’s onstage. The others laugh too soon, like laughter’s the price of the next drink, the next word.

“Friends,” Xenon says, guiding her in, “allow me to present our victor.”

He gestures to her like he’s unveiling a trophy.

“Sage,” she corrects, quietly.

They look at her with open curiosity, making no attempt to hide it. One leans forward — long fingers, a ring with an emblem she’s sure she’s seen somewhere before. The second lets his gaze drift from her shoulder to her waist, measuring her like a tailor with teeth. The woman in black smiles like a shark meeting prey.

“Even prettier in person,” she says, her voice too soft, too sweet. “Xenon said you’re stubborn. I love stubborn.”

Sage smiles again. The way she’s supposed to. With her lips, not her eyes. She can’t feel her face. What she can feel is the dress — too tight beneath her arms. The heels — digging into her feet. And the stares — clinging to her skin like spiderwebs.

“Sit,” Xenon says. “We were just missing…”

A pause.

“Someone honest.”

He winks.

She sits. All she wants is water. A quiet corner. Air. But instead, a glass is placed in her hand. Laughter fills her ears. Strangers say names she’ll never remember. And Xenon is beside her — far too close.

“Dorian,” says the man with the ring, offering his hand. “Dorian Lynx, if we’re being precise. Resort owner, and a bit of a poet when I have the time.”

He kisses the air above her fingers, too polished, too confident — like a man who hasn’t heard “no” in twenty years.

“Rubina,” says the woman with the blue eyeshadow. She leans back, crosses her legs — the anklets chime like laughter. “No last name, darling. My reputation is my last name.”

She winks, and Sage can’t tell whether it’s a joke or a threat.

“Portheus Mist,” says the third man. His voice is steady, but his hands tremble slightly, and his eyes are glassy. Drunk — deeply. “I’m just… here. Isn’t that enough?”

“He used to be the chief stylist of District Five,” Xenon murmurs beside her. “Then he moved on to philosophy. And psychotropics.”

Everyone laughs. Sage does too — politely. Then takes a sip from the glass she doesn’t remember picking up.

“You did well,” Rubina says. “I honestly thought that girl from Eleven would survive. But you — you were a surprise. A pleasant one.”

She giggles again. Sage nods. Her mouth tastes like metal and honey. And nothing at all.

“By the way,” says Dorian, suddenly clapping his hands, “aren’t you acquainted with Gloss?”

That’s when she sees him.

In the far corner, where the light is softer and the noise seems to dim on its own, stands Gloss — tall, composed, a body like it’s been carved from marble, and a face too flawless to be casual. Built for victory. Perfect to the point of discomfort. There’s a thin scar along his neck, like a memory, and a chain glints as he sips some bronze-colored drink.

It’s the third time Sage has seen him — and every time, he’s exactly the same. Calm. Too calm.

“Gloss, come over,” Xenon waves him over. “We’ve got a new guest.”

Gloss glances at her. There’s something in his eyes — unreadable. Then he walks over, sets down his glass, and takes a seat.

“Good to see you again,” he says.

She nods.

“You too.”

“There you go,” Portheus drawls, pleased. “Look, Xenon — our girl’s already found herself a match.”

“What?” Xenon raises an eyebrow, but he’s smiling. Wide. Too wide. “No, no — I just wanted to introduce her.”

But there’s something in his voice — a bell, soft and sharp. His arm presses closer. His hand lands on the back of her chair.

“Oh, come on,” Rubina purrs, “you have to admit — they’d look… what’s the word? Devastating. She’s an ice rose. He’s heroic marble. Their children would be so deliciously blond. Mmm?”

“Perfect pair,” Dorian adds. “Continuing the noble tradition — Victor meets Victor. A new dynasty.”

He lifts his glass.

“To Gloss and Sage!”

The room smells of wine, perfume, and something sharp — like hairspray. It's all shadows and neon glints; the lights from outside spill through glass walls, catching on goblets, rings, pupils. Music drips from hidden speakers, slow and lazy, like honey melting in the sun.

Sage is sitting next to Gloss. A little closer than she’d like. It’s unbearably awkward — but moving away would be obvious, and obvious is dangerous.

“Your district makes clothes, doesn’t it?” Dorian asks, watching her like she’s a museum piece. “Is it true everything there is made of concrete? Or is that just a myth?”

“Most things are made of fabric,” Sage answers, her voice calm.

The alcohol smooths out her tongue, adds color to her cheeks. She catches a flicker of approval in the others’ eyes — good girl, awkward jokes and all.

“Fabric!” Rubina cackles, fanning herself with one hand. “Dorian, stop it, you sound like a tourist at a petting zoo. The girl’s got a better sense of humor than you ever did.”

“And you, Gloss?” Xenon turns to him suddenly. “What about your sense of humor? Or were you always this serious?”

“I try to be polite around ladies,” Gloss says. He isn’t looking at Xenon — he’s looking at his glass.

“Ah, so that’s how it is,” Rubina purrs, eyes flicking from Sage to Gloss. “You two really are a perfect match. The beautifully silent couple.”

“She’s ice, he’s steel,” Portheus adds, his eyes half-lidded. “Very in right now. Emotional minimalism. A kind of… restrained tragedy.”

“Oh, please,” Xenon laughs, and Sage feels his fingers graze her back — like by accident, but not. She doesn’t flinch. Just takes another sip.

“Have you heard about Honora Velvet?” Rubina throws in abruptly. “They say she had an affair with that tribute from Two before the Games. Officially, nothing happened, of course, but the rumors say it was everything. Blood, gowns, kisses.”

Dorian nods.

“So touching. I’m sure someone’s already pitching the film rights.”

That’s when another girl appears — smudged lipstick, dazed gaze, like she’s looking straight through the room. She drops down onto the armrest of Portheus’s chair and reaches out a hand toward Sage.

“Wanna try?”

In her palm sits a tiny strip of silver, gleaming like a frozen tear.

“What is it?” Sage asks. Her voice doesn’t even sound like hers.

“We call it Eraser,” the girl says. “You eat it, and it deletes all the clutter. Anxiety, memories, shame… names. Works best in company.”

Someone nearby snorts.

“She’s only got two more days in the Capitol,” Xenon drawls. “Save the narcotics till morning. Let her finish becoming Panem’s sweetheart before she forgets how to speak.”

“We’re all sweethearts here,” Rubina says — not looking at Sage.

Sage looks at the silver strip. At the rings, the glasses, the reflections. Then — at Gloss. He doesn’t look back, just takes a slow, deliberate sip. She exhales and gently shakes her head.

“Maybe later.”

“My job is to offer,” the girl snorts.

The room seems smaller now. Denser. The air still thick with laughter, smoke, sweet alcohol fumes, and that chemical, glimmering edge. Conversations go on as if no one’s responsible for anything — no past, no future — just this velvet-lined now.

“You have such elegant hands,” Xenon says, leaning in. His voice is soaked in honey, but there’s something oily underneath. Slippery. Clinging. “Not really suited for hatchets and snares. Are you sure you were ever in the arena?”

“Are you sure you know how to give a compliment?” Sage replies, voice even, but with the hint of a smile.

“Cold front approaching,” Portheus mutters, lifting his glass. “Still, I stand by what I said — two victors is a far sexier concept. Why haven’t you two kissed yet?”

The laughter that follows is bright, sudden, explosive. Everyone turns to them. Sage freezes — like she’s been locked inside a glass display case. Gloss raises an eyebrow and answers, just a touch playful, just a touch ironic:

“Because I’m a gentleman,” he says, tilting his head slightly, as if trying to catch his reflection in her eyes. “And I don’t kiss girls without permission.”

He smiles — lazy, polished, almost professional. But when their eyes meet, Sage suddenly realizes he’s just as uncomfortable as she is.

Portheus groans dramatically.

“Well, that’s it. You two are officially the dullest victors we’ve ever had. Where’s the tragedy, the scandal, the passionate live broadcast kisses?”

“Save your thirst for drama for later,” Gloss shoots back, and clinks his glass against Sage’s with a clear, crystalline sound. “We’re only just warming up.”

“As you wish,” Portheus sighs. “Then I’ll invent your romance myself. It’ll have candelabras, a shower scene, gold leaf, and a deep layer of political irony.”

“I’m scared of you,” Rubina laughs.

“As you should be.”

Xenon stands up, takes Sage’s hand like a gentleman from an old book, and tilts his head with theatrical charm. There’s a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Allow me to steal you away from this madhouse.”

And before she can answer, he’s already leading her toward the glass doors that open onto the balcony.

Outside, it’s quieter. And yet the Capitol’s hum doesn’t fade — it’s eternal, like the city’s breath: distant fountains, music from other terraces, the rhythmic pulse of cars far below.

The balcony is wide, with a translucent floor glowing softly blue from within. The city stretches out in the distance — streets lit up like arteries, broken slopes, rooftops with hidden gardens, domes, antennas, spires. In the sky, airships glitter like stars.

Only they move. The stars here died long ago. Or maybe they’re just hidden behind the city lights.

“Beautiful?” Xenon asks, leaning on the railing.

Sage nods, but her eyes are unfocused. Beauty here tastes like iron. She can’t quite exhale — like her lungs are half-filled with wool.

"You're tense," he says, watching her carefully. "It’ll pass. Everyone’s in shock at first. Especially those who’ve lived in the gray too long."

He steps closer, unhurried, and his fingers brush the bend of her elbow.

"You know, in the Games, you were… clean. Not like most. No theatrics. No posturing."

Sage nods again. It’s easier than arguing. Xenon leans in.

"Makes me wonder… does any of that girl survive the victory?"

And before she can answer, he kisses her.

It’s not tender — it’s rehearsed. Lips soft, breath hot, scented with tobacco, citrus, and something deeper — hunger, almost mechanical. He doesn’t ask. He takes.

One hand settles at her waist, the other just above her thigh. His movements are confident, like this has already happened, like she agreed to it quietly, signed something while no one was looking. He pulls her closer, presses into the kiss. Her fingers tremble slightly on the railing.

Sage doesn’t push him away. But she doesn’t kiss back, either. Somewhere in her mind, a single thought pulses: just don’t cry.

This isn’t really about her. Or him. It’s a capsule, swallowed for the sake of an audience.

The kiss turns out to be long. Or maybe just feels like it is. Everything blurs a little, like looking through water — the Capitol lights, the music behind them, even her own body. But in the middle of that blur, sharp as a blade, a face appears.

Henley.

The contrast stings. His green eyes — slightly slanted, crinkling at the corners when he smiled. His voice, always a little husky in the mornings. The way he covered his mouth with one hand when he laughed. So vividly alive. So real. His hands never rushed. He always waited for her to say “yes.”

Sage blinks. The face is gone.

She leans back slightly, but Xenon doesn’t notice. His kisses grow more insistent, his hands sliding lower — one lingers at her waistband, the other tests the hem of her dress. His fingers are cold, deliberate, searching.

Her heart isn’t pounding with arousal. It’s pounding with dread.

He traces a line along the inside of her thigh, touches the edge of her underwear. Sage gently places a hand on his chest, stopping him.

"Not here," she says, almost in a whisper. Her voice is calm, composed. Like she’s asking him to wait a few minutes before dinner, not saying no.

Xenon freezes for a second. Not offended — more surprised. Then he smirks and pulls back, straightening up.

"You’ve got nerves of steel," he says. "Or incredible restraint."

He brushes her cheek with his fingers — not affectionately, more like marking a checkpoint.

"Well. That’s even more interesting."

Sage doesn’t answer. She just steadies her breath and walks back toward the door to the lounge. The return to light, to chatter, to laughter feels abrupt. Like surfacing from water straight into heat.

"Finally!" Rubina shouts the moment they step back into the room. "We were placing bets on how long you'd last out there. I said twenty minutes, so… I lost, but at least the drink was worth it."

"Balconies are dangerous things," Portheus chuckles. "I once stepped out on one with a girl and nearly had to marry her."

"I once escaped from a balcony," throws in the girl who’d offered Sage the drug, lighting a cigarette. "Guess where from?"

She exhales a thin line of smoke and adds:

"From a producer’s penthouse. The bastard turned out to be married. Can you imagine?"

"Classic Eurus. How was the landing?" Portheus asks, not bothering to hide his amusement.

"First onto the roof of a limo. Then — into the morning news. It was spectacular," she smirks. "Also, I ripped a five-thousand-coin dress."

"Hopefully not your own," says Rubina, reaching for another drink. "Though… even if it was — sounds like a successful evening."

Sage smiles with the corner of her mouth, like someone watching the whole glittering masquerade from far away. An outsider among insiders. An insider among strangers.

"So," Rubina calls out, tipping her glass toward Sage, "what did you two do out there? Pray? Meditate? Gaze at the stars?"

Sage catches the motion out of the corner of her eye — Xenon setting down his glass.

"The balcony was multitasking," she says. "We managed to be quiet, to breathe, and..."

"...have a little fun," Xenon cuts in.

"Finally," sighs Rubina, like she’s been waiting for this moment all evening. "I was starting to think you were a robot."

Dorian raises an eyebrow.

"With Xenon? Forgive me while I process that. Not that I doubt your taste, Sage… well, maybe a little."

"That’s called falling in love," Eurus sings, taking another drag. "Or losing your survival instinct."

Laughter ripples through the room. Outside, the night hums, neon slicing through glass, and it feels like this evening might never end. The group drifts back into its usual rhythm: silly stories, filthy jokes, gossip about which designer is sleeping with whom and just how real a certain pop star's breasts are.

Someone tells a joke about the mayor of District Seven and a horse who, on paper, is listed as his wife. Rubina is already on the floor, her cheek pressed against a fur pillow, giggling through red lipstick. Eurus, Portheus, and Xenon are arguing about whether some girl deserved to win a reality show about weddings.

Sage sits still, like something in her has tilted inward. Everything inside her rings — not with noise, but with a thin, glassy resonance. Like a wineglass struck just once at the rim. She tries not to think about Henley, but after Xenon’s kiss, his absence has grown more pointed. Nothing in this room reminds her of home — and yet everything makes her miss it.

She picks up a glass. A sip. Then another. The wine is thick, sweet, almost syrupy. It leaves a sticky aftertaste on her lips and a tingle on her tongue. She doesn’t notice.

"Well, well," Dorian remarks. "I thought you were innocent, but look at you — a little snowball rolling downhill. One push and off you go."

"I'm practicing," Sage says.

Her voice is slower now, silkier, like she’s humming her words.

"Oh?" Eurus lifts her head. "The girl wants to catch up with us?"

"Don’t say it like that," Xenon mutters lazily, not even looking. "Sounds like a challenge."

"Because it is one," Rubina snorts, still facedown. "Let’s get her drunk and see how she dances. Maybe she’ll start reciting poetry, like that girl from last year."

Laughter again. Light, warm, sliding through the air like the alcohol. Sage downs her drink in one long gulp.

Rubina squeals, "Look at her! She’s learning to be a little hedonist!"

Sage laughs a beat too long. Her stomach feels both heavy and hollow. Her head, stuffed with wool. Her fingers are numb, her lips a little dry. And deep inside, something is growing — slow and round and loud.

Anxiety.

Loud. Whole. Without a reason, but with the distinct sense that something is about to snap. The room is too bright. Too many faces. Too many sounds. Too much laughing. Hands moving too fast. Breaths that don’t belong to her. Someone behind her says something too loud, and she flinches.

I shouldn’t be here.

Her hand reaches for another glass — third? Fourth? Fifth? The wine is bitter now. Almost like blood. But she drinks. Because that makes everything blurrier.

"You wouldn’t want to, say…" Xenon drawls, "sit on my lap for a bit?"

Sage looks at him, her eyes slightly glazed, and shakes her head.

"I’ve got my own lap," she says. "Very comfortable one."

Everyone giggles. Even Dorian, even Eurus.

Sage smiles. She always smiles.

Meanwhile, panic is blooming quietly in her chest — like something lodged between her ribs. Something that doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, but poisons the air. She can’t tell where her body ends and the anxiety begins. It’s all one blur.

Henley…

Don’t think.

Rosie…

Hush.

Mom…

Shut up.

She lifts another glass — not sure who poured it. Maybe Portheus. Maybe Rubina. Maybe it’s just been in her hand this whole time.

A sip. It burns. Nicely.

Another — with barely a pause.

Xenon notices. He raises an eyebrow and laughs but doesn’t come closer. He’s decided the moment’s passed. Now he’s watching — playing some spoiled version of a hunter, waiting for the prey to walk into the trap on its own.

"You drink like there’s no tomorrow," he says.

"Maybe there isn’t," Sage giggles — slurred, tipsy, lost.

Gloss is still beside her. He hasn’t said a word, but at some point, he places his hand on the back of the couch, just barely brushing her shoulder — as if to anchor her. It’s neutral, almost brotherly.

Sage struggles to focus. The air is too warm. The room slightly tilted. Her heart beats in her throat, in her temples, in her fingertips.

"Get her some water," someone says — not loudly, not seriously. Just a line tossed into the noise.

They hand her a cocktail instead. She takes it like an order. And downs it.

She thinks she’s smiling — but her lips might be trembling.

She wishes it would all go quiet.

No voices.

No looks.

But it’s the opposite — every sound hits her like a blow to the chest. Every laugh snaps like a slap to the ear. The light cuts like knives to the eyes. Her face is burning. Her palms are damp.

"Sage," someone calls out, "are you always this quiet, or only when you’re drunk?"

"Or are you just scared of us?" Portheus adds. "Don’t be. We’re nice. Most of us."

"Well… not always," Rubina laughs.

"She probably thinks if she’s really sweet, we’ll pity her and stop making her drink," Eurus giggles. "But sorry, sweetheart — we’ve got no pity. No shame either."

Sage laughs. Maybe. She hears laughing.

Her throat’s dry, though she just drank.

Her ears ring.

Like empty glasses chiming inside her skull.

And something rises. Cold. Sticky. Vile.

Panic.

But her face is still calm.

Another sip.

This time — not wine. Something stronger.

She swallows without tasting.

Fire down her throat.

And behind it — a strange, heavy silence.

The kind that comes after a kill.

Music returns slowly — first like a whisper from another room. Then louder. As if the whole mansion is a giant drum, and the sound vibrates in the walls, the floor, her chest. The bass throbs like a giant’s heartbeat: slow, relentless, crushing.

The light shifts. Fewer lamps, more glow. Strings of lights blink somewhere. A neon crescent flickers on. The windows are black now — like the night behind them has gone extinct.

Sage is standing. Or sitting. Is she being helped up — or did she stand on her own?

Everything is blurred, like she’s looking through fogged-up glass.

Someone is holding her hand. Someone strokes her shoulder. Another hand offers her a fresh drink, and she takes it — mindlessly, reflexively. The sweet sting of alcohol no longer stirs want or disgust. It’s just another sip.

“Come on, pretty thing,” says a man. His face is angular, shadowed with stubble, a ring on his pinky. He smells of expensive cologne — and something else. Sharp. Metallic.

His grip tightens around her wrist.

“It’s quieter over there.”

He nods toward the hallway. A bathroom door swings open — someone steps out with messy hair and a smug grin.

Sage shakes her head — barely, weakly. She can’t speak. Her tongue feels wrapped in wool. The air clings to her throat like syrup.

“Sorry, man,” a familiar voice cuts in — cold and honey-sweet. “I already paid for her company.”

Xenon emerges from the smoke — effortless, elegant, like the scene is unfolding by his script. The man releases her with a look of annoyance but doesn’t argue. Mumbles something about “not knowing” and fades into the crowd.

Sage blinks. She’s too drunk to process.

Paid?

She wants to ask — but her mouth won’t form words.

The straps of her dress are sliding down, slow and stubborn, baring skin like it’s under a spotlight.

Xenon steps closer, adjusts them — seemingly tender — but his hand drifts lower than it should, lingers on her chest longer than is decent. His thumbs brush over her nipples, like by accident.

“Careful, baby,” he whispers. “People lose their faces fast around here. And their clothes.”

Sage tries to smile. Or maybe just tries not to cry. There are more people now. Faces she doesn’t recognize. Someone’s dancing. Someone’s wrapped around someone else on the floor. Someone’s having sex on a windowsill — like it’s just another pose for a photoshoot.

Gloss is nowhere. Portheus is laughing, perched on the kitchen counter, watching a couple snort something white off a table. Rubina is kissing a girl in a mask. Noise. Light. Movement. Like the whole world has started spinning faster.

Sage stands in the middle of the room, but inside she feels like she’s stuck in a swamp.

Every movement takes effort. Every thought drags through cotton. She feels a hand trail along her waist. Someone laughs too loud. Someone grabs her elbow, asks, “Who’d you come with?”. She doesn’t know. Or maybe she does — but can’t remember.

Revulsion rises — sudden and sharp, like a gag in her throat. Dirty. Not physical — spiritual. Everything around her feels sticky, sweaty, warped. The people don’t even have real faces anymore — just eyes. Hungry, gleaming. Predatory.

Sage wants to close her eyes. Wants to leave. Wants to go home. But her legs won’t move. And the dress keeps slipping. And Xenon’s hand is already on her thigh.

Not a single voice in the room sounds real.

Everything is a performance.

Everything is fake.

And she — she’s just a glass doll in a window display.

And someone’s already reaching to take her.

The light seems even brighter now. Red — like blood pouring from the gates of hell. It pulses with the music, heavy and dull, like hammers pounding the inside of her skull — the way Sage’s hatchet once pounded Marina’s head.

She’s pressed against the wall, shoulder blades against something cold and solid. Someone handed her another drink — she thinks it was Dorian, who winked and said:

“Come on, blondie. You’re our poster girl for good old madness.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t want to. Just took a sip — sharp, syrupy, burning her throat. Like a gulp of gasoline. And then Xenon is beside her again. He appears without warning, without footsteps.

Steps in close, touches her chin with his fingers, and leans in. His lips are cold, damp, tasting of someone else’s alcohol. He kisses her — slowly, deliberately. And this time, Sage kisses him back.

Someone whistles.

Someone cheers.

“Whoooa!”

“She’s gonna eat him alive!”

“Attaboy, Xenon! Take her to the bedroom!”

Sage says nothing. Her hands are still clutching the glass. She takes another sip. And another. Wine, or rum? Tequila? Doesn’t matter. It all blurs into one. The tears stay trapped beneath her skin, never reaching her eyes.

A hard slap lands on her ass — loud, sharp. She jerks, nearly spilling her drink.

“What a snack,” slurs a girl with bright green eyeshadow, dancing in a lace bra and feathered skirt.

Someone on the couch is fondling someone else through a dress. Another couple is having sex near the decorative fountain — not even turning away. Someone sits cross-legged on the floor, smoking a joint. From another room come moans and giggles. On the table, next to half-empty champagne, a deck of cards lies scattered — someone’s poured pills over it.

Sage feels her legs going soft. The floor beneath her turns liquid, slippery. Xenon laughs and murmurs in her ear:

“You’re so beautiful when you’re just about to lose control… I think you’d like what I’ve planned. We could keep going. Here, or… somewhere quieter.”

His hand slides down again — gently, along her back, then lower. Not rough, but certain. He isn’t in a hurry. He knows how these parties work.

Sage opens her mouth to speak — but her tongue catches on the roof of her mouth, like a broken lever. Instead of words, she swallows more. Alcohol spills down her chin.

The nausea hits fast. Thick, warm, traitorous. Everything around her is sickly-sweet, cloying, suffocating. Like the world is glazed in sticky sugar — but already starting to rot underneath.

Inside — a tremble.

Not panic. Not exactly.

More like primal fear.

But she can’t leave.

Can’t even stand straight.

Someone laughs.

Someone says, “Xenon finally cracked the Ice Queen.”

Sage wants to disappear. And for a split second, she feels like she already is.

The music still thunders in her head when Xenon, in what has become a near-caricature of gentlemanly flair, bows with an exaggerated smile and declares:

“Ladies and gentlemen, time to bid adieu. I’m taking our lovely fairy with me. She’s had a long day… and, it seems, an even more magical night awaits.”

Someone in the crowd shouts:

“DON’T LOSE HER, XENON!”

“TIE HER TO THE BED!”

Laughter. Applause. Burning gazes.

Sage feels the floor sway beneath her, though they’re already walking down a hallway. At first, she doesn’t even realize they’ve stepped outside — not until cool air slaps her face and her hair lifts as if caught in someone’s breath.

“Careful, sweetheart,” Xenon says gently, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and easing her into the car. His skin is warm, almost sticky. He smells of something chemical.

The engine hums to life, and the city begins to smear past the windows. Traffic lights — green, red, yellow — flash like cards in a strange game. Buildings blur into shapeless smudges. A figure flashes by at a crosswalk. A voice — someone’s — reaches her from somewhere, but she can’t place it. The car lurches forward, jerking occasionally as if diving beneath the asphalt.

Sage’s eyes sting with tears. Her fingers slip on the seat; she leans back, then forward, unsteady.

“You’re tired,” Xenon whispers, almost tenderly. “It’s all right now. You’re with me.”

She doesn’t answer. Her tongue feels dry as sand.

When the car stops, the door doesn’t open right away. The driver steps out first, circles the car, and opens Xenon’s door with a polished sweep. Xenon steps out like a knight with a predatory grin, offering her his hand.

Sage nearly spills out. She stumbles over the threshold. His arms catch her again.

“Careful, princess. We’re almost home.”

Xenon’s home turns out to be strange. A tall building wedged between concrete blocks. The balconies are wrought iron; the climbing plants — dead, but carefully tied in place.

Inside, it’s warm. A hallway with black-and-white tiled floors. The walls lined with old theater posters and paintings in gold frames, like in a museum. One shows a weeping woman. Another — a life-sized marionette. Thick, dark rugs cover the floor, patterned with ornate motifs. The air smells of vanilla, wood smoke, and something sharp — like spices, or burning rubber.

Xenon leads her into a large room — spacious, draped in velvet curtains that nearly block out the windows. An enormous leather sofa. Lamps with soft, golden light. The walls are lined with bookshelves, bottles, strange glass figurines — one of which, she thinks, just moved. Or maybe Sage's head is just spinning.

“Well then,” he turns to her, “relax. No one’s going to bother us. Want something to help you calm down?”

He rummages through a drawer, pulls out a small box, and sets it in front of Sage. His movements are slow, almost ceremonial. The latch clicks, the lid flips open—and inside, Sage sees neat rows: tiny vials filled with colorful liquids, white paper wraps, capsules, tubes, even lollipops in clear wrappers.

Xenon holds one of the ampoules up to the light—dark blue liquid shimmering inside, like the moon swimming through ink.

“It’s like a dream,” he says, watching her closely. “Slow, deep, warm. No pain, no fear, no thoughts. Everything fades away. Just you, and the glow, and bliss.”

Sage says nothing. She’s trying—failing—to make sense of where she is, why the room is shifting, why her whole body feels like it’s been filled with lead. Her lips are swollen and dry. Her throat stings, like she drank vinegar. There’s a hollow ache in her stomach, a dull but insistent burn.

“Or maybe this?” he offers, holding up a small blister pack of pills. “Half of one and you’ll feel like you’re in a fairytale. Float away from all this… into something beautiful. Almost as beautiful as this room.”

He smiles. Almost gently. But his eyes—something’s wrong with them. Reflective, but empty. Like glass.

Sage tries to lift her hand, but her fingers won’t obey. Her head bobs—whether in agreement or weakness, she can’t tell. Her whole body trembles, like someone standing at the edge of hypothermia.

Xenon picks up a capsule, places it in his palm, and offers it to her.

“You’ll be okay,” he says softly. “I promise. I’m here. Trust me. You’re tired. You deserve a break.”

He strokes her back, her shoulder. Sage stares at the pill in his hand and feels something inside her collapse.

The world narrows into a tunnel. The light is yellow, sickly. And the question—heavy, like stone: If she takes it… will she wake up again?

Or maybe… maybe it would be better if she didn’t.

The pill slips inside like a shard of ice. The taste—metallic. Or is that blood? She doesn’t know. She can’t know anymore. Everything falls quiet. The world pulls back, like a curtain, leaving behind only patches of light, rustling sounds, distorted voices.

The first thing she registers is a thunderbolt. Not lighting. Not even close. It’s something near. Something tearing fabric. Or soul.

Light comes from behind her. He says something, but the words unravel into fragments.

“Little miss Sage,” Xenon whispers. “You’re a clever girl. Those eyes catch everything, don’t they? You and me, we’re alike. I’ve always been clever too. So clever, they said I was dumb.”

There’s a joy on his face that Sage doesn’t recognize. His fingers feel like someone else’s. The movements no longer hers. She can’t tell if her eyes are open.

She can’t tell who she is.

Laughter. Somewhere nearby. Maybe it’s Xenon’s. Maybe her own. The pills are kicking in, or maybe she’s just finally realizing—she’s never felt this good before. She’s always been unhappy, even as a child, even before the Reaping—how had she never noticed?  

"There’s something inside you," he said. "Something that makes you sad. And you know what? It makes me sad too. People wanted to break a girl so beautiful, so special. They hurt her. Because that’s what people do."

Sage’s eyes sting.  

"But they didn’t break you, princess. You came to us. Our special little victor. So forget all the shit that came before."

Sage knew it was leading here, and yet she’s still surprised. By the way Xenon pulls down his pants, revealing short, hairy legs. She hesitates, her gaze lingering.  

"I can help you," he says. "But you have to want it." His eyes lock onto hers: "Do you, Sage?"

She doesn’t answer. For some reason, her mind conjures a dead bird she once found as a child on the pavement. It had been warm, too. Just as still.  

"You’ll like it," Xenon murmurs. "Come here. Look at me. We can make each other feel better. No need to be sad."

She flinches when he grabs her head, pulling her down to his lap. The room swims, and she jerks back too late. Xenon leans in, peering down at her with something like indulgence.  

"I don’t wanna hurt you, princess," he says, offering his hand. Her heart flickers fast. "I love you. I wanna be closer to you. And don’t you want me to feel good? I want you to feel good."

Sage blinks, but she doesn’t feel like a body. She isn’t inside one. She’s watching from above, or inside the wall, or behind the mirror. Everything seems flat. Empty. Memories come in flashes, fragments. She doesn’t even process what’s happening before his fingers tangle in her hair, and salt spreads wet in her mouth.  

A moment later, with a gurgling sigh, Xenon hugs her, pulls her up onto wobbling legs, an arm around her shoulders. Should she cry? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know anything, only that his fingers are inside her, that he’s saying her name, and it sounds strange—who the hell names their kid after flowers in a district where nothing grows?—but also precious, like it belongs to some other, better, the Capitol version of Sage.

She feels sick. Or maybe not. A weird taste in her mouth. Will he let her go after this? Unfamiliar prickling in her eyes. Something wet. Or sticky. The smell of burnt sugar. Or incense. Or blood. The air thick, cloying.  

Her whole body is a paper doll. Brittle. Not hers. What if she’s already gone? What if she’s dead and just hasn’t realized it yet?  

Sage doesn’t know how much time has passed.  

Minutes? Hours? A whole lifetime?

The curtains are still drawn, and the light in the room feels timeless—like on the arena, where day and night don’t matter. The air is thick and motionless, as if it got stuck in a house that doesn’t want it. Just like she doesn't.

The house is silent. Sage lies on the couch, half-covered by a blanket, half-naked. Her hair sticks to her temple and, it seems, to the back of her neck. Her skin is sticky. Lips—dry. Her throat—empty.

She feels no pain. No fear. Just—nothing.

She turns her head—or thinks she does. The room swims. The corners tremble. The walls seem to bend. Floor, ceiling—it’s all the same. As if reality has shifted into a different phase, where there’s no time, no tongue, no thought.

I’m here. I’m inside. But not me.

And this still isn’t over.

Somewhere in the corner, Xenon is murmuring—something about how she’s “sweet,” how “everything’s perfect,” how he’s “proud of her trust.” His voice feels distant and flat. Like the sound of a television in an empty room.

She tries to focus on some object—a glass figurine on the shelf. The same one that seemed to move earlier. Now it feels fully alive. Pulsing. Breathing.

Sage blinks. The room changes suddenly. Now the curtains are open, harsh light hitting her face. Her heart beats—slow, heavy. Her body sinks like a stone. She wants to disappear. Dissolve. Scatter into light, air, dust. Anything but this.

She doesn’t cry. There are no tears. Not even the attempt. Just empty, terrifying silence inside. Like after an explosion. Why does she feel so tired? She needs to get up. She needs to find her dress. She needs to...

A dull, steady knock.

“Housekeeping,” a voice says from behind the door, muffled, like underwater.

Sage opens her eyes, now waking fully.

At first, she doesn’t recognize the ceiling. It looks unfamiliar, too high. Plaster with fine cracks, one of them holding a wisp of cobweb. Funny. An imperfect detail in this world.

She’s still lying crosswise on the couch, one knee tucked under her, the other dropped to the floor. Her skin feels foreign everywhere, even her eyelids—too heavy.

The smell. Alcohol, tobacco, sweat. Something stale, invasive. A sweetish sourness of cheap perfume. Vanilla mixed with something rancid. Like the air itself has been soaked in a rotting cake.

The room is a mess, but not in the chaotic, living way—in the kind that feels like something died. Glasses on the floor, one chipped at the rim. Her tights bunched into a knot. Cigarette ash on the rug. On the armrest of the chair—a dark red stain, probably wine. She hopes it’s wine.

Two masks lie under the side table. Theatrical. One smiling, the other weeping. Both have their eyes gouged out.

Sage slowly starts to rise. Or tries to. Sharp pain in her stomach, her head, her neck. She groans, silently.

Her dress... where is it?

Only a thin hem clings to her side, barely covering anything. She reaches for it—the fabric falls apart in her fingers. Everything else is torn. Straps hang like shredded ribbons. One shoe is under the table. The other is gone.

She gets to her feet with difficulty, wobbling, bare soles brushing against the carpet. The mirror across the room gives her a fragmented look at herself. Tangled hair. Bite marks on her shoulders, bruises on her thighs, hickeys on her chest. Makeup smeared. Eyes red, pupils blown wide. A thin cut on her lip.

She turns away.

Her stomach twists.

Sage stumbles to the nearest door—it opens to a tiny bathroom. She braces her hands on the sink. Looks into the mirror for one second, then suddenly bends forward.

She vomits. First just a little, then everything, until her throat burns with acid. The convulsions won’t stop. Her lips tremble, her hands slip on the tiles. When it’s over, she stays on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, back pressed to the cold wall.

The knocking at the door comes again. Louder now. Closer.

"Please open up. I need to clean the room."

Sage doesn’t answer. She just closes her eyes and rests her forehead against her knees.

Xenon is gone. No voice, no breath, no shadow. As if he vanished. And she remained. Alone, in a place that still smelled like him.

Sage blinks slowly, feeling her body still pulsing with faint waves of nausea and fatigue. Instead of comfort, there’s only a hollow, heavy space inside her, as if she leaked out of herself, leaving only the shell behind.

She doesn’t remember how she ends up in the car, and she doesn’t care where she is or where she’s going. Only the dim beam of headlights and the soft purr of the engine seem real.

The driver Xenon sent looks like a shadow behind the wheel—silent, calm, unmoving, like part of the car itself. Sometimes he glances at Sage in the rearview mirror with quiet curiosity, but she doesn’t even register it. They brought her new clothes, but she can't wait to take them off. She needs a shower. She needs to wash away this night and forget that it ever happened.

When the car stops in front of training center, the world tilts even more. Her hands shake, but she manages to open the door and walk to the entrance, moving on autopilot.

The apartment smells familiar—coffee, Alcyon’s faint perfume, mixed with something sweet and vanilla-clean. But it all feels foreign now. Too bright. Too sharp.

“Sage?” Cecelia’s voice comes softly but firmly as she approaches, seeing how Sage can barely stand. “Are you alright?”

But Sage doesn’t answer. She can’t. Her mind feels empty, even her thoughts echo like they’re trapped in fog.

Cecelia reaches for her hand—gently, almost like a friend trying to anchor her to reality. But Sage pulls back and keeps walking, straight to her room.

The door clicks shut behind her.

The room is dark, with only a thin beam of streetlight slipping through the curtains, casting strange patterns across the walls.

Sage slowly sits on the edge of the bed, placing a pillow on her lap. There’s a deep, frozen stillness in her eyes, as if she no longer cares. She cradles her head in her hands and takes several slow, deliberate breaths, trying to find even a flicker of calm.

But instead of tears, there’s only a strange kind of ache, as if everything that once felt alive has been buried under a heavy weight of numb exhaustion.

Sage presses back against the headboard, rests her head on her knees, as if trying to hide from herself. And in that silence—where even breathing feels too loud—her fear, her hopelessness, her weariness all settle in, quiet and unshakable.

She doesn’t cry. She just stays there—dissolved into the void, far from the world and even farther from herself.

Notes:

this was, hands down, the hardest thing i've written in a long time — emotionally, morally, just… all of it. i had to take several breaks. poor sage. she deserved better :(

Chapter 27

The train is heading back to District Eight.

Outside the window — fields, grey with fog. Mountains like old men hunched over. Telegraph poles race past like a heartbeat. The carriages sway gently, and Sage feels like she’s floating inside something warm and viscous — inside a lulling machine carrying her back to where things are supposed to be normal. Or at least where she can pretend they are.

Alcyon sits across from her, one leg over the other, coffee mug in hand, tablet on his knee. He’s wearing glasses he only puts on during travel, with the air of someone very determined to look unbothered.

“Panem’s darling spotted at Xenon Ray’s estate,” he reads aloud. “Eyewitnesses claim the actor personally invited her to his mansion following a private party. One source adds: ‘They looked… close.’ Hm.”

He glances over his glasses at her.

“Is that true?”

Sage doesn’t answer.

“Next bit: ‘Some partygoers say there was obvious chemistry between them. Ray’s rep declined to comment.’ So tell me — are you declining to comment now too, or will you admit you finally let yourself have a little fun for once?”

Sage looks at her lap. Then the window. Then — nowhere. Everything blurs. The trees outside don’t seem to move; they flip past like slides. The hum of the train becomes a rising whine. Alcyon keeps talking, but the words melt like soggy cardboard.

She blinks. Once. Then again. Her eyelids feel heavy, like someone pressed down on them from inside. The air is thick, like honey. Her skin doesn’t feel the seat beneath her. Her head — like an aquarium.

“Sage?”

Alcyon’s voice shifts a little. She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t turn her head. Only her lashes tremble, barely.

“Hey.”

He reaches toward her, almost touching — and then Paisley cuts in:

“Enough!”

Alcyon pulls his hand back.

“I was just—”

“Shut up if you don’t know when to stop.”

Paisley stands in the aisle between the seats, hands in her pockets, but her eyes are blazing.

Sage flinches — not so much with her body as somewhere deeper, from within. Paisley’s voice hits like a fist against glass. Everything around freezes. The hum of the train falls away. The air becomes real again. The weight in her chest settles a little, like dust.

Sage blinks, slowly, like after a flash, and for the first time all day her vision sharpens.

Paisley is still the same — in her jacket, with unruly blonde curls and a voice that always seemed too high-pitched for her sharp tongue. But now something else flickers through her — something sharp, angry in exactly the right way.

Sage has never seen her like this, and somehow, that anchors her. Like reality has started breathing again.

Alcyon leans back in his seat. Slowly. Raises both hands like he’s surrendering.

“Alright,” he says. “Alright. I promise to respect your private life, ladies.”

Silence returns to the carriage, broken only by the steady rhythm of the rails.

Sage still can’t bring herself to move. Only her fingers twitch slightly on her knees — like something inside them is still resisting what happened in that room.

The train keeps rattling on. Rhythmic. Mechanical. Like it’s tapping out a heartbeat that’s long since lost its rhythm.

Sage feels Paisley’s gaze linger on her for a moment, just a moment. She hears her sit down beside her, the seat’s upholstery creaking softly. No one says anything. Sage lowers her eyes. There’s pink polish on her nails. It glints mockingly in the light.

The train rides too smoothly. Outside, the landscape is still gray, smeared — as if the world beyond the glass couldn’t quite finish painting itself.

Inside the carriage, it’s warm. Almost cozy. And that somehow makes it worse.

As if her body has come home, but her mind is still there — in that room with velvet curtains, a leather sofa, and cracks in the ceiling.

And this isn’t even the worst of it. This was... within expectations. The Capitol hadn’t really lied to her about what it was. It just waited. Waited for her to get used to the hands. To start laughing back. To drink enough to forget her own name. To stop knowing where the performance ended and her body began.

She never remembered exactly what happened after she took that pill. It was all fog. Phrases — in fragments. Light — in bursts. Sound — underwater. Only certain details remain: the smell of liquor, a slippery voice, cold glass against her back. And the white fog. Something dissolved — in the air, in the kiss, in her.

Everything blurred: hands, smudges, laughter. Was there pain? Probably. But dulled, distant. Not the kind of pain you could scream with. The memories are like a room with no lights — the corners hidden, but the shards still there. You know exactly where they are. You just know better than to move.

Sometimes, Sage thinks it would be better if she remembered everything. So she could know for sure what exactly was taken from her. But other times, she’s almost grateful for the gaps—grateful for the murky, sticky void left behind in place of that night. Because if she remembered it all—truly remembered—she might go insane.

This way… her hands only tremble. Her skin just flinches a little at strangers’ voices, at glances, at the mention of his name—as if something is pulling her back. To that house. That evening. Those hands.

Of course she knew it would happen. Even before stepping into the mansion. Even before the first drink. It happened. And it will happen again. Because she’s a Victor. Because now she can be touched, kissed, bought, discussed. Because now she’s a star.

And all of it is soaked in guilt. Guilt for the ones who died so she could live. Guilt for the girl she used to be before her name was called at the Reaping. Guilt for Henley.

She won’t tell him. Not ever. He’d understand—but not the right way. He believes in justice. He believes people can be saved if you just love them hard enough. He’d go looking for someone to blame. He’d try to save her, and it would end badly. And all Sage wants now is to be left alone.

She grips the armrest—hard, until it hurts. Her knuckles go white. The train hums. She stares out the window—and sees nothing.

Sage is sitting in a soft, fabric-covered seat, in a perfectly safe train car, and she still feels like she’s lying barefoot on a cold floor, wondering why no one’s come to take her back to a safe, quiet life. Because that life is gone. And it’s never coming back.

Paisley is distracting Alcyon, telling them both silly stories—about a cook who didn’t know what barley was, about Flora crying over some movie, and about how Cecelia is allergic to apricots and didn’t realize there were apricots in the champagne. Now her voice is calm again. Not pitying, not anxious. Just there. A thread to hold onto, so Sage doesn’t fall.

Sage knows Paisley is filling the space—so there’s no room left for talking about Xenon. And she’s grateful. For the silence, for the breathing in the same air, for the slow path back.

Sage listens. Doesn’t respond. But she nods sometimes—barely. She can’t talk about what she’s really thinking. It’s still there, inside her—but it’s too fragile, too formless to let out.

She tries not to wonder what happened that night, but she can't make herself stop. Maybe she smiled. Maybe Sage played along with Xenon. Maybe they flirted. Maybe she was just trying to keep face. Maybe she did everything they'd taught her before interviews: be agreeable, be grateful, be good.

Maybe Xenon thought that’s who she really was. Good. Ready for anything. Maybe later he brought someone else in, or maybe she's just making that up to hurt herself more. Sage doesn't know, and it's like a needle under her nail. It won't let her sleep. Won’t let her breathe. Now everything is covered in a fog.

At last, the train stops with a quiet hiss, almost like a sigh of relief. As if it's tired too, tired of carrying all of them back. The platform is nearly empty. Just the cold morning light and Peacekeepers with stone-carved faces—checking who got off, who stayed behind.

Paisley stands up first, but doesn’t leave right away.

“See you in the summer,” she says to Alcyon, and it’s impossible to tell whether it’s a threat or a promise.

“Can’t wait,” he replies. “Who knows, maybe next year there’ll be someone new in our little crew.”

Sage keeps sitting. Her back already aches, but she doesn’t want to stand. She wants to stay inside—in the warmth, in motion, in illusion. Paisley looks at her and asks softly, almost in a whisper:

“Coming?”

As if snapping out of it, Sage nods, late.

Cecelia is already on the platform, and only the two of them exit the train together.

The air smells different here: metallic dust and something familiar, something that only exists in morning District air. It’s not day yet, but no longer night. The world hasn’t woken up, and in that, there’s something rare. Almost sacred.

They walk in silence. Ten minutes from the station to the Victor's Village—if you don’t slow down. Cecelia walks slightly ahead. Paisley is beside her, hands in her pockets, collar turned up. Sage lingers just a little behind. Her steps are slower, but no one hurries her.

They pass empty streets, factories, fences, and warehouses. Every turn is familiar—and yet it feels unreal. As if with every trip to the Capitol, the district grows quieter, a bit more distant. Or maybe it’s Sage herself who’s different now, and there’s no turning back. Only forward—on a path someone else carved out for her.

When their houses appear around the corner—neat, with perfect lawns—Sage feels her heart tighten. As if there’s no more room in her chest for a single emotion. Only exhaustion, mixed with something that might be fear. Or disgust. Or just… emptiness.

“Welcome home,” Paisley says softly.

On Cecelia’s porch, someone is already waiting for her. Her husband, Loomis, is holding Taylor—who’s grown taller, wrapped around her father’s neck and kicking her legs like a pendulum. Loomis says something to Cecelia through a laugh, and she answers briefly, tiredly, but with that soft warmth almost no one ever sees from her in public.

He takes her bag, brushes his cheek against her temple, and for a moment, there’s silence between them—a silence of their own, thick and shielded. Home.

Sage stops on the path, slightly behind. Just watching. In that moment, everything inside her shifts into observer mode. It’s not jealousy, not envy, not longing. Just… awe.

How is it even possible—to be happy here? After everything? After the Games, after the Capitol, after the blood in the arena and the nail polish covering up the scars. How can someone just come back, step off the train, pick up a child and say, “I’m home”?

Sage doesn’t know. And probably never will. Now she understands it completely—this life isn't for her.

She forces herself to look away and takes a step forward. Paisley has already turned toward her own house, and as Sage passes her, Paisley gives a silent nod.

The walkway leading up to the porch is even, well-kept, made of pale stone laid in a neat pattern. Every step echoes in her knees, as if the heaviness is rising up from the ground. Her stomach is hollow. Not from hunger. Not from fear. Just that particular emptiness she knows too well by now—the kind that leaves no room for strength or desire to feel anything at all.

She pauses on the bottom step. Her eyes catch on the little things: a crack in the railing, a frayed corner of the welcome mat, the kitchen reflected in the window. Everything seems to scream: you’ve been here. This is yours. Yours again.

But she doesn’t believe it.

Sage takes a breath. One sharp and shallow, as if she’s suffocating. Then exhales, bowing her head. Her eyelids lower. Her lashes tremble.

She’s not ready. Not for the house, not for the silence, not for whatever waits behind the door—be it emptiness or an embrace, or Iris’s questioning gaze, the one that always sees too much.

But there’s no choice.

She lifts her hand. Touches the door handle. Feels the cold metal under her fingers, slightly damp with morning dew.

And, holding her breath for just a moment, pushes the door open.

Inside smells like pastry. And something else—something you could call “home,” if home had a scent: warm, woody, slightly dusty, but not like the factories—pleasantly so.

Sage freezes in the hallway, as if afraid the scent will vanish in an instant. That all of it is just a phantom.

“Sage!” a high voice rings out, and within a second, Marigold crashes into her—slight and strong like a spring. “You didn’t tell me what time you'd arrive! I almost made a schedule!”

“Sorry,” Sage exhales, hugging her sister, though awkwardly, carefully. As if her arms aren’t quite hers. “I…”

“I know. You’re tired. But you’re home.” Marigold squeezes tighter, then pulls back quickly and starts rambling about something completely unimportant.

Hearing voices, Iris peeks out from the kitchen doorway—composed as always. But this time, there’s something soft in her eyes, something unguarded, and that—more than anything—almost breaks Sage.

“Hey,” Iris says. Without another word, she steps forward and strokes Sage’s shoulder. “I baked bread. Want a warm slice with butter?”

Sage nods. And suddenly she feels a tiny hand wrap around her leg from behind. Rosie. Small, with messy curls and her favorite blanket trailing along the floor.

"You came," she says quietly. "Can you not leave now?"

Sage swallows hard. She crouches down and pulls the little girl into a hug. Too tightly. Maybe even too sharply. But Rosie doesn’t complain — she just buries her nose in Sage’s neck.

"I’ll stay for now."

"While you were gone, we made a garden in the backyard," Marigold announces, settling at the table with an air of importance. "So far only dill has grown. But we’re not losing hope. Iris says it’s because of the soil, but I think Rosie just digs it up when no one’s looking."

"You’re lying," Rosie protests, still clutching her blanket while trying to climb into Sage’s lap. "I love dill! I’m growing it!"

Iris smiles, slices off a piece of bread, and hands it to Sage, who has now settled in an armchair with Rosie nestled on her lap. The slice is warm, steaming, with a golden crispy crust. The butter melts immediately, filling the air with a comforting smell — something real, something simple.

"And also," Marigold continues cheerfully, pouring tea into cups, "we have a new teacher at school. He even came to visit us and said we could call him just Thread instead of 'Mr. Edwards.' But we had to convince him at first, because he didn’t have enough money for gifts. I told him he could come empty-handed, but he said he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Iris. We think he’s in love with her."

Iris narrows her eyes slightly.

"He’s just being polite."

"Don’t lie," Rosie jumps in, now fully settled like a cat on Sage’s chest. "You like him too. He’s handsome."

"Rosie," Iris says gently but firmly. "Being handsome isn’t a reason to jump to conclusions."

"Yeah, but you smile when he’s around," Rosie presses on, nestling under Sage’s chin. "Even when he tells his boring stories about rocks."

"They were minerals," Marigold grumbles. "And you were listening too."

"I listened because he’s funny!" Rosie argues. "But Iris listened just because!"

Iris sighs heavily, casting her eyes to the ceiling in theatrical exasperation, as if pleading for help from the universe.

"He’s just... a good person," she says slowly.

"He’s handsome," Rosie repeats proudly. "And he can cook! He made us noodles."

Marigold giggles:

"And he figured out how to convince Iris to take a weekend off. Magic, no doubt."

Sage smiles faintly. Right on the edge — between warmth and exhaustion. The world around her is alive, noisy, filling the empty spaces inside. As if they’re all small, kind little machines that keep ticking even when one gear has temporarily stopped.

“Maybe Iris is just scared,” Rosie says thoughtfully, nose still pressed against Sage’s neck. “Like Sage. Sage gets scared sometimes too.”

For a moment, the room goes quiet.

“We’re all afraid of something,” Sage says softly at last. “But it’s not as scary when we’re together.”

She shakes her head — carefully, barely noticeably — then reaches for another slice of bread, even if she can’t taste it. Because her hands are doing something, and that’s better than doing nothing.

Rosie doesn’t climb down from her lap. Iris quietly slices apples. And Marigold is already launching into another story — about how Woof’s cat found a little snake in the garden and turned it into a full-blown hunt. Their voices carry the rhythm of ordinary life. No threat. No shadow creeping in. Just conversation. And that alone starts to melt something inside Sage, like a layer of ice sliding off her shoulders.

Because this — this is real life. Normal. Simple. A lifeline of banality. And Sage clings to it, even if she can’t feel her fingers.

“I missed you,” Sage says at last, barely louder than a breath.

“We missed you too,” Iris replies simply. No drama, no flourish. Then adds, “You eat. We’ll tell you what else Rosie’s been up to.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Rosie says in her most innocent voice.

“Sure,” Iris and Marigold say in unison.

The front door shuts — not loudly, but with that familiar sound that sends a shiver down Sage’s spine. She freezes. So does Rosie. Then, without getting off Sage’s lap, she slowly turns and whispers:

“Is that Henley?”

“Yup,” Marigold answers, already jumping to her feet. “Bet he’s about to tell us how he fought with everyone at the market again.”

Iris snorts but doesn’t take her eyes off Sage. She watches her with quiet readiness, like she’s making sure Sage is still holding it together.

From the hallway, a voice calls out:

“I’m home. Just saved the last apples from Mrs. Thornton. She promised to curse the next seven generations of my family. Not bad for a market run.”

Henley appears in the doorway — hair messy, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He freezes. His eyes immediately find Sage.

“Hey,” Henley says, and his voice changes — softer, warmer. “You’re home.”

Sage slowly straightens up and nods. Her shoulders turn to stone. She’s not ready — not for his eyes, not for his hands, not even for his voice. But he’s here now. And only then does she realize how tightly she’s been holding Rosie. Gently, she lets her climb down.

"Hi," Sage replies, barely above a whisper. "Rosie, go play."

The little girl frowns, but obediently runs off. Marigold is still chattering about something cheerfully, and Iris gets up to grab another cup — but for Sage, the world narrows again, down to a single look.

Henley smiles — carefully, with that same warmth that once used to comfort her, but now burns. He steps closer, hesitant, like he senses something is off but can’t quite name it. He leans in and opens his arms to hug her.

And Sage lets him. Because it’s Henley. Because she can’t pull away immediately. Because now she has to pretend she’s happy, until the pretending becomes real.

He holds her tightly, whispering,

"I missed you."

Sage doesn’t answer. Just nods — her chin brushing his shoulder. Because her mouth tastes of bitterness, and under her skin there’s a coiled spring. Because suddenly she remembers a smell — a different one — too sweet, almost sticky, like spilled syrup, and touches that weren’t his, cold, the flash of that night, out of order: a ceiling glowing lilac, mirrors, a hand on her face, a voice murmuring something blurred against her ear.

She blinks — and now she can’t remember whose shoulder is pressed to her cheek. Henley’s? Or…?

Something inside her contracts, turns over, squeezes her ribs. She wants to pull away, run, shed her skin, scream. But instead she leans back — just a second too late, so it won’t seem strange.

"I..." she exhales, "I want some water."

Her voice sounds dry, hoarse, like she hasn’t spoken in days. Henley pulls back, nods — looking a bit confused, maybe even worried.

"Of course. I’ll get it."

He heads to the kitchen, and she stays in the chair. Her throat burns. Her stomach is hollow. Her body reacts wrong to everything familiar, the world feels tilted — as if it’s shifted a few degrees off center.

She touches her shoulder — the exact spot where his hand had just rested. Her skin feels hot. It’s like she can still feel other fingers, even if it had all been a blur.

Sage wants to scrub it all away — but she can’t. Can’t forget. Can’t forgive herself. She hears Henley laughing in response to something Marigold says. Lightly. Like before. And that only makes it worse. Like she no longer belongs in this life.

Just pretend, she tells herself. Just pretend until it hurts less.

But she knows — it’s going to take a long time. A very long time.

So when Henley comes back with the glass of water, Sage smiles. Teaches herself again — in the corners of her lips, in a raised brow, in the soft "I missed you too," that sounds almost right, if you don’t listen too closely. She tries to look present, but she’s not sure how well she’s doing.

Iris says something about food, Marigold leads Rosie off to wash her hands, and Henley — still with Sage’s hand in his — leads her to the living room.

"I thought maybe we’d go out to the garden. I hung a swing for Rosie. Or maybe we could make mulled wine? Or just... sit? You could tell me everything?"

She blinks. Once. Twice. And realizes she can’t. She simply can’t go out, or sit together, or tell him everything. There’s a layer of cement inside her — gray, heavy, viscous. Nothing hurts. Nothing screams. Just a body playing a part.

And it’s only in that mechanic movement that she finds the smallest, faintest relief.

He hasn’t noticed.

Which means — for now — she’s holding it together.

“I’m sorry,” Sage says softly. “I’m just really tired from the trip. I think I just... need to lie down for a bit. Rest. Really. I’ll tell you everything after.”

Henley softens at once. He nods, though his eyes flash with quiet disappointment — like he’s trying to convince himself it’s fine.

“Of course. Of course. Rest. I’m always here if you need me.”

Sage nods. And gets up too quickly, like she’s afraid she might change her mind. Walks through the hallway, to her room. How many times did she dream of coming back here? To count the drafts under the window, to hear Iris singing something to herself in the next room…

She closes the door. Doesn’t lock it. Just leans her back against it. Silence. No one touches her. No one asks anything.

She sits on the bed. Then lies down. Stares at the ceiling. It’s the same as before. And completely different.

Sage doesn’t cry. Doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t move. She just lies there, staring up — and there’s nothing. No thoughts, no images. Just a blank surface and the hum of blood in her ears.

At one point, she turns her head and presses her face into the crook of her arm — staying still, as if hoping something will come clear beneath her skin. That behind the silence, something will appear: anger, despair, words. But no.

All she feels is the dull, gray drone. Like cold water filling a bathtub.

She closes her eyes.

And immediately opens them again.

She doesn’t want to sleep. There’s too much inside sleep — things that bleed into the real. Things she can’t quite remember, but knows anyway. Scents. Touches. Yellow light on the ceiling. Salt in her mouth.

She remembers holding onto the back of a leather sofa, because otherwise she would have fallen. Everything around her was shifting, melting — like soap sliding down glass. It didn’t even feel like it was happening to her. She was just watching. Observing. Her body — not hers.

And then she stopped registering even that.

Sage wiggles her fingers. Checks if she’s breathing. If she’s really here. If she’s whole. The pillow beneath her head is cool. Her palms lie open.

She wishes she could disappear. Or freeze. Or go back to the arena and run to the Cornucopia — so it could all end quickly.

But instead — the door creaks softly.

Sage doesn’t move. Just turns her head.

In the doorway: Marigold. Behind her, peeking out from under her skirt — Rosie.

“Can we?” Marigold whispers. “We knocked, but you didn’t…”

“Come in,” Sage answers hoarsely.

They slip into the room: Rosie barefoot, in a sweater with embroidered bunnies; Marigold with pressed lips — like she wants to ask something but isn’t sure if she should.

Rosie climbs onto the bed right away, nestles close, tugs at the blanket. Marigold sits gently on the edge.

“We thought you needed something warm,” she says. “I found a blanket in the closet, and Rosie brought a hot water bottle. It’s pink. With a pig on it.”

Sage sits up. Carefully. Like something inside her has cracked.

“Thanks,” Sage says. “You’re so good to me.”

“Well, duh,” Marigold snorts. “We’re literally the best sisters in the world.”

“You’re sad,” Rosie says and gently places Sage’s head on her shoulder. “But that’s okay. I get sad too when a fairy tale ends.”

Sage closes her eyes. And for the first time that evening—she feels something let go inside her. Not for long. Not deeply. But just enough to squeeze Marigold’s hand and kiss the top of Rosie’s head.

“I love you so much,” she whispers.

“We love you too,” both of them say in unison.

Sage smiles. Just a little. And holds them close. For as long as she can.

Marigold, with mock ceremony, passes the hot water bottle from hand to hand like it’s a trophy, and finally curls up more comfortably, pulling her legs underneath her. Rosie is already curled up beside Sage like a kitten, her nose against Sage’s side, her little arm draped around her waist. For a moment, the room is suspended in warmth: in their breathing, in the soft morning light, in the creaking springs of the bed.

“Is Iris not looking for us?” Sage asks hoarsely.

“Iris thinks we’re reading,” Marigold replies calmly. “Which is almost true. We’re reading your face.”

“Mari—”

“What?” Marigold shrugs. “You look different now. Like you came back, but not really. Like you left part of you somewhere else.”

Sage looks at her—and unexpectedly smirks. A little rough, a little bitter, but not as dead anymore.

“Yeah,” she nods. “Probably did. In the limo. Or in the chocolate fountain.”

“You really saw a chocolate fountain?!” Rosie lifts her head suddenly, her eyes huge.

“I did,” Sage confirms. “And I ate strawberries straight out of it. Three times. Then my stomach hurt, but I didn’t tell anyone.”

Rosie giggles and snuggles closer, as if that confession meant something deeply important.

“It’s all so weird out there,” Marigold says quietly now, not as teasing. “And probably… don’t really care about us.”

“I always care about you,” Sage replies, looking up at the ceiling. “It’s too quiet there to think of anything else. Even when everything’s shining and violins are playing and people are screaming with joy—it’s still quiet. Hard to explain.”

She falls silent. Rosie breathes softly against her. The hot water bottle is still warm.

“Horrible,” Marigold scoffs. “I’d show them what’s what.”

“Oh, you definitely would,” Sage chuckles. “And then they’d invite you on the morning show and give you a column in a magazine.”

“Did you see any other districts?” Rosie asks, settling in more snugly. “Were there any animals?”

“There were. In Seven, there’s so much forest it feels easier to breathe. When we went on the sightseeing, one girl came up and hugged me. Just like that. I almost started crying. Later, we had a bit of free time and one of the victors tried to teach me how to chop wood. I failed, obviously, but he said I was still ‘growing in the right direction.’”

“Ha-ha,” says Marigold dryly. “Hilarious. Please tell me you didn’t kiss him.”

“No,” Sage smirks. “He’s in love with another girl. They kept looking at each other like no one else existed.”

“Romantic,” Rosie sighs dreamily.

“Impractical,” Marigold counters.

“In Twelve, it’s the opposite—harder to breathe than here. But the people seem simpler.”

“What about Three?” Rosie leans forward. “Is that where the sea is? Did you see it?”

“No, the sea’s in Four. It smells like salt even indoors. And everyone’s tan, with hair like corn husks. The whole time we were there, everyone kept trying to get me to eat fish. Baked, fried, dried, in pies, in broth, on sticks… at some point I thought I was going to grow gills.”

“Nightmare,” Marigold grimaces. “I’d run away.”

“Oh, you’d love Five. It’s the opposite—strict, clean, orderly. The people there… they’re so put-together. Like they’ve got blueprints in their heads, and everything’s already scheduled.”

“Sounds boring,” Rosie decides.

“But they have working lights in every house,” Sage says. “Unlike here, where blackouts happen more often than I trip.”

“Still boring,” Rosie grumbles. “Are you going back there someday?”

Sage doesn’t answer right away.

“Probably not,” she says at last. “But anything’s possible. Though next time, I’m only going if you both come with me.”

She shakes her head and smiles—and suddenly notices she actually feels warm. Deep down, like a shadow at the edge of her vision, the pain still breathes—quiet and low. But Sage chooses not to let it in. Not tonight.

“Let’s make a deal,” she says. “Three more questions. That’s it for today.”

“What did you eat?” Rosie asks.

“How many dresses did you go through?” Marigold squints at her.

“Did you miss us?” they both blurt out almost in sync.

Sage laughs. Real laughter, rough around the edges.

“Weird things. No idea—maybe twenty dresses. And very, very much.”

They smile back at her, as if everything really is almost okay.

“Do they really do your makeup every day?” Marigold asks, twisting a strand of hair around her finger.

Sage gives a crooked grin.

“That’s the fourth question. Not part of the deal. But yes. Every day. Morning. Evening. Before lunch. Before stepping out of the elevator. I’m not even sure if my real face is still under all of it. Maybe I’m just three layers of powder and good lighting.”

“Well, your face is pretty,” Rosie says with absolute conviction, the kind only a five-year-old can have. “Like a doll’s. But alive.”

“Thanks,” Sage sighs, trying not to think about how right Rosie might be.

Marigold studies her carefully.

“People really like you there.”

Sage goes quiet for a few seconds. Then says slowly:

“I think they do. But not the me I used to be. The one they want to see. Sometimes those two line up. Sometimes… not at all.”

“Then you should become the one you want to be,” Rosie says firmly, looking up at her. “Then everyone will love you.”

Sage looks at her. Her smile trembles a little, but stays.

“I’m working on that, little one.”

“That’s okay,” Rosie chirps. “You’re home now. And at home, people love you even if you don’t know who you are.”

Sage pulls her into a hug, just a bit tighter.

“Alright,” she says. “Until the Reaping, I’m not doing a single event, not one interview, and no glittery dresses. Just you two, Iris, and my very own makeup-free cheeks.”

“Awesome,” Rosie declares. “Rest means pajamas and pie. And nobody makes you brush your hair.”

“Then you belong with the goats,” Marigold smirks. “They don’t brush theirs either.”

They all giggle. The three of them. And even if darkness still lies deep inside Sage, now there’s a light sheet laid over it. Woven from voices. From love. From the real world.

“If you could go anywhere,” Marigold says suddenly, fiddling with the edge of the blanket, “where would you go?”

“Right now? Or where would I go if I were an adult?” Rosie asks, crawling back into Sage’s lap and settling there again.

“Anytime you want,” Marigold smiles.

Rosie falls into deep thought. The kind of deep where she’s clearly picturing a world map full of secret treasure and pink mountains.

“Then I want to go to the clouds,” she decides. “And have a house on a whale, with a rainbow ladder. And dragons visit me. But nice ones.”

Marigold rolls her eyes, but there’s affection in it.

“I want somewhere quiet. With books,” she says. “Where no one bothers you, and you can live inside a library. With a bed between the shelves and breakfast on a schedule.”

“Very specific,” Sage snorts. “But sounds cool.”

“What about you?” Marigold asks. “Not the Capitol again, I hope.”

Sage doesn’t answer right away. She’s looking into the corner of the room, where dust floats in a shaft of morning light, turning slow like it’s underwater.

“I’d go somewhere,” she says finally, “where no one knows me. A place like that probably doesn’t exist anymore, but if I could choose, I’d find it.”

Her sisters are quiet for a moment, letting the words sink in. Then Marigold asks, carefully:

“To hide?”

Sage shakes her head.

“Not exactly. Just… start over. No questions. No stares. That kind of thing.”

“Like in a fairytale,” Rosie whispers. “Where you’re just a girl with a basket, but no name.”

Sage smiles.

“Exactly.”

Then, softer:

“And the sea… I really liked it. The smell. The wind. The color. I think it would be nice to live by it. To hear waves instead of flashes. Instead of other people’s voices.”

“So not everything about the Tour was awful,” Marigold says.

Sage looks at her. Nods slowly.

“Not everything. Just almost everything.”

They fall quiet again, but it’s not a heavy silence. It’s full. Like a warm blanket you can hide under until morning.

“If you had a house by the sea,” Rosie mumbles, cheek pressed against her, “would you have a little boat?”

“Of course,” Sage grins. “Tiny. With a sail. And a ridiculous name like… Sea Potato.”

“Captain Sage!” Marigold giggles.

“Oh no, we better stop before Rosie demands a pet shark,” Sage says, and then she tickles her little sister in the belly.

Rosie squeals, squirming and trying to escape, but Sage catches her by the waist and pulls her back, still tickling. A pillow drops to the floor. Marigold is laughing, and Rosie gasps between giggles:

“No, Sage! I surrender! I surrender!”

“There will be no mercy!” Sage declares dramatically. “You dared to climb the Rainbow Ladder, traitor!”

They tumble together in a warm pile — too loud, too alive, too far from the quiet this room held just an hour ago.

And then they notice: Iris is standing in the doorway.

Arms crossed. A little surprised. A little moved. The hallway light frames her like she’s stepped into another world — and for a moment, she truly doesn’t know whether she’s allowed to enter.

Sage lifts her head from Rosie’s shoulder, still smiling, a little out of breath.

“Come in, Captain Iris,” she says. “This is our headquarters.”

“We have a bit of gossip,” Marigold adds.

“And rainbows!” Rosie throws in enthusiastically.

Iris snorts softly. Then she shakes her head — with that expression that balances stern supervision and quiet relief. And something else. Almost tenderness.

“Only if there’s room in your headquarters for a boring older sister,” she says, stepping closer.

Sage lifts the blanket.

“We accept anyone who can cook.”

“I knew it was a trap,” Iris huffs and sits at the edge of the bed.

She stays quiet for a while, just sitting, watching Rosie squirm in her lap, and Marigold straighten out a crease in the sheets like she can’t tolerate disorder — even on her sister’s bed.

“You really do look tired,” Iris says quietly, once Rosie is distracted by a toy. “Not just from the Tour. Like you went somewhere and haven’t made it back yet.”

Sage doesn’t answer right away. She looks down at her hands. At her nails, chipped at the corners. At the skin, dry from sleepless nights and too many washes, like she’s been trying to scrub something off.

“I just didn’t sleep well,” she says at last. Even. Calm. Almost convincing.

“Mm-hm,” Iris replies.

There’s something focused in her eyes now — not worry, not suspicion, but a quiet, restrained knowing. As if the puzzle has already come together, but she’s not going to say it out loud.

“Sometimes I think you’re older than me,” Iris says a little later, half-joking.

Sage smirks.

“Maybe I just aged faster.”

Iris sighs, gently strokes Rosie’s hair, then — almost absentmindedly — Sage’s shoulder. Her hand lingers there for a second.

“I’m not going to press you,” she says. “You’ll talk when you want to. Or not. Just know I’m here.”

“Thanks,” Sage answers, her voice low.

“Just…” Iris shakes her head. “Don’t carry all of it alone.”

Sage closes her eyes for a moment. Then nods. Once. Barely visible.

“Want me to take them?” Iris asks, nodding toward Rosie and Marigold. “Or do you want them to stay?”

“Let them run wild a little longer,” Sage replies. “I missed them too much.”

Iris smiles, pats her on the shoulder, and stands up. When she leaves, Sage stays sitting on the bed, feeling the warmth of her sister’s hand still lingering faintly beneath her skin. Rosie is already humming some made-up melody, playing with strands of Sage’s hair.

The room breathes slowly. Golden light seeps in through the window. Somewhere, dishes clink softly. And Sage just sits, listening to the rhythm of her heartbeat—not anxious, not panicked, just beating. Steady, stubborn, real.

She exhales.

Maybe later, she’ll become herself again. Or whatever’s left of her. Or someone new.

But for now—just this: Rosie curled into her collarbone, Marigold close by, and a silence she can finally fall into.

Alive.

Home.

***

Late evening spills across the streets of the Victor’s Village like spilled milk. The air is warm, but tinged with a hint of coolness—like the breath of water, like the whisper of wind-blown grass. The house behind Sage is almost swallowed in half-light: a dim honey glow filters through thick curtains and glints off the glass door.

Somewhere upstairs, Marigold is showering, loudly cursing her hairbrush; Rosie sings to herself, curled up in bed. In the hallway, Iris is rustling around, trying to convince them both it’s actually bedtime.

Sage steps out onto the porch.

The Village breathes slow and even. Streetlamps blur their shapes in the damp air. Lawns are neat and trim. It’s always too quiet here, like every rustle needs a permit. Everything here is a reminder of the cost—not just of victory, but of surviving it.

Sage sits on the steps, hugging her knees. Her ankles still ache—from heels, from tension, from things left unsaid. Her fingers fidget with the hem of her shirt, and everything inside her feels stretched thin. Not hurting—but not letting go, either.

Breathing is hard.

Not physically. No. It just won’t go deep. Like the air gets stuck somewhere in her chest and turns around.

She stares into the night, like it might hold answers. Or at least an explanation. But all that answers her is the steady light in the windows, the steady breath of the Village, the quiet that isn’t hers. And the hum inside her, that won’t stop.

Sage doesn’t think about what happened. Her mind skirts the memory like broken glass. But the sensations still seep in — into her body, into the trembling beneath her ribs, into the sickly stickiness clinging to her skin that won’t wash off. Into the strange, colorless shame — for letting it happen. Or… did she?

She still doesn’t remember.

Sage closes her eyes and presses her forehead to her knees. She’s so tired. As if she’s been carrying that night on her back her whole life. And she’ll keep carrying it. Because no one else will. Not even Henley.

She knows he would listen. Probably. Maybe. But she can’t speak. Can’t even describe what was done to her. All she has is the feeling that her body no longer belongs to her. That it isn’t a home anymore, but a stage — where anyone can step in and perform their scene. Even that sounds too clear. Too structured. The truth is messier. Fogged over. Tangled.

Henley is doing everything right — so painfully right it makes her ache. She was cold to him. Tomorrow… maybe tomorrow she’ll go to him. Apologize. Try to explain, if she can find the words. Though she doubts she’ll be able to.

And what then — they’ll be together? While she keeps sleeping with other men? While black cars with leather seats keep pulling up for her? While her body keeps belonging to everyone except herself? She’ll come home with someone else’s scent on her skin and tell Henley she’s just tired? She’ll lie to him for the rest of her life?

Sage clenches her hands. No. No, she can’t. Doesn’t want to. But there’s no way out. Not now. She breathes — slowly, with effort. As if inhaling her body back into itself. Reclaiming its shape. Her fingers tremble, but they still hold on.

She knows she’ll get up in the morning. Make tea. Smile at Rosie. Tell Iris she’s fine. Maybe even go for a walk through the sectors. She’ll live. The way she knows how. The only way she can. But right now — it’s night. And she lets herself fall apart. Broken. But again, she's alive.

She sits out on the porch, tucked in on herself, pressed against the railing, the salt-tinged air around her cool and still.

Alone.

The world is quiet. The air — fresh, as fresh as it gets in the Victor’s Village. Almost clean. Almost real.

Sage twirls a loose thread from her sleeve between her fingers.

A creak.

She looks up.

A light flickers on at the porch of the house across the street — then a silhouette appears. Thin frame, hair tied back, a cigarette between her fingers. It’s Ester, Paisley's sister.

“Well, well,” she says, looking across the road. “Panem’s favorite celebrity’s back in the boonies. Hope the Capitol didn’t corrupt you too badly.”

Sage smiles faintly, without looking away.

“I’d offer you an autograph, but I’m out of business cards.”

Ester snorts and takes a drag. Then she scoffs, flicks the ash over the railing, tosses the cigarette into the bin before it’s done, and says:

“Move over.”

Sage frowns, not sure what she means — but the next second, Ester dashes across the street barefoot, like she’s afraid she might change her mind. She climbs up the porch steps and sits down beside her. The thud of her bare heel on the wood cuts through the quiet. Just a sliver of space remains between their shoulders. Barely anything.

“Can’t sleep?” Ester asks.

Sage shrugs.

“Meddling’s a family trait,” Ester says. “No offense, but your sister asked me how to make tea for insomnia. I told her honestly — either valerian, or the good ol’ ‘it’s fine, just don’t think about it.’”

“Does it work?”

“Hell no.”

Silence stretches for a second. The porch light crackles overhead. They sit there together under the dim bulb, surrounded by lawns and tilted streetlamps. And maybe — just maybe — it feels a bit like a pause. A breath between days.

“Want one?” Ester asks after a moment and pulls a cigarette pack from her pocket before waiting for an answer.

Sage drops her gaze. Then looks back up at Ester.

“Never smoked,” she says.

Ester raises an eyebrow. Not in surprise — more with a hint of mockery.

“Never? What are you, a saint?”

Sage lets out a half-smile. With her lips, not her eyes.

“More like a coward.”

“Well, consider this your moment,” Ester says with a shrug, handing her a cigarette. “Lean into the downfall.”

Sage takes it. Her movements are unsure, fingers trembling just a bit. The paper feels oddly rough, unfamiliar. Ester strikes a lighter and leans forward, shielding the flame with her hand. The fire touches the cigarette tip.

Sage inhales — and instantly coughs, like she’s been punched from the inside. She jerks back, pressing a fist to her mouth. Her eyes sting, her throat burns.

“Disgusting,” Sage rasps, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. “How do you people even…?”

“You get used to it,” Ester replies with a smirk. “Just pretend you don’t give a damn about anything.”

“I really don’t,” Sage croaks. “Except for my lungs.”

Still, she tries again. A shallower drag this time. The smoke burns her tongue, coats her lips and throat like something chalky, chemical, sharp. She winces, but doesn’t cough. Her fingers tremble, but she holds the cigarette like she knows what she’s doing. Eyes fixed forward, into the darkness of the yard.

“There’s something to this. To this awful crap.”

Ester gives a crooked smile.

“Welcome to adulthood.”

Sage inhales again. More carefully now. Slower. Not exactly better, but with less desperation. They sit in silence, smoking. In front of them — a patchy lawn, beyond that — the dim Village, flickering lamplight, quiet houses with lights long gone out. Overhead, a dark sky, only partially scattered with stars. The night smells of damp grass, fresh air — and now, tobacco.

Sage exhales — long and raspy, the smoke swirling into the cold air and vanishing quickly, as if it had never existed. She glances sideways at Ester, squinting a little. Ester sits with her back straight, legs crossed, holding the cigarette with the kind of lazy confidence that makes it look like she was born that way. Even her hair looks artfully messy, unlike Paisley’s dreamy scatterbrained mess. Ester is the opposite — sharp, flippant, shamelessly free.

“You and your sister… you’re nothing alike,” Sage says, not quite looking at her. “It’s like you’re from different families.”

“Oh, we suspect I was swapped at birth,” Ester snorts. “Some sarcasm factory had a glitch, and boom — there I was.”

Sage smirks. Her cigarette is nearly burnt out. She holds it between her fingers but doesn’t bring it to her lips. Just listens to Ester talk — casually, like they’ve been friends forever. She makes one final effort, taps off the ash, and instantly feels like an idiot: too dramatic, too much of a move. Exhaling, she mutters, almost flatly:

“Fuck my life.”

Ester bursts out laughing — loud, sudden, real. Her laugh explodes into the quiet like something impossible, and all the more precious for it. Sage flinches at first, then smiles. Really smiles. Even her eyes crease a little.

“Now that’s a quote,” Ester manages between chuckles. “We should stitch it on a pillow. Hang it in your room. Or better yet, the living room — let guests know what they’re walking into.”

Sage’s mouth opens, ready with a reply — but just then, out of nowhere, comes the slow, shuffling step of Woof, the old man who really should be in bed but for some reason goes for a nightly walk.

And in that moment, almost by reflex, both girls quickly hide their cigarettes behind their backs. Like schoolgirls. Ester even presses her lips together to keep from laughing again. Sage stares off into the distance with the most innocent expression she can manage.

Woof passes by, gives them a bored glance.

“Evening, girls.”

“Good night, Woof,” they answer in unison.

He doesn’t stop. Just keeps walking into the darkness, like he’d stepped out of a dream. After a pause, Ester whispers:

“You think he noticed?”

“Even if he did,” Sage sighs, “he’s probably just going to do the same thing behind the corner.”

And again — shared laughter. Nervous, quiet, but real. And in that fragile, nighttime second, among ash, fatigue, and unspoken mutual understanding, Sage feels human. Or at least alive. Somewhere in the distance, a night bird cries, but here, on the porch, the world feels still.

“You're going back there in the summer, right?” Ester drawls, casting a glance at Sage from under half-lowered lashes. “To the Capitol?”

Sage exhales slowly, leaning her back against the cold wooden pillar. The sky above looks unreal — too clear for her thoughts.

“How do you know?”

“I have ears, not ribbons,” Ester shrugs. “Paisley said something. Not in detail.”

Sage drops her gaze.

“Yeah,” she says. “They want me to be a mentor next year.”

“So you're going back to the Games.”

“So I'm going back to hell,” Sage corrects her.

The words hang in the air like smoke. Quiet. Empty. Neither of them rushes to break it.

Then they both laugh. At first cautiously, then louder, with a kind of almost hysterical ease, like something inside is torn — and that makes it funny.

“They really shouldn’t trust me with kids,” Sage finally breathes out.

The night hushes around them. Crickets buzz in the grass. The porch chills through her thin sleep pants. At the end of the street, Cecelia’s house goes dark.

“Well then, mentor,” Ester stands, brushing ash off her knee. “Good luck to you. Smile. Inspire. Eat for all of us.”

“I’ll eat with dignity,” Sage promises.

“That’s my girl. And I’m off to dream of a perfect world. No murder, no depression, and preferably, no men.”

Ester disappears behind her door. Sage stays on the porch. Alone, but not entirely. The air smells of tobacco, wood, and night. Her skin still remembers the chill of the wood, her throat — the taste of smoke, and her ears still echo with laughter. She pulls her knees to her chest and rests her chin on her arms.

Sometimes, solitude is a kind of rest too.

She lifts her head. Looks at the sky. It's darker than she thought. But there are still stars in it. Small. Stubborn. Sage blinks, allowing herself one last thought.

Tomorrow, she’ll get up. Make tea. Smile at Rosie. And it’ll just be another day. But for now — let it be night. Quiet. Free. Real.

Chapter 28

Sage sits on the swing in the garden, smoking. Over the past few months, it’s become a habit—not a special ritual, not a gesture of despair, just something to fill the pauses. The cigarette rests in her fingers so easily, it’s as if it’s always been there. Smoke curls upward, lazily, like it hasn’t quite woken up yet.

The sky is murky this morning, smudged and damp, with a sticky, heavy shadow. As if it can’t decide whether to pour rain or just hang there all day, too uncertain to commit. The air smells of wet wood, freshly cut grass, and ash. The swing creaks softly, mournfully, but Sage barely moves—just the tips of her toes drag through the warm dust.

Summer has arrived. You can feel it even in the ground—it’s warmer now, softer, springier, like it’s slightly drunk on sunlight. The house smells of dust, overripe apples, mint, and something else, barely there—maybe the morning light that sat in the window while Iris aired out the kitchen. Everything’s just a little slower. Even the kettle boils with a kind of lazy sigh now.

And everything would be fine. She could just sit here, smoke, think about nothing. But summer means Reaping Day. Each new morning hums with it, like someone tugging an invisible string beneath her skin. This is the first Reaping Day where Sage isn’t a tribute or a bystander but… a mentor. The word sounds official, like a title or an award. But it feels more like a sentence. Something between adulthood and punishment.

Today, she’ll become part of someone else’s nightmare. But there’s still time. A couple of hours before the ceremony. Before the square is swept clean of dust, the microphones switch on, and Alcyon takes the stage. Nothing has started yet. For now, she can still be herself—not a hero, not a victor. Just a body in a garden. A cigarette between her fingers. A moment between two lives.

Sage stubs the cigarette out against her sole, tucks it into a tin already half-full of others, and stands. She stretches—slowly, sleepily—and walks across the yard, past weeds growing through cracks in the stone, to the back gate that creaks even if you breathe too loudly near it.

The market must be open by now. Not loud yet, but awake. And that’s where Sage heads—not for groceries, but just to remind herself that walking is still possible. That streets still exist. That people still breathe. That there’s still someone inside her who can take a step.

The street greets her with the familiar smell of damp fabric and fried dough. Someone’s just washed the porch, and now water runs in a thin stream along the edge of the pavement, mixing with dust. The wind carries stray voices: a curse tossed over a shoulder, the snap of a basket that won’t shut, the flap of fabric on a clothesline. Just like always.

Sage walks with her head down, though no one really looks at her anymore. They’re used to it. Some still nod politely, some turn away, but that’s easier to handle than the cameras.

She turns toward the far end of the sector, where the rows begin: scraps of cloth on strings, crates of apples, sacks of dusty flour. A crowd has already gathered by one stall—arguing over the price of eggs. Sage walks past, further on, until she reaches a familiar porch: a low building with crumbling plaster and crooked shutters.

She used to spend ten hours a day here—on her feet, eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Now she doesn’t need to study or work anymore, and the building looks smaller from the outside. Emptier. Though inside, judging by the noise, it’s all the same as before.

“Hey—you again?” a voice calls behind her.

Sage turns. Satin, the shop owner, is standing on the steps. His black hair is almost entirely gray now, but his voice is the same—rough, irritable. He’s holding a roll of fabric like a rifle.

“Here to shop? Or just gracing us from your high place?”

“Just looking,” she says.

Satin snorts.

“Then look with your eyes, but help with your hands. One of the girls didn’t show up today and we’re swamped. You’re not afraid to get your little victor’s dress dirty, are you?”

Sage just smirks. A moment later, she’s inside, elbow-deep in cotton, sorting through a crate, searching for the right cuts. Her hands remember everything on their own. Her back aches just like it used to. Someone greets her—Rufus, she thinks, from the old shift. Someone else just nods. And suddenly it’s like nothing ever changed. As if she never went through the Games, never ate strawberries from a chocolate fountain or took a pill from a celebrity’s hand. Everything is painfully familiar.

“Your fingers remember,” Satin mutters as he passes her. “Maybe not everything’s been scrubbed out of you yet.”

Sage doesn’t answer. She just works. Ten minutes, maybe twenty. The sun is climbing higher, and the air thickens. Nearby, someone coughs. Someone swears. Someone is quietly debating who might get picked this year. And Sage listens—silently. Because all of it is a part of her too, no matter how much she wants to outrun it.

She folds the last scrap, wipes her hands on the apron they gave her at the door, and steps back outside. In just a little while, she’ll have to go home. Get ready. Do her hair. Put on the dress. Smile. And then get on the train again and prepare two kids for death. Tell everyone how proud she is. How ready she is to pass on her experience to the next generation. That it’s an honor, a duty, a tradition.

But it’s still morning. There’s still a little time. Her hands still smell like cotton. And her legs carry the dust of the factory, not the velvet of the Capitol. That’s not so bad.

Sage doesn’t rush. She just walks. With each step, she feels time speeding up, the world behind her catching up, pressing closer. Soon she’ll have to stop. She walks past shops, windows, signs, letting herself dissolve into the noise. In the crowd, no one looks at her, and that’s almost a relief. She’s just a girl with fresh pinpricks on her fingers, hastily tied-back hair, tiredness in her shoulders. Just like everyone else.

The market buzzes, same as always—like it doesn’t care what day it is. Like no one’s skin crawls with the cold of the approaching Reaping. Vendors argue, stack goods, tug at sleeves. Somewhere nearby, someone’s spilled fruit syrup—its smell is cloying, overly sweet, and the wasps have already descended on it. Sage skirts around them and stops at a fruit stall. Peaches—bruised, but ripe. A few strawberries, still greenish and underripe. Pears, watery, too soft—but a year ago, Sage couldn’t even afford those.

Now she chooses slowly. Fingers pressing the sides of each fruit as if there’s some special science to it. The seller—an older woman with a scarf tied around her head—watches her with curiosity but says nothing. Just silently wraps the purchase in paper. Sage pulls out the money. Her fingers catch on a seam in her pocket.

“Something for the little one too?” the woman asks. “Saw you with her—she wouldn’t sit still.”

Sage nods.

“She just turned six. Wants every day to be a holiday.”

“Then take the plums,” the woman says. “They’re sweet.”

Sage smiles—genuinely—and nods. She carries the bundle in her arms, hugging it to her chest like it’s something precious. She’s about to turn toward the exit, but her feet carry her further out of habit—toward the fabric shop, tucked away in the shadow between the stalls. She thinks she’ll stop in just for a moment, maybe buy something for Iris: a fine lilac linen, perhaps. Iris still loves to sew and pinches every centimeter, a habit she’s kept even now that they can afford not to.

Sage steps inside—and nearly collides with someone shoulder-first. The bundle slips from her hands and rolls to the floor, strawberries scattering across the dusty linoleum. She bends down to pick them up, already muttering an apology when she hears a familiar voice:

“Careful.”

Henley. He’s holding a bundle too—twice the size of hers. Sage freezes, like she’s been struck. Then slowly lifts her eyes and meets his gaze. The very one she’s been avoiding for months.

Once, they had been inseparable. Before the last Reaping, Henley had known everything: how she wrinkled her nose when something annoyed her, how her breath hitched when she was angry, how her fingers trembled when she lied. He knew when to approach her and when to leave her be. He knew how to help her fall asleep without the anxiety creeping in. He had been hers. And she had been his. Until the day Sage came back from the Tour.

Now… now everything is different. After that night—the one she couldn’t remember and therefore remembered too vividly—something in her had shifted. She never told him what had happened. Couldn't. Not even in her head could she find the strength to turn those memories into words. Only her body spoke—recoiling when Henley reached for her. Only her gaze spoke—no longer resting on his face. Only the silence spoke—where once there had been love, there was now something else.

Sage shut down. She couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe near him, because his eyes held too much: expectation, hurt, tenderness. All at once. And she couldn’t take it. He didn’t know. Not about the cameras, not about the pill, not about the flashes. Not about how your body stops being yours. And she wasn’t going to tell him. Because she didn’t want Henley to look at her with pity. Because the words didn’t come. Because how do you explain something you haven’t survived?

She started avoiding him. Slowly, but deliberately. Left early. Turned away in crowds. Pretended to be in a hurry. His simple presence hurt.

And now here he was. Holding her strawberries in his hands, gently gathering them up like nothing had happened. Like no canyon had opened up between them. Like they were still who they had been before everything broke.

Sage picks up the bundle and presses it to her chest, as if it could shield her from Henley’s gaze. He’s not pushy, not overbearing, and yet she feels like the space between them is cracking. Like an old mirror—still holding, but ready to fall apart any second.

“You haven’t come by in a while,” Henley says after a pause. Calm. Almost casual.

“I’m sorry.”

“No need. I… didn’t know how you were.”

“I’m fine.”

He nods, but not very convincingly. And the silence returns. Not hostile—just dull. Like they’re on opposite sides of glass.

“You… look worn out,” he adds, unsure. “Not that you look bad. You’re always beautiful. Just…”

“I know how I look.”

Sage smiles—too sharply. A defense. Henley lowers his eyes.

“I just worry about you.”

Her breath catches. He says it without reproach, without pressure. And still, something in Sage clenches.

“I’m sorry,” she says finally, in a quiet exhale. “You know… everyone’s having a hard day.”

“I’m not upset.”

“I just don't want to—”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“—talk about all this,” she finishes too quickly.

“I know.”

The conversation was already awkward, and now it’s worse. The pause is longer than before. Henley steps back toward the counter, as if giving her space, giving her a way out.

“Sometimes,” Henley says, “I just wonder if I did something wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have reached for you that time. Or maybe I should’ve stayed. I don’t know.”

Her heart stumbles—like it missed a step. Sage feels her shoulders tense, her stomach tighten. Everything inside her tries to shrink away, to hide deep under the skin, under the bones. That voice—it belongs to a past she no longer fits into. A place that no longer feels safe.

She flinches.

“It’s not you. It’s… been a hell of a long year.”

“Yeah, of course. I just… fuck, I miss you so much.”

Henley falls silent. Then shakes his head.

“Forget it. Bad idea.”

Sage looks away, but something thick is rising in her throat. Her chest is filling—slowly—with anxiety, with guilt, with anger at herself. She wants to say it’s not his fault. That everything will be okay. But the words don’t come. She wants to stay, but her legs are already ready to run—to step back, to disappear. Anywhere. Just for a moment. Just somewhere quiet.

She still thinks about what would’ve happened if her name hadn’t been called that Reaping day. If she hadn’t gone. If everything that followed had happened to someone else. If she and Henley had just kept living. He’d still meet her at the porch. She’d bake for him pies with Rosie. And on weekends, they’d go to the market together, arguing over the price of apples. Everything would still be normal. Easy. Right.

The shop grows too quiet. Someone glances at them from behind the fabric bolts. The shopkeeper—a woman with calloused hands—seems to freeze, trying not to interrupt. The air is thick with something unsaid. Sage can’t take it.

“Let’s go,” she says sharply, already heading for the door.

Henley follows, a step behind. The summer sun slaps her in the face like a warning. The wind kicks dust down the road. The air feels dense, like it’s holding its breath before a storm.

“I’m sorry,” Henley says again, as if that could fix it. “I didn’t mean for this to turn into an interrogation.”

Sage stops. Turns to him.

“I’m sorry it’s like this. I know I’m being a mess. But a lot’s changed, and I haven’t figured out how to deal with it yet.”

“Look, I’m not expecting you to be the same after everything you’ve been through, but…” he exhales. “It’s just hard. Hard watching you disappear. From life, and even from yourself.”

Sage narrows her eyes. Her lips press into a tight line.

“I’m not disappearing. What nonsense.”

“Oh yeah? When’s the last time you really talked to anyone from school? When’s the last time you looked at anyone besides your sisters?”

“Don’t you dare…”

Sage goes quiet. Inside, everything twists into a knot of irritation—not at Henley’s words, not at his gaze, not even at the fact that he’s still here. But at the fact that he’s right. And that she still can’t, can’t just be who she used to be. Can’t breathe near him without feeling how much silence and unspoken truth has built up between them.

“I’m not judging,” he says. “But… you’re not alone. We’re all hurting. Not just you. You think it’s easy for Iris to see you like this? Or that Mari doesn’t notice you wake up three times a night? That sometimes it feels like you’re just… gone?”

Sage spins around, like she’s about to leave. But she doesn’t. She just stands there. Her back tight, her shoulders drawn.

“You have no right to speak about it like that,” she snaps. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

“Then tell me, for fuck’s sake.”

“I don’t owe you that. Don’t make it my responsibility. I don’t owe anyone anything.”

“Maybe not. But do you really think you can live like this? Avoiding me forever? Look, I don’t know what it’s like after the Games. I’ve never been through it, and thank God I won’t be. But don’t pretend everything’s fine. Because it’s not.”

Sage exhales sharply. Her chest tightens, like she’s been hit. Her face freezes, lips trembling—not from tears, but from rage. From exhaustion that’s turned into something angry.

“You think I want things to be this way?” she says slowly, almost breaking the words into pieces.

She steps forward. Just a little, but it lands like a blow.

“I would give anything to have it all back. To not wake up every day pretending nothing happened. To not feel sick when I see my own reflection. To just exist. With you. With Rosie. With myself.”

She falters. Her breath comes in unsteady waves.

“But I can’t, do you get it? I can’t. I don’t even know where I end and all this nightmare begins. I don’t know who I am anymore. And you—with those eyes full of understanding—you only make it worse. Because I don’t want you to understand. I don’t want you to pity me.”

Her voice shakes now, edged with fury—sharp, like a blade. She doesn’t shout. She cuts.

“I’m not your burden. I’m not your problem. Maybe I don’t want anyone to know what it’s like for me right now. Maybe I don’t want anyone in this mess. It’s mine. Mine, do you understand?”

Her shoulders tremble. But she doesn’t cry. She’s too angry for that. Too close to the edge to explain anything else.

She doesn’t even know why it’s like this. Why every time he’s near, something inside her curls up in shame and guilt. Like if he speaks too softly, if he looks at her too honestly, the fragile illusion she’s built will crack wide open. Because he knew the real her. But that version of her doesn’t exist anymore.

Sometimes she thinks it would be easier to tell him. That if she just opened her mouth and said it all out loud, things would fall back into place. But there are no words. No sounds in the language that can express how it feels when your body stops being yours. When someone else moves inside your skin. Someone who hid. Who killed. Who let it happen. Or maybe didn’t. Someone who screamed. Stayed silent. Doesn’t remember.

Sage goes still. It flashes through her like a blow—wordless, senseless, just instinct. She lowers her eyes, as if Henley’s gaze alone might strip away her shell and lay bare everything she’s fought so hard to hide.

“I just want to help, Sage.”

“You can’t help me!” she snaps. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Don’t you get it? It’s over, Henley. All of it. I can’t go back.”

It’s still boiling inside her—like someone poured scalding water under her skin. But her voice shakes now not from fury, but from exhaustion. Like the strength didn’t run out when she shouted, but a moment after. When silence fell.

Henley doesn’t move. Doesn’t step closer, doesn’t press her. He just watches.

Sage, though, closes her eyes. One deep breath. Then another. Her hands curl into fists—nails digging into her skin. If she’s going to talk about everything that happened, it won’t be now. Not when she’s this raw. That way lies more damage. Or regret. Or the kind of words that come out wrong and can’t be taken back.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes, barely moving her lips. Her voice catches halfway, like her tongue’s no longer obeying her. “I didn’t mean to…”

The words get stuck again. Because she really didn’t. But she still lashed out.

“It’s okay,” Henley says softly.

“When I get back from the Games…” Sage begins, slow and careful, like she’s weighing every syllable to see if it’ll break on the way out. “We’ll talk. All right? Just… not now. I can’t.”

He nods. Unhurried.

“I’ll wait.”

Sage smiles faintly—just at the corners of her mouth. A little bitter.

“Hope it’s not too long.”

And then she leaves. A little sharper than necessary, but not in anger. Just turns and walks home as fast as her legs will carry her. Not because she’s in a hurry—because she can’t go slower. Feels like if she so much as slows down, everything she’s holding in will break loose. Every word, every look, every awkward silence between her and Henley—it’s all clinging to her now, like dust, like the sticky smell of the street, and it won’t come off.

By the time she reaches the house, the sun is high in the sky, glaring through the windows. Sage doesn’t take off her shoes, doesn’t undress, doesn’t look around. She just walks into the kitchen, sets the fruit down on the table with a dull thud—like dropping a weight she can’t carry anymore—and turns toward the stairs almost immediately. No words. No sigh. Just momentum.

She climbs the stairs faster than usual. Closes her bedroom door without a sound—almost gently—but everything inside her is screaming. Her heart is pounding too fast. Her fingers tremble. Her head buzzes with pressure, like someone tied a strap around her skull and pulled tight. She doesn’t want to think. Doesn’t want to remember his voice, his eyes, the way he looked at her—honest, simple, real. Like nothing had happened. Like maybe it could still be fixed.

But she… she can’t. She just can’t.

Sage sits down on the edge of the bed, then stands. Walks two steps—then stops again. Her hands are shaking, like she just survived a blow. Or is about to take one.

She pulls out clothes: a dark skirt, a shirt. All clean, ironed, far too formal to feel comfortable. She forces herself into them, movements clumsy, like her fingers don’t belong to her. Halfway through buttoning, she stops. Presses her forehead to the wardrobe door. Counts to five. Then ten.

Sage doesn’t cry. Her breath just hitches, and inside, it feels like someone is digging her out with a shovel.

The mirror. Her hair.

Sage lowers herself onto the stool, grabs a brush. For the Reaping, she has to look at least decent. Her hair slips through her fingers—thin, brittle. She twists it into a knot, pins it in place, but it turns out uneven, so she pulls it apart and does it again. And again. Until finally, she’s calm enough to stop.

There’s a knot of ice in her stomach. It grows, spreads upward—into her chest, her throat. At some point she catches herself thinking: I can’t do this anymore.

Then Sage suddenly leans down, pulls open the bottom drawer of the wardrobe—almost to the point of it creaking—and feels around beneath the folded scarves for a small bottle. Herbal tincture—strong, cheap, foul-smelling. She’s kept it hidden there for a while now. Iris would’ve thrown it out. But Iris doesn’t know.

Sage unscrews the cap without hesitation. The sharp smell makes her gag. She drinks. Not in sips—nearly in one go. Until her tongue goes numb, until her throat burns. Until there’s a little warmth in her chest. A little silence. A little relief. The calm rolls in like cotton. She still feels the anxiety—but from far away. She’s no longer herself. She’s someone who can get through this.

Sage sits back down. Her hands don’t shake anymore. Her cheeks burn. She looks at her reflection: pale face, dry lips, eyes cloudy like fogged glass.

She’s not drunk. Not really. She’s sure of that.

Just… being completely sober doesn’t feel necessary either.

Let everything be quiet—just for today.

***

Sage counts people.

One. A twelve-year-old girl in a yellow dress, too big for her narrow shoulders.

Two. A boy with a sunburned forehead.

Three. A red-haired teenage girl with braids.

Four. Five. Six.

The crowd feels endless. Someone coughs. Someone exchanges a glance. Someone just stares at a fixed point like they’re trying to become air.

Sage keeps counting because if she stops — she’ll feel it again, that tightening inside, the need to run. But you can’t run from yourself.

In the seat beside her, Cecelia sits with her hands folded neatly on her lap, back straight, face so impeccably calm it makes Sage want to turn away. Paisley is next to her, wearing a dress with ribbons, slightly spaced out, nibbling on a nail when she thinks no one’s watching. Then Woof — in a worn-out suit jacket and his usual scowl.

Alcyon is at the far end, practically bouncing with anticipation. As always, he’s the only one genuinely thrilled to be here. He’s wearing a jacket the color of old gold, like it’s been cut from luxury candy wrappers. Flames embroidered on the lapels, a collar studded with tiny black stones that shimmer like embers. He keeps shifting his posture to show himself off from different angles, sometimes crossing one leg over the other with an air of effortless superiority. At one point, he pulls a handkerchief from his inside pocket, dabs his forehead, and slips it back with the flourish of a magician.

Watching him, Sage feels a strange wave rise in her — part irritation, part bitterness, part bewilderment. She remembers how, a year ago, before the Games, before he drove her away from that party, she despised him. Funny, isn’t it, how much can live inside one person? Not that she’s any better now.

The mayor is already delivering his speech, the same one as last year. His voice is dry, like paper. Every word sounds like it’s coming through water — detached and rehearsed. He doesn’t look at the people. He stares somewhere above their heads, as if afraid to meet anyone’s eyes.

“...a day when we remember the cost of our peace…” his voice drones, with the same cadence as the year before. And the one before that. And probably the ones from when Sage herself didn’t even exist. “...we honor courage and bravery…”

Sage closes her eyes. Just for a second.

Twenty-four names, and two — here and now. Names that no one knows yet. Names that will be spoken far too calmly.

Keep counting.

Fifteen… twenty… twenty-four…

Her fingers curl around the armrest. She breathes through her nose, slowly, trying not to notice how her heartbeat’s moved up to her throat.

It can’t be Marigold. Of course not. There are plenty of kids in the district. And now, after Sage’s victory, none of their family needs tesserae. Iris wouldn’t have allowed it. Sage herself wouldn’t.

And besides… the odds. Henley once told her the odds were minuscule. Statistically, lightning almost never strikes the same place twice.

Henley. Damn it.

She clenches her jaw, and something sour ignites in her gut. Sharp. Unpleasant. Guilt-tinged.

Don’t think. Don’t remember. Not his face this morning. Not her own voice — harsh, irritated. Not the way he looked at her. Like he still believed she could pull them out of this pit.

Sage inhales — and instantly regrets it. Her stomach knots, the air turns too heavy, the smells too sharp. Someone nearby wears lavender lotion, and now that’s all she can feel. Sweetness, cloying and thick. Weakness blooming under her ribs.

She starts to feel nauseous. For real.

She shouldn’t have drunk.

Sage bites her lip. Looks ahead, toward the stage, as if salvation might come from there. Starts counting again.

Twenty-seven… thirty… thirty-two…

The names haven’t been called yet. But they’re already here, hanging in the air. Already trembling in vocal cords. Just about to become real.

But will she manage?

The question comes suddenly, like a draft slipping into a sealed room, uninvited, unpleasant. She hadn’t really thought about it until now. It all felt postponed — summer, the Reaping, mentorship — always somewhere out there, beyond the horizon. Until this morning. Until the skirt cinching too tight at the waist. Until the speeches that make her sick. Until this stage where she’s supposed to sit not as a victim, but as part of the system.

She doesn’t know what she’ll say to those kids. Doesn’t know how to look them in the eye. How to say calm down, don’t be scared, it’s not that bad — when it is that bad. When it doesn’t get worse. When you die in the arena, and if you don’t, you wake up in someone else’s bed, with someone else’s hands on your skin, with pain in your body that doesn’t belong to you, and no one asks if you want to keep living. Because they’ve already decided that you do.

Will she be what they expect her to be? Or will she just sit there in silence? Watching them sleep. Watching them eat. Watching them be brushed and glossed. Watching them tremble. And watching them gone — one by one.

And what if the girl looks like her? What if she has the same eyes, the same hands? What if she’s quiet like Marigold, or full of questions like Rosie? What then?

And — worse — what if the boy looks like Riven? Can she go through that again?

Thirty-eight… forty… forty-three… forty-six…

The mayor’s words slide past her ears like dry leaves rustling in the wind. Everything inside Sage is already bracing for impact. Familiar now, like the second before pain.

“…our duty… our gratitude… our honor…”

Each word — like a nail hammered into a nameplate.

Fifty-two… fifty-six…

Sage feels sweat break out on her back. The skin beneath her skirt is sticky, the fabric clings, suddenly too tight. Her fingers grip the skirt — hard, until her knuckles turn white. She’s afraid to look to the right, but still, out of the corner of her eye, she sees — Cecelia, same posture: flawless, unmoving. Only now, her gaze isn’t on the stage. It’s on Sage.

Their eyes meet. And in that look — everything. No pity. No fear. Just knowledge. Recognition. You know. I know. Keep your face still. Sage gives the tiniest nod. A slight dip of her chin. That’s all they’re allowed.

The stage in front of her seems to blur. Her eyes are dry, like she hasn’t blinked in hours. The world around her is slightly out of focus. Somewhere in the crowd, a child coughs. Someone lifts a handkerchief to their mouth. Someone shifts their weight in line. Everything is too loud. And at the same time — far too quiet.

Sage swallows. Her mouth is parched. It feels like the air in her lungs is stuck and refuses to move. And her head… her head feels like it’s been stretched over a wire, so tightly that everything could snap from just one word.

Count, she tells herself. Just count.

“…and now I give the floor to our esteemed escort from the Capitol…”

The mayor’s voice breaks through the murky noise like a pin surfacing through water.

“…Alcyon Corvella.”

Sage goes still, like her body forgets how to function.

Alcyon rises from his chair — smoothly, almost elegantly. He beams at the crowd, as if he genuinely believes they’re happy to see him. He steps forward, gives a shallow bow, and opens his arms in welcome.

“Darlings! What a pleasure it is to be back among such… devoted citizens.” His voice is rich, like butter melting on warm bread. “What a perfect morning for a new beginning.”

Sage feels her heart hit once — and then miss the next beat. Everything in her chest collapses inward. Alcyon is smiling like this is some kind of New Year’s celebration, not the moment he’ll yank two lives from the crowd and cut them short.

“We’re here to celebrate courage. Loyalty. Our shared history,” he continues, strolling across the stage like he’s savoring every step. “And of course, to give our new heroes… a chance to shine.”

He turns to the transparent bowl filled with the girls’ names. He pauses. A dramatic pause. He loves those. He draws them out like an actor before the final line.

Sage feels her hand slide off the armrest, her skin slick with sweat. Paisley leans forward — barely perceptible, just a breath of movement, but Sage notices. Their eyes meet, just for a second.

Alcyon plunges his hand into the bowl.

“Well then, ladies first, as always…” he drawls, stirring the slips like he’s searching for the most delicious sweet. “Let’s see who will be our lucky young lady…”

He pulls out a name. Unfolds the paper, slowly and deliberately. Squints at it, theatrically. And reads, with the exact same tone he used for toasts during the Victory Tour:

“Vale, Moira!”

The square goes still. Not silent — hollow. As if the air has been sucked from everyone’s lungs. As if they’re all waiting for someone else to answer first.

Sage turns her head.

The girl doesn’t come forward immediately. Only after a few seconds does a fragile figure emerge from the crowd — thin, awkward, like a torn-off shoot. She’s wearing a frilly pink dress, her red hair braided into two rushed plaits, one of which is already falling apart. She looks about fifteen, sixteen at most.

Sage doesn’t know her. She’s never seen her before. Not in the factory alleys, not in the school corridors. Probably from one of the distant sectors. Or maybe just younger than she seems.

Moira walks without looking up. Lips pressed together, eyes on the ground. Sage feels nausea rising in her chest. She knows that look too well — when fear hasn’t yet broken through but has already started gnawing from the inside.

Alcyon smiles and gestures for her to come forward. The girl flinches, as if the gesture were a gunshot, but steps up onto the stage anyway. He places his hands on her shoulders — gently, like a doll — and turns her to face the crowd.

“Let’s give a round of applause to our lovely tribute,” he says. “So young, so brave!”

The crowd claps. Not too loudly. Not too sincerely.

Alcyon turns to the second bowl. Sage only manages a single shallow breath before he dips his hand in.

“And now, our valiant male tribute…”

He pulls out a slip. Unfolds it. Smiles a little too wide. Too easily.

“Kestrel, Frill!”

The name strikes her memory like a match. Sage blinks. She doesn’t recognize the face right away, but her mind conjures up a hazy image — like a smudge on glass. Frill. Yes. She’s seen him before. Not in her class — he was a year or two younger. But they’d crossed paths sometimes, during breaks, near the wall.

He always stood on the edge. Always quiet. A boy who blended into the background: not loud, not mean, not funny. Not a friend, not an enemy. Just someone you walk past without looking. Now everyone would look.

Frill steps out of the crowd almost calmly. He’s not particularly tall, but he seems longer-limbed from his angular build. He’s wiry — the body of someone who works with his hands. He must have already started helping out at the factory. He’s wearing a faded shirt with patches on the elbows, and pants made from two mismatched fabrics. His hair is light, cropped short, and his face is tanned — almost scorched from the sun.

Sage can’t take her eyes off him. Frill climbs onto the stage, stands beside Moira. Doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t look at anyone. Just down, at the wooden boards beneath his feet.

Alcyon beams. Spreads his arms wide. As if he’s presenting a troupe of performers, not two children being sent off to die.

“Well then,” he says, “let’s hear it for District Eight’s tributes!”

The crowd claps again, sullen, strained. And Sage sits there, fingers clenched so hard around the armrests they ache, unable to breathe.

Notes:

sometimes you sit down to write a serious argument between two characters and then remember. they’re eighteen. they’re EIGHTEEN. the drama is legally required.

this year has been a fever dream and a half, but look at us! full circle, baby — only now with ✨ more trauma ✨ and slightly worse coping mechanisms. character development? character regression?? who’s to say! certainly not me. i’m just here pressing the angst button like it’s an elevator that doesn’t work. like sage girl i love you but can you catch a break for ONE CHAPTER 😭🕯️

the good news: we’re finally entering the mentoring era, and we'll soon be able to hang out with other victors. finally. after 87 years of mysterious background cameos. are they ready to bond? to trauma dump? to be emotionally unavailable in the capitol spa lounge? probably not.

but will there be a hot blonde mentor squad?

oh. absolutely.

and hey, thank you so much for sticking around! most of the time i don’t have the energy to reply to comments — fics are kind of my escapism from everything else (derogatory) — but i see every kudos and i genuinely smile like an idiot. i thought there’d be, like, five of you. turns out it’s at least seven. 🫶💔💫

Chapter 29

The train is already speeding at full throttle, and outside the windows, everything merges into one continuous gray blur: trees, poles, scraps of sky. It's all that’s left behind, but hasn’t disappeared yet. Inside, it’s warm, smelling of coffee, expensive paper, and Alcyon’s cologne. Sage sits in her seat, trying to keep her back straight. To breathe evenly. To be an adult.

You’re a mentor now, she reminds herself. These kids are your responsibility. So, from this moment on, no dramatizing, no anxiety, and as little alcohol as possible. Agreed, Bradbury?

Alcyon is chattering away in the adjacent car, loud and deliberately cheerful:

"...and here, my dear ones, is the break room! Television, comfy chairs, even a snack machine — though the cupcakes this year are sugar-free, but what can you do, the healthy eating trend has made its way to us. Oh, and the main thing — our chef says the dish of the day is chicken fricassée with rosemary and roasted peppers. I highly recommend it!"

Moira and Frill follow him politely, almost silently. Moira has a tense look, like someone who wants to disappear. Frill hangs back a little, his hands in his pockets, staring off somewhere, as if none of this concerns him. Or maybe he just doesn’t know how to react.

Sage turns away from the window. Paisley is sitting across from her, one leg over the other, twirling a candy in her fingers, looking like she’s been tired of this train ride since before they boarded.

“Well,” she says, not looking at Sage, “your first tributes. Feel proud?”

“Proud isn’t quite the right word,” grumbles Sage. “More like an intense desire to run to the technical compartment and cut the brakes.”

“Oh, classic. Looks like the mentor in you has awoken. Welcome to the club.”

Paisley says it calmly, but there’s a tiredness in her voice that no jokes or makeup can hide. She bites into the candy and squints.

“Again with the rum?” asks Sage.

“Something else,” Paisley grimaces. “It’s like licking your grandmother’s dresser.”

Sage snorts. She doesn’t quite feel like laughing yet, but some semblance of relief passes through her — a faint shadow of normality. For a second, they both fall silent. Only Alcyon’s voice can be heard in the distance, happily exclaiming, “Ta-da!”

“They’re silent,” she says after a pause. “I think they’re still in shock.”

Paisley shrugs and leans back, resting the back of her head against the chair.

“Normal,” she finally answers. “Let them be out of all this for at least one day.”

Sage stays quiet. She looks in the direction where Moira and Frill went. They’re probably being shown the showers. Or the bathrooms. Or the pillows with the Capitol crest. The important stuff.

“The first day always knocks your head off,” Paisley says, quieter now. “Then comes the second.”

Sage grunts, hugging her arms around her elbows. The same anxious emptiness from the square still hums inside her. But now it’s mixed with guilt. And something like exhaustion, which is probably still too early for.

“I wants to say something to them,” she says slowly. “To be some kind of good mentor. But, you know, it’s hard to give advice when you won by pure accident. If they sent me to the arena for the second time, I’d probably just step off the platform at the beginning to finish everything faster.”

Paisley doesn’t answer right away. She looks at the ceiling as though there might be an answer there.

“Come on,” she finally says. “None of us are here for our achievements. We’re here just because we’re still alive. It’s awful, sure, but who cares? My first year as a mentor, I spent the whole day crying in the bathroom, and then I hid from the stylists. I told the kids: don’t be afraid. And I was so scared I could hardly hold the glass of water to their hands without shaking. I think they figured it out anyway. When it was all over, I slept for two weeks. Though, I guess it was more of a faint from exhaustion. But still.”

Sage gives a crooked smile.

“That sounds like my life for the last year. Cry, hide, sleep, and repeat.”

“If it gets unbearable, don’t forget to yell at the stylists. It helps.”

They both fall silent. There’s a sound of a door slamming somewhere. Then Alcyon’s voice, distant and cheerful:

“…And now, my dear ones, attention to the menu! Your first lunch is waiting!”

Paisley sighs and stands up.

“Let’s go before he decides we offended the chef by not showing up and brings us the fricassée in bed.”

Sage stands up after her. Her back is still tense, but her hands are no longer shaking.

“Have you ever yelled at stylists?” she asks, catching up with Paisley.

“Once kicked a jerk who was before Flora. In my defense, it was a reflex reaction to the amount of glitter he was trying to smear on me.”

Sage giggles—almost for real.

They walk down the corridor—the carpet soft, slightly springy underfoot, the walls politely glowing with lightbulbs. In the distance, Alcyon’s voice can already be heard, and by the tone, it’s clear: he’s in the mood. Judging by his intonation, he’s telling something exciting—maybe listing today’s dishes, or maybe boasting about his new collection of handkerchiefs.

Sage and Paisley turn the corner and enter the dining car. Alcyon is sitting at the head of the table, of course, already turning toward the door—ready to greet them with his “radiant smile.” In front of him, there’s a plate with a neat mound of fricassée, a fork in his hand, and a mouth full of food, but that doesn’t stop him from continuing to speak:

“…And I was like: sweetheart, how can you serve langoustines without capers? That’s a crime against taste!”

He nods to Paisley and Sage, waving a napkin in greeting.

“Ladies, finally! Sit, sit. You’ve got the best seats!”

Sage nods automatically and sits down, not looking at Alcyon. Across from her is Moira. She’s sitting tensely, as if afraid to move, her hands on her knees, her gaze directed slightly away. Her hair is now loose, a little tousled, and her face looks even younger than on the square. She seems to have shrunk, curled up like a plant deprived of light.

Frill is next to her. He’s already eating, but slowly, as if he doesn’t really taste the food. He moves carefully, as though afraid to spill or crumble something by accident. His gaze is down, focused on the plate. He’s not hiding, but he’s also not really present here.

Sage looks at both of them longer than necessary. Alcyon’s voice still flows in the background, shifting from one story to another like champagne pouring from a flute, but all she hears are fragments: “magnificent sauce,” “my dear Violetta,” “just imagine—pillows embroidered with real gold!”

Sage runs her fork through her food without lifting her gaze. Then, carefully, almost hesitantly, she shifts her eyes to Moira.

“Um...” she says, her voice quieter than expected. “How... are you holding up? Is everything okay?”

Moira flinches. Her lips are pressed tightly together, her gaze still off to the side, fixed on the wall, on nothing. Her shoulders rise slightly, as if she’s about to apologize.

“I’m fine,” she answers too quickly. Almost automatically.

Sage nods. She looks from Moira to Frill.

“And you?”

Frill doesn’t respond right away. He chews slowly, swallows, then gives a slight shrug.

“I’m fine too,” he says without looking up.

A pause. Meanwhile, Alcyon is excitedly telling a story about some “utterly outrageous party,” but Sage hardly hears it.

“This...” she swallows. “This is hard. I know. But if you need to talk... don’t hesitate.”

The words come out awkwardly. Almost stupidly. As if she’s repeating someone else’s phrase, badly memorized. Moira gives a small nod, even glances at her for a brief second—like a touch. Frill doesn’t answer, just continues chewing attentively.

Sage exhales. Great. It seems like only Alcyon likes to chat in this room.

“Do you want some bread?” Frill suddenly asks.

Sage blinks. It takes her a few seconds to realize he’s talking to Moira. She turns her head slightly, looking at him with surprise.

“Uh, yeah,” she answers after a pause. “Thanks.”

Frill silently hands her the basket. Moira’s fingers tremble as she takes a piece. She says “thank you” again, a little quieter. Sage watches him out of the corner of her eye: his gaze is still directed at the table, but beneath the calm surface, there’s tension—not fear, but wariness. A habit of staying quiet. Not drawing attention.

Sage doesn’t immediately understand why her stomach clenches. It takes a few more seconds for it to click: something in that look, in that restraint, painfully reminds her of herself. The person she was before the Games. When it seemed safest to be invisible. To not raise questions. To not irritate. To not be a bother.

She feels a nervous hum start to rise inside her, as if someone’s dragging a fork across her skin. Not the right time. Not here.

Without thinking, she scoops up some food with her fork and shoves the first piece into her mouth. It’s almost tasteless—or maybe her tongue is numb. She chews quickly, too quickly, as if she can chew the feeling away as well.

Focus. You’re a mentor. You’re an adult. You don’t have the right to disappear.

“...And I tell him, ‘Darling, that’s not a dog, it’s a designer handbag!’” Alcyon bursts into laughter. No one laughs in response, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. “Ah, what a night! Circe always had the most exquisite tastes… Sage, you would’ve appreciated the napkins—hand-embroidered, every stitch a work of art.”

Alcyon, as if on cue, claps his hands—loudly, cheerfully, as if he’s just heard a great joke. Sage nods, not really understanding what she was supposed to appreciate. He doesn’t seem to notice her distraction and continues with the same enthusiasm:

“But, of course, no napkins can compare to our dear tributes. Just look at them! So modest, so noble, true pearls of their district!”

He makes a sweeping gesture towards them, as though presenting exhibits in a showcase. Frill leans back slightly, and Moira nervously fidgets with the edge of her napkin. Sage finds herself wanting to push this gesture away, to hide the kids behind her back.

“You know,” she says, putting her fork down, “if you want, I could... tell you a bit about the Games. Something useful. About the arena. About the Capitol. Anything to help you be prepared.”

Moira lifts her eyes. She looks at her skeptically—not hostile, more... empty. As if she’s already lost the strength to be surprised. Or to believe.

“There...” Sage stumbles, trying to find the right words. “It’s not like it seems. And it’s not like on screen. Everything is... louder. And closer. And…”

“Why do we need to know this?” Frill interrupts.

He doesn’t look at her. His voice isn’t angry or defiant—it’s just tired. Simple. As if he doesn’t really understand why she would talk about it.

Sage blinks.

“Well... so you could prepare. At least a little. Understand what’s coming.”

Frill shrugs.

“Knowing it won’t make me less likely to get killed.”

Moira freezes, a flicker of panic flashing in her gaze. Sage watches Frill for a long moment without answering. At some point, she thinks he almost smiles. Or maybe it’s just her imagination. Sage looks at Paisley, hoping to find a hint, but she seems just as bewildered.

“Still,” Paisley says at last. “Sometimes it’s better to know.”

“Sometimes,” he agrees. “But not always.”

They fall silent again. Meanwhile, Alcyon continues to explain why, since they’re heading to the Capitol, they can’t miss the premiere of some movie next week. Moira takes a small sip of water. Frill helps himself to more vegetables.

Sage feels as though the floor has shifted beneath her feet—not much, but enough to make everything inside her feel a little unsteady. She looks back at Frill. He’s not frowning, not squirming, not clinging to anyone’s gaze—he hardly moves, as though every motion must be justified. As if any display of extra emotion is a luxury he cannot afford.

“You’re not one of the chatterboxes, are you?” she asks before she can stop herself.

Frill looks up and shrugs.

“I speak when there’s something to say.”

Sage raises an eyebrow and smiles just the tiniest bit. Almost.

“Fair enough.”

Moira glances at them furtively, as if checking whether it’s okay to join the conversation. She presses the napkin to her lips as though hiding behind it. Then, finally, she speaks:

"Do you...?" She hesitates a bit. "When you... were there... were you scared?"

Sage freezes. The spoon in her hand stays suspended in the air.

"Yes," she says after a pause. "Almost all the time."

"It's okay if you're scared now or will be later," Paisley adds. "Everyone's scared. Some just manage to hide it."

She falls silent again, as if she hasn’t said anything particularly special. Moira slightly turns toward her—not fully, but enough to show that Paisley has spoken. Her face remains tense, but something shifts in her gaze. Not trust—at least, not yet. But curiosity. Cautious curiosity. As if she’s realized that mentors aren’t made of steel either. Then Moira nods. No further questions. Just a slight movement of her chin—an acknowledgment. Or maybe gratitude. Or both.

"And what did you do?" she asks softly. "To deal with the fear?"

"I hid," Sage replies. "Ran. Stole. Thought about my family. Pretended I wasn't there until it got worse. Who am I kidding? You’ve seen it all yourself."

"And yet you're a victor now," Frill says, not looking up. His voice is neutral, but there’s something in it. A restrained irony? Or just a fact stated the same way one might comment on the bad weather outside?

Sage falls silent. His last words hang in the air, heavy and murky, like dust after an explosion—unnecessary. Her fingers instinctively tighten around the fork, as if gripping it could hold onto something else—herself, the conversation, the calm. She looks down at her plate, where everything has cooled, and suddenly it feels like she’s being watched again—not directly, not eye to eye, but as though someone’s gaze is crawling under her skin. She forces herself to count: one fork, two, three…

The thought of the Games slithers under her skin, like a splinter under her eyelid. It’s not painful yet, but enough to make her want to rub it away, clean it, forget it. She doesn’t want to go back there. Not in her mind, not with words. Inside, there’s something sticky, unspoken, too alive. And if she gives it space, it will drown everything else.

Moira looks down. Paisley leans back in her chair and closes her eyes—not sleeping, but clearly making it clear she’s not going to intervene in this conversation. Sage exhales sharply—briefly, almost imperceptibly—and lifts her head, grasping for the first thing she can say, any topic, just to avoid this one.

“Seems like we’re short on dessert spoons,” she says a little louder than necessary, already reaching for the tray of cutlery, as if it really matters. “I’ll bring more.”

She stands—calmly, evenly. But inside, everything trembles like a live wire under voltage. Just a little longer, and it will be too late. One more word, and it will all crack. So, spoons. Or forks. Or any small thing to latch onto while there’s still a chance to stay on the outside and not fall back in.

When Sage steps into the hallway, the silence crashes onto her unexpectedly loud. No conversations, no clinking dishes—just her own breathing and the faint hum of the ventilation. She leans her shoulder against the wall and closes her eyes. One breath. One exhale. Then another. The familiar rhythm, almost like a mantra: breathe in—I’m here, breathe out—I’m okay.

Somewhere behind the door, someone giggles. Not loud, not inappropriate. But enough to make the tremor in her chest intensify slightly. She takes a step toward the kitchen, as if she really did go for spoons, but instead stops at the windowsill, gripping the edge as though it can hold her.

At that moment, Alcyon’s voice comes through the door—light as always, with a hint of disbelieving amusement:

“Hey, what’s with you all? Did I miss something? It’s a celebration. You can’t all be so gloomy!”

He laughs—cheerfully, almost apologetically, as if admitting he doesn’t quite grasp the mood. His voice seems to drift in from another world. And perhaps it does.

“No, really,” Alcyon presses on. “We’re heading to the Capitol, not some windowless cellar. Your poor, battered souls have no idea what luxury awaits you. Sage, where are you? I was certain at least you’d appreciate the new heated seats!”

Sage hears every word, but doesn’t move. Her fingers rest on the windowsill—cold, smooth, almost calming. Alcyon’s voice cuts through the air like a sudden beam of light after too much darkness. She inhales. Again. Then, at last, she really does go for the spoons. Along the way, she forces herself to count. One. Two. Three...

When she returns to the dining car, Alcyon is already sitting, cheek propped on his hand, murmuring something to Moira—lightheartedly, pleasantly, though with a trace of fatigue. Moira nods without looking at him.

Sage sets the spoons on the table and quietly takes her seat. Alcyon snorts.

“Honestly. This feels more like a national day of mourning than lunch. You all need to watch a comedy or something.”

“Alcyon,” Sage says softly. “Please. Just be quiet for a bit.”

“Oh, I know you’re not one for public drama,” he replies, with a note of gentle condescension. “But I’m only trying to cheer up our little birds. Don’t be upset.”

“Alcyon,” she repeats, firmer now.

He blinks in surprise, then lowers his head in theatrical surrender, lips pursed into a thin, exaggerated line.

“As you wish, commander,” he mutters—but he does fall silent.

The pause hangs heavily in the air. Paisley dips her head slightly in thanks and then, looking to the tributes, asks:

“Have either of you ever handled a weapon?”

“Only dressmaking shears,” Moira whispers. “Not exactly lethal.”

“I’d say that’s better than nothing,” Sage replies.

Her voice is less tense than before. There’s a strange lightness to the conversation now, though she can’t quite say what’s comforting about it. Still, the anxious pulse in her chest refuses to go quiet.

Moira looks away, as if the words don’t touch her—but something in her expression shifts. Frill, without lifting his gaze, says quietly:

“Not once. I mean, when we were kids, my brother and I used to play sword fights with sticks. He always won. But I know that doesn’t count,” he shrugs his shoulders and pauses for a moment. “I’m strong, though. Been helping out at the factory since I was twelve, after school.”

Paisley and Sage exchange a look—not one of triumph or encouragement, but a shared, heavy understanding. The kind of knowing that comes from being surrounded by things you can’t stop.

“You need to be ready for anything,” Paisley sighs. “Even if you’re not fighters, you can still plan. Keep different ways to survive in your head. Be like Sage.”

Sage looks at Frill without saying a word. Her hand grips the fork tighter than it should. Thin lines of exhaustion crack beneath her fingernails. Suddenly, she thinks of Riven—of his steady, simple care. The way he helped her survive. How he saved her life twice.

But what could she possibly tell these two? That she’s a bad example—maybe the worst one they could have? That it wasn’t skill that saved her, but pure luck? That sticking together only makes it hurt more in the end—but on your own, you die even faster?

Paisley, as if reading her thoughts, continues quietly:

“We can’t predict what will happen to you. But you can always be ready for things not to go according to plan. Sometimes, in the arena, you have to improvise. Stay flexible. If we find any particular talent in you—great. If not, you’ll need to survive with whatever you’ve got.”

She pauses, as though realizing just how heavy those words must sound to the ones hearing them.

Moira nods, but something in her eyes says she still can’t trust any of this. She’s too silent, too closed off. Frill nods too, wordless, as if taking in the advice as a given.

The silence stretches a little too long, and eventually Alcyon clears his throat again, unable to help himself.

“Well then,” he says with a light smile. “Since we’re all gathered here, let’s at least try to surf the wave of optimism, shall we? Don’t worry, darlings! Life’s not all bad here. Gifts! Attention! A chance to become something greater! We are stars—and stars never fall. So we can do all that, can’t we?”

No one answers. Only Paisley lowers her chin slightly—a gesture too restrained to be true encouragement, but just sincere enough to suggest trust.

“In the Capitol, everyone smiles,” Sage sighs. “Every single person. It can be infuriating. But it’s in your best interest to smile back. Every eye will be watching—waiting for you to trip. Or cry. Or flirt. Because from now on, your life is a show.”

“The camera is your only real ally,” Paisley adds, nodding. “If you want to survive longer than three days, learn to be a spectacle now. It’ll be too late once you’re already on the arena.”

Frill looks away, but Moira doesn’t. She seems to drink in every word. Doesn’t even blink.

Alcyon lets out a theatrical sigh and makes a show of nibbling at his food. His gaze skims across Sage—then darts away. A beat later, he can’t resist:

“Well, since you’re all in such a mentoring mood, allow me to contribute.” He lifts his glass. “Attention, everyone! There’s one vital item you should always keep in your perfect little arsenal: the pause! Use it wisely. When you’re tired of everything, just make a serious face and hold the silence. Stare into the camera—and then… just kick someone under the table! It’s a perfect dramatic opener and guaranteed to draw attention!”

He beams, as if he’s just offered a life-saving strategy. Moira winces slightly, but there’s a flicker of something brighter in her eyes. Frill shakes his head, and in the motion there’s the ghost of a smirk.

“All right,” Paisley says, quietly but with a faint smile. “Enjoy your meal. I hope each of you remembered at least one small rule. Now let’s rest.”

Sage nods. Images flash through her mind: the training rooms, the bright lights, the camera bursts and the roar of the crowd. The flare of pain. Every movement on the brink. The moments when she realized her life didn’t depend on what she knew, but on what she feared.

And his face.

Riven.

A flicker of warmth in the chaos.

“We’ll talk again,” she says, a faint bitterness curling in her voice as she pulls her gaze from Frill and Moira. “But not tonight. Tonight, let’s eat and sleep while we still have the chance. Doesn’t come often, does it?”

***

The train doors slide open almost unexpectedly. Outside, they’re met with light—bright, warm, so sharp it stings the eyes at first, like a massive spotlight flooding everything around them. Sage’s feet, out of habit, step onto the unnaturally perfect tiles of the platform. Everything is smooth, flawless. There are no shadows—as if even her own is trying to be perfect. Everything feels slick, sterile, too polished.

Alcyon steps out first. As always, he seems to exist in his own world, barking quick instructions at Moira and Frill on how to carry themselves for the cameras. His voice rings out with rare confidence, as if he’s rehearsed this exact moment a dozen times—which, frankly, he probably has. Paisley follows at his side, walking steadily in heels.

“Smile,” Alcyon hisses, and the cameras start flashing, as if responding to his cue. “Look at the lens, not the floor—don’t act like scared little mice!”

Paisley and Sage exchange a quick glance. Flashbulbs spark all around them—nothing personal, just lenses, reflections, the hunger in every gaze to capture every detail. Journalists crowd the edge of the platform, their voices overlapping. Peacekeepers stand between them and the tributes like phantoms, holding the tide at bay.

With every step, the space seems to narrow. But Alcyon doesn’t falter. He leads them forward along the same route as last year, chin high, eyes shining with practiced confidence. Every time a camera turns his way, he subtly adjusts his posture for the best angle. But the main attention, of course, is on Moira and Frill.

The two of them, clearly unprepared for this level of scrutiny, are beginning to falter. Moira glances around stiffly, her body tense. Frill walks with his head slightly lowered, and though he doesn’t flinch, the displeasure is written across his face.

Sage catches movement out of the corner of her eye—one of the reporters suddenly breaks through the crowd and heads straight toward her. A camera zeros in like it’s found the perfect shot. A woman with a mic steps forward.

“Miss Bradbury,” she calls out, cutting through the other voices. “It’s your first year as a mentor! How are you finding your new role?”

Sage doesn’t respond right away. Her body is still vibrating from the flashes and noise, but she keeps her expression steady. Her gaze remains calm, even as anxiety gathers beneath the surface. She sees another reporter cornering Paisley, and the flicker of panic again in Moira and Frill’s eyes. But right now, she can’t afford to let that panic spread.

“A mentor?” Sage repeats with a small smile. Her voice is soft, with a touch of charm. “Well, you know, it’s… interesting. It’s a chance to teach young people something important. And of course, it’s always a joy to support youth—especially when they’re so… eager to learn.”

The woman with the mic smiles in return, but Sage can feel the questions growing sharper, more insistent.

“And how does it feel, knowing you hold the fate of these tributes in your hands? How are you coping? You’ve been in the spotlight before, but this is something completely different…”

Sage doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze drifts past the camera, toward Moira. The girl is clenching her fists, body tilting forward ever so slightly, like she’s trying to hold onto something. She doesn’t know how to exist in a place like this, not under all these eyes.

“Their fate…” Sage repeats slowly, her voice dropping a register, turning gentler. “I wouldn’t say it’s entirely in my hands. What I do have is a chance to give them strength. To help them see the world a little differently. But like I always say—what really matters in any role… is inspiration, right?”

She lets out a faint, polished smile—but thinks grimly to herself that she’d love nothing more than to punch the kind of idiot she’s pretending to be.

The reporter nods, but the questions keep coming.

“And what do you think about the rumors surrounding your relationship with Xenon Ray? How does that affect your image—and your role in the Hunger Games?”

Something clenches in her chest, and for a second her breath catches, heavy and sharp. Just for a moment. Nausea rises, but she manages to steady herself again. Sage’s eyes flick to Alcyon, standing just behind the press line. He meets her gaze with a look that’s friendly, but just a little too eager. He’s waiting—waiting to see if she can hold it together.

She flashes a wide smile now—this one unmistakably flirtatious, her tone shifting into something playfully poisonous, like the whole question is nothing but a silly misunderstanding. Her eyebrows lift, her eyes glitter as if absolutely nothing’s wrong.

“Oh, Xenon,” she says lightly, giving a little shrug. “I do love how dramatic the rumors always sound. It’s all so… thrilling, isn’t it? He’s a great guy. A wonderful scene partner, if I can put it that way. But you know what I think? Everything you see in the headlines is just one part of the story. Let’s not forget that my job isn’t just to have a charming personal life—it’s to be an excellent mentor. So maybe we should talk about how we’re going to survive this year, not just who I might be spending my evenings with. Though for the record—everything in my private life is perfectly stable, no matter whose name you attach to it.”

She winks.

One of the Peacekeepers approaches the reporter, barely touching her shoulder, and says coldly,

“That’s enough. This isn’t a press conference.”

The reporter exhales in annoyance but doesn’t argue. She steps back. Alcyon lifts his chin, ignoring the whole exchange, and turns decisively toward the exit, guiding the group toward the doors. Sage walks behind him, trying to breathe deeply, though it’s becoming increasingly clear that the anxiety won’t be leaving her anytime soon. This restless chaos is going to last a while.

Alcyon pushes open the heavy metal doors first. Moira and Frill stumble slightly over their own feet as they try to keep up, doing their best not to fall out of rhythm. Sage exits last. Outside, despite the cold wind, there’s still a strange feeling of suffocation in the air—like it’s too clean, too flat, too perfect to breathe properly.

In the square ahead, the transport van for the tributes is already waiting.

“Comfort awaits you inside,” Alcyon says over his shoulder. “Let’s not keep Panem waiting.”

Comfort. Right. Sage almost snorts. Last year, her legs nearly went numb from seats that felt like iron pipes. And the stench—impossible to forget. But hey, at least there are no chains.

Moira and Frill step into the van. Paisley gives them a quick nod as they settle in.

“You’ll be taken to prepare for the Opening Ceremony,” she says. “Don’t worry—we’ll see you again soon.”

Moira nods awkwardly, shoulders rising slightly as if she’s still not sure this is all real. Sage watches in silence as the door shuts with a loud metallic clang. Paisley gently takes her by the wrist and pulls her slightly aside. Together, they watch as the van pulls away—and another rolls into its place.

Sage feels a tug somewhere in her chest—but still doesn't allow herself to feel pity or regret. Not now.

“What now?” she asks, tilting her head slightly.

“Now we wait for our car,” Alcyon sighs, rolling his eyes. “It was supposed to be here already, but they always have issues with the schedule. I’d better go check. If we end up waiting another ten minutes, certain circles might start saying I’m unpunctual. As always. Don’t worry, ladies. I’ll handle it.”

He shakes his head and disappears around the corner, carelessly pushing a door open behind him. Sage and Paisley remain where they are, and the air suddenly feels a bit lighter—though maybe that’s just how it seems.

“One day I’m going to strangle him,” Sage mutters darkly.

Paisley chuckles quietly before answering,

“I think he’ll be much more useful alive.”

Sage shrugs, her gaze sliding over the empty square.

“At least it’ll be fun watching him try to explain himself.”

They stand there in silence, watching one tribute van after another pull away. None of the words feel entirely sincere. Sensing the tension, Paisley turns to study her carefully. The question in her eyes barely needs voicing.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Sage buys time by staring at the spot where Alcyon had just been standing, now only marked by a faint dent in the perfect tiles. “Just… I hate all of this. The questions, the interviews, the cameras. You know.”

Paisley gives a quiet nod, eyes steady. Her silence is oddly comforting, but Sage still feels something shifting inside—something she doesn’t want to let out.

“Hey!”

A woman’s voice rings out behind them—clear, confident, the kind of voice that belongs to someone who’s never rushed or panicked a day in her life. Sage turns—and immediately freezes in surprise.

Gloss and Cashmere are walking toward them.

“Hi,” Sage says, a little awkwardly, caught off guard.

“Well hello,” Cashmere replies warmly, adjusting her fur wrap as she walks. “I was starting to worry we’d have to exchange pleasantries with Corvella instead.”

Paisley lights up instantly, her face glowing like she’s just seen old friends. Gloss gives her a nod, then glances at Sage. She smiles back awkwardly, unsure how to restart a conversation after their last meeting.

“Hey,” Paisley says, grinning wide.

There’s something warm—almost playful—in Gloss’s expression. He steps closer and, without much ceremony but with surprising gentleness, places a hand on Paisley’s back, leaning in just slightly. She doesn’t pull away. In fact, she almost leans into it. It lasts only a heartbeat, no more—but in that instant, everything is unmistakably clear.

Sage freezes, blinking, trying to make sense of the moment—and feeling a little flustered by how natural it seems.

“Wait,” she blurts before she can stop herself. “You two are…”

Cashmere rolls her eyes, tossing a lock of hair over her shoulder with a smirk.

“Oh, here we go. You couldn’t at least wait till we got to the Center, lovebirds?” She turns to Sage with a look that’s appraising but warm—not hostile in the slightest. “You held up well last year.”

Sage is still working on closing her mouth, which has quite literally dropped open. Paisley looks away, like she knew this moment would unfold exactly like this.

“Um. Thanks,” Sage finally manages, voice all over the place. “I mean… uh… you too. I guess. I mean, you weren't there... but I meant... that is…”

“Don’t worry so much,” Cashmere says gently. “You’re one of us now. Welcome to the mentoring club. We’re all in the same boat.”

Gloss chuckles—as if he genuinely enjoys watching Sage try to piece herself back together. He isn’t teasing, isn’t mocking. He just looks at her with a light curiosity, like he’s saying: it’s okay. Breathe.

“The first year always feels like a blow to the head,” he says at last, his voice low and a little hoarse. “It gets easier. Or maybe you just stop noticing.”

“Easy for you to say,” Sage scoffs, finally starting to let her shoulders relax. “You look like you were born under a spotlight with charisma in your veins.”

“I was born with anxiety in my veins,” Paisley interjects. “And I hate cameras.”

“And I’m just beautiful,” Cashmere sighs, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Everything else sort of came with the package.”

They all laugh, even Sage—quietly, almost shyly—as if she didn’t expect it to be this easy. For a moment, everything feels almost normal: they’re standing under the cold daylight, talking about cameras and stress, and it sounds more like a casual chat outside a bar than a conversation between survivors of the arena.

“Hey,” Gloss says, now speaking directly to Sage. “If you need anything, we’ve got you. Just give us a nod.”

Sage inhales deeply, then lets it go.

“Thanks,” she smiles. “Really. I thought I’d have to fight everyone.”

“Oh, you still will,” he says. “Just not us. Paisley’s friends are our friends.”

“Yeah,” Cashmere adds. “We hug first, then tell you how not to fall off the stage. The snark comes later. It’s a process.”

Paisley snorts.

“God, could you at least pretend to be subtle? The poor girl’s in shock.”

“The poor girl’s fine,” Sage shoots back quickly. “I just need… a little time.”

“Adjust,” Paisley says softly. “This is your life now.”

For a moment, the silence between them feels almost cozy, despite the Capitol’s distant hum. Everything around them feels too polished, too deliberate—but this little circle? It feels real. Sage finds herself smiling. Strange. After everything that happened last year—after that arena, the blood, the sound of breaking bones—she hadn’t thought she could just… stand there. And listen to someone’s jokes. As if she had a place at the grown-up table.

And for a moment, she almost feels at ease. Not completely. Not fully. But enough to let her shoulders drop just a bit. Enough to forget about the surveillance camera on the wall, which might still be recording.

They stay in the courtyard for another ten minutes, maybe more—Sage loses track of time. They chat casually, exchanging recent updates and light, teasing remarks. Sage says little—mostly she listens, absorbing everything. She doesn’t feel out of place. And that’s already something huge.

But of course, the idyll doesn’t last.

Alcyon bursts in like a storm, footsteps slapping loudly against the tiles, with the look of a man convinced they’re late for their own funeral.

“Ladies,” he exclaims theatrically, “what are you doing to my reputation?! The car’s been waiting! For an entire minute and forty seconds! That’s it! Let’s go! Now! Immediately! No time for parting words!”

“Hello again, Alcyon,” Sage drawls dryly. “We missed you terribly.”

“Sentimental reunions can wait,” Alcyon moans, grabbing Paisley by the elbow and gesturing frantically for Sage to follow.

“See you later,” Gloss calls after her.

“Don’t vanish!” Cashmere adds.

“Where would I go?” Sage replies, already backing away.

She and Paisley collapse into the backseat of the car — into a dark interior with soft cushions, the scent of leather conditioner, and the low hum of the ventilation system. The door slams shut, cutting them off from the rest of the world, and Alcyon drops into the front passenger seat with theatrical irritation.

Sage pauses. Looks at the driver. Then at Paisley. And with a slow, narrowed gaze, she drawls:

“Well?”

Paisley raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“When were you planning to tell me?”

Paisley pretends not to understand, but the corners of her mouth are already twitching.

“Tell you what? That it’s a nice day?”

“You know what I mean,” Sage hisses, barely managing to keep a straight face.

Paisley shrugs with exaggerated innocence.

“We just… get along.”

“Get along,” Sage mimics. “Right. Of course. Don’t forget to invite me to the wedding.”

Paisley snorts, laughing openly now.

“Oh, please. There won’t be a wedding if you go around spilling that we… get along. He’ll run for the hills! Men aren’t as brave as they look.”

“He’s a Victor! A Career!” Sage throws up her hands dramatically. “He survived the arena! And his shoulders are wider than my wardrobe.”

“Be that as it may, he’s terrified of messing up my hair.”

“Well, then,” Sage laughs, sliding lower into her seat, “maybe you really did find a keeper. Don’t let that one go.”

Paisley waves a hand.

“Don’t start. We just… unwind together. Occasionally. Between events. It’s… shared time.”

“Shared time,” Sage says in her best lecturer voice. “That’s a new word for sex. Got it.”

“Sometimes I forget you’re basically a teenager,” Paisley mutters, swatting her shoulder—though she can barely keep her own grin at bay.

Alcyon turns halfway around in his seat, squinting at them with mild suspicion.

“What’s going on back there? Why are you giggling like schoolgirls in detention?”

Sage and Paisley exchange glances.

“Nothing important, Alcyon,” Paisley replies innocently, though her eyes still sparkle with laughter.

“Yeah, we’re just discussing… strategy,” Sage chimes in, winking. “You do like when we talk strategy, don’t you?”

Alcyon glares at them a moment longer, clearly trying to figure out what exactly they’re hiding, but eventually turns back to the window, muttering under his breath. The car slips into a comfortable quiet, broken only by the soft whirr of the engine. Time passes, but it doesn’t feel as heavy as it did before.

Sage and Paisley sit side by side, watching the scenery blur past the windows — the sky deepening with light, the sidewalks glowing under streaks of sun. And then, for the first time in days, a faint but genuine smile crosses Sage’s face — and in that moment, she finally lets go of the breath that’s been clenching tight in her chest for far too long.

Chapter 30

Notes:

me, 30 chapters deep into trauma and existential dread: wow. what if. hear me out. what if i accidentally wrote a romcom.

Chariots roll one by one beneath the arch of the Training Center, and with each turn of the wheels, the space seems to shrink — like the hush that follows fireworks. For a few seconds, Moira and Frill are shown in close-up, and a similar expression flickers across both their faces: tense, slightly vacant, still catching the light, but somehow detached from the Capitol’s polished gleam.

This time, the stylists have outdone themselves.

Moira — thin, pale, spine straight, gaze blank. She’s wearing a dress that resembles a woven mesh of threads and ribbons cascading in layers — from steel gray to deep indigo. Each tier sways faintly with movement, like curtains in a breeze. Everything looks deliberately disheveled: loose strands, uneven knots — but the craftsmanship is unmistakable. The hem frays and unravels into threads, as if Moira has just crawled out of a sewing machine. Her hair is braided into dozens of fine plaits laced with metallic threads that catch the light and sparkle like taut wire. Her makeup is almost nonexistent — just a stroke of gray-blue liner drawn toward the temples, like a seam.

Frill is her opposite in every way. His look screams that the party’s here. He’s wrapped in layers of sheer organza as bright as bolts of fabric on display: fuchsia, orange, lemon yellow, aquamarine. Everything is puffy, airy, slightly oversized — as though someone tried to dress him like a mannequin. A wide ribbon belt cinches his waist, and his shoulders are adorned with shiny curled loops of fabric like gift-wrap bows. His face is painted with glitter, and even his lips seem lacquered. He shines like a fabric store window after a detonation.

“Well,” says Alcyon, rubbing his hands together. “We are a miracle. We are a disaster. We are a spectacle.”

“We are a textile bomb,” Paisley adds dryly, her voice laced with quiet irony.

The limousine that took them to the Training Center from the Dressing Station had been cramped, hot, and reeking of hairspray, champagne, and nerves. Now they’re in a spacious hall with dim lighting, wide chairs, and perimeter screens still showing the parade broadcast. Not live — there’s a three-second delay. Mentors, stylists, and coordinators are scattered around: some with crossed legs, some cradling glasses, some already buried in their tablets.

Sage sits between Paisley and the escort woman from District Five. She’s watching only the screen. The tributes have already vanished past the arch, and the camera cuts back to the hosts — grandiose, overwrought, and tactless.

“What a magnificent, unsettling, dazzling evening!” says Claudius Templesmith. “Looks like these Games won’t just be spectacular — they’ll be unpredictable.”

Sage presses her lips together. A few seconds later, a sound rings out — short, sharp, not loud but unmistakable. Instantly, the room stirs. Some rise abruptly, others sigh and set down their glasses. Screens go dark, tablets snap shut, chairs empty. Stylists gather skirts, assistants whisper into ears, mentors head for the exit.

Paisley rises first, gesturing to Sage: time to go. Her face is calm, but there’s a flicker of focus in her eyes — not alarm, exactly, but the look of someone already replaying the next scene in her head.

Sage stands. Her dress catches at her steps, heels clicking against the smooth floor. All around: motion, flickers of light, the sharp scent of perfume and fabric, like new curtains. Someone’s laughing. Someone’s hissing into their escort’s ear. Someone’s rushing by, adjusting their hair mid-stride. Everything as usual — the glamorous backstage chaos before the lights come up again.

They step into the corridor, where the noise is already building — wheels rumbling, horses snorting, assistants shouting. The crowd moves toward the exit: mentors, stylists, escorts — all scanning for their charges, their tributes, their responsibilities. Sage hurries behind Paisley, heart climbing higher with each step, like she’s about to walk into the arena all over again. Only now — in a different role.

Artemis is the first to reach the chariots. She wipes the last trace of a smile from her lips, but her eyes are still bright, still joyful. She says nothing as she reaches Moira, quickly adjusts something on the girl’s dress, and tugs gently on the lacing at her back.

“Well,” she says at last. “That was intense. Powerful. Moira, you lost the rhythm a little on that last turn, but it’s nothing serious. All those stares...” — she gently traces a finger along the girl’s shoulder — “…you’ll get used to them. You’ve still got time.”

Moira nods, but flushes scarlet.

“You were fantastic,” Flora sighs dreamily. “Every movement, every glance — I can’t even begin to explain how strong that was! This, this was… ” she grins wide, throwing her arms apart, suddenly forgetting there are rules and boundaries in the world. “We created a painting together. Especially you, Frill. You’re our secret spice.”

“That was… very unconventional,” Artemis says with a slight smile. “Exactly what I wanted. District Eight chose contrast — deliberate, sharp, meaningful. It’s not just a costume — it’s a story I wanted to tell, through fabric, form, and motion. Something we haven’t done before.”

Alcyon appears out of nowhere — a flurry of flowing sleeves and theatrical breath. He doesn’t so much walk as glide, waving his tablet like a conductor’s baton.

“Fashion gods and happy accidents, what did we just witness?!” he exclaims to the heavens. “Frill, child of color, you were a firework in a deaf world! A silk manifesto! You made me cry — and I wasn’t even wearing waterproof powder!”

Frill snorts and hides his face in the crook of his elbow.

“And Moira, Moira,” Alcyon continues, already ascending into rhapsody, “you were like wind, like shadow, like an unfinished letter. So quiet, so haunting, so utterly beautiful. I want to frame you. Or sculpt you. Or, at the very least, put you on the cover of a fashion magazine. No text. Just your eyes!”

He whirls toward Sage and claps his hands.

“Sage, Paisley, your children caused a revolution. Bravo, madame mentors! I want to gift you each a silk pillow. No — two. With monograms. Poise and talent, that’s what I see!”

Sage blinks, taking a small step back.

“Thanks,” she says, a bit mechanically. “I’ll think about the pillows.”

Alcyon smiles even wider — if that’s even possible — and instantly launches into a monologue about “the precise moment the light caught the ribbon on the belt”, “how Frill lifted his chin with such tragic dignity”, and “what if we added just a hint of metallic textile for the interview look — just a touch.”

Paisley rolls her eyes nearby but doesn’t interrupt — yet. Moira doesn’t seem to be following the words, her gaze still tense — like she’s trying to grow into the image of herself. Frill nods, but his eyes still tremble with exhaustion.

“I think we shouldn’t overload them…” Paisley begins gently, finally cutting in.

Alcyon waves a hand, smiling, as if to say “of course, of course”, but keeps talking anyway.

When the conversation finally winds to a natural close and everyone begins heading upstairs to their apartments, Sage lingers at the back of the group. Her head buzzes — from all the words, the images, the crowd. The corridor is wide and warm. The floor muffles every step, the walls glow with soft golden light — like dawn beneath the skin. The corners are all rounded. No shadows. Nowhere to hide.

She tugs at the hem of her dress, trying to move a little faster so she doesn’t fall behind. Her mind is so full that she doesn’t notice when she missteps. Suddenly — resistance. Her stride stutters. A sharp motion. Careless, quick. Something in her body registers it first. And then, as she glances down — she realizes.

She’s stepped on someone’s foot.

“Oh,” Sage breathes, eyes flying up as she stumbles back, nearly tripping in her heels.

Her face is flustered, and she doesn’t quite manage to hide it—though she tries. But Finnick—and it’s definitely him—is already smiling. Calmly. Without judgment. It’s not that big a deal.

“Don’t worry. Happens constantly,” he says, tilting his head slightly, as if to show he’s not remotely offended. “I suppose it’s the curse of being so incredibly hard to miss.”

Sage lets out a short laugh, her embarrassment easing just a bit.

“First year mentoring,” he adds. “Congratulations. You're off to a much smoother start than I had.”

“Thanks. I think I’ve just been lucky so far.”

“Anything that doesn’t drive you insane counts as a win,” he replies. “And you look pretty composed. Even in that dress.”

Sage glances down at her outfit. It’s tight—molded to her body—like tarnished silver. The fabric is smooth and slightly cool, stretching with each step as if it might snap at any moment—a taut trap. The seams are outlined with delicate embroidery, like cracks on ice. The sleeves fall to mid-palm, ending in loose threads as if no one bothered to finish them. The neckline is high and severe, with a pressure that mimics elegance. The belt is so narrow, it could be mistaken for a scar.

“A true feat of engineering,” she says dryly. “I think if I breathe too deeply, something might fall off.”

“Then hold your breath. Are you sure the stylists don’t secretly hate you?”

“Well, Flora almost fainted when I asked for something that wasn’t pink.”

“Savage. How could you.”

They walk side by side, slowly, as if the corridor is stretching itself out to give them more time.

“How are your tributes?” he asks.

“The girl’s quiet. The boy grumbles,” Sage says with a small shrug. “Yours? On the broadcast, the boy looked like he wanted to punch the camera with his eyes.”

“That’s his version of smiling. But he’s alright. Way easier than the time I got stuck with an eighteen-year-old when I was fifteen—twice my size and very clear on the fact that he wasn’t going to listen to anyone, especially not me.”

“Sounds like a dream.”

“Mhm. I wanted to hit him with the lunch tray.”

Sage laughs again.

“Excellent mentoring strategy. Maybe I should try that.”

“Start with not stepping on people first,” he teases.

She rolls her eyes, but smiles—just a little. Not unkindly.

They reach the elevator, and Sage presses the call button, nearly bumping into Finnick as he steps forward at the same time. Inside, a few people are already waiting, each wearing the same expression: a mix of expectation and annoyance. Everything around them still glows gently. The floor shines like a mirror.

“So,” he asks as the elevator glides toward the fourth floor, “ready to start giving lectures?”

“Yep,” Sage nods. “And no deep breaths, remember?”

“God forbid,” he smirks. “We wouldn’t want anything falling off you.”

“Depends on what exactly,” she replies thoughtfully, adjusting her dress. “I wouldn’t mind losing the belt. It’s suffocating.”

The elevator slows to a gentle stop. The doors slide open, and Finnick steps out with effortless grace.

“Good luck, mentor of District Eight.”

“And to you, mentor of District Four,” Sage replies.

He disappears down the lit corridor, as if melting into it.

The elevator hums back to life, smooth and nearly silent. Sage stays where she is, surrounded by half-familiar faces, leaning her shoulder against the cool wall of the cabin. For a moment, she closes her eyes—just to collect herself. There’s still a tremor in her chest from the parade, like dust after an explosion.

Ding. Eighth floor. The doors open.

The hallway is softly lit, warm, a little muffled. Her dress rustles gently at her hips as she walks across the carpet, finally stepping into the apartment.

It’s already noisy.

Moira and Frill are sitting side by side on the couch: Frill is slightly disheveled and dazed, as if he’s still hearing the applause, while Moira looks tense but upright, like she’s holding herself together by sheer will. Paisley is explaining something, gesturing with her palm as if conducting a symphony. Flora stands nearby with a glass in hand and triumph glowing on her face.

“God, how did it come out so well!” she exclaims, raising her glass above her head. “The layers, the movement! Frill, when you turned—I swear, my heart skipped a beat! And Moira… you didn’t just stand there. You inhabited the space. It wasn’t a parade. It was choreography!”

“Brilliantly edited,” Artemis nods from the table, holding a bottle of wine. “Lighting, composition, texture—it all reads instantly. The contrast between the two of you—pure genius.”

“Oh, I shook,” Alcyon cries out, theatrically pressing a hand to his chest. “By the seventh second, I was clutching my side from pure joy. You had the facial expressions of runway models. So chic!”

Frill lets out a quick laugh but immediately stops, as if afraid of ruining the moment. Moira gives a small smile, but her eyes remain guarded.

Sage closes the door behind her and steps to the side, silent for a moment. She watches them—and sees how the tension is slowly slipping from their shoulders, how this night, whatever else it was, became a kind of victory. Small, fleeting—but real.

“Well,” she says at last, reserved but with the hint of a smile. “Looks like the Capitol officially liked you.”

“Liked?” Flora gasps. “We delivered an aesthetic blow! They’ll remember tonight. Because now your image is burned onto their retinas. Every glance, every step, every fold of fabric!”

“And every millimeter of glitter,” Alcyon adds. “I counted them personally.”

Sage sinks into a chair and kicks off her heels. Her hand rests on the edge of the armrest, brushing against the velvet.

“Sage, you’re late,” Alcyon drawls dreamily from the couch, squinting at her. “Let me guess… flirting?”

He twirls his hand in the air, as if writing the word—curved, ornate, with flourishes.

“Don’t worry, I’m not judging. You’ve got that look—like a tragic widow at a society gala. That’s a compliment, I swear! Worn out but exquisite. Anyone would want you. Ah, youth, longing, throbbing pulses…”

Sage raises an eyebrow.

“I stepped on Finnick Odair’s foot,” she says dryly. “Pretty hard, I think. It was a tragic act of violence.”

“Ah. A fetish,” Alcyon nods. “Happens to everyone eventually.”

Flora giggles into her glass.

“I promise silence if someone pours me something bubbly,” Alcyon announces.

“I could use a drink myself,” Paisley mutters.

Alcyon snaps his fingers, and an attendant appears. Glasses begin to chime—thin crystal, sparkling liquid, fizz rising in swirls.

Sage watches Flora hand a glass to Artemis, sees Paisley reach slowly for hers—and, with barely a pause, takes one of her own. The glass is cold. Sage takes a sip. Then another. The drink fizzes on her tongue and slides down softly, like it's seeping into her muscles.

It’s stupid. She knows she shouldn’t be drinking. But the humming in her chest finally quiets, and that’s too tempting to resist.

“I captured the moment, actually,” says Alcyon, suddenly waving his tablet. “When Frill lifted his chin. Pure poetry.”

He turns the screen—and there it is: Frill in three-quarter profile, light playing over his costume, his face looking like it’s cut from tinted film.

“You were outrageously good,” Alcyon declares. “Forgive the enthusiasm.”

Frill blushes slightly. Moira glances at him, quick and fleeting, as if checking how he's holding up.

Meanwhile, Flora is already roaming the room again, a second glass in hand, clearly in high spirits.

“So, children,” she says brightly, “ready to wake up famous tomorrow?”

Frill gives a crooked smile.

“Bit late to run now, huh?”

“Alas,” Sage says. “Time to get to work.”

“Speaking of,” Paisley says, leaning back in her chair, “since we survived the parade, time for the big news.”

Frill and Moira, sitting a little apart, glance up almost in sync. Frill is turning his glass like a child, carefully, afraid to spill. Moira holds hers but hasn’t taken a sip.

“Training starts tomorrow,” Paisley says. “Eight a.m. sharp. No ‘we didn’t sleep,’ no ‘I’m dizzy.’ We’ve got three days to turn you into potential victors.”

Alcyon applauds.

“Oh, I love this part!”

Sage drains her glass. Her head buzzes—not from the drink, but from the exhale. From knowing it’s over. At least for today. The evening blurs, like paint bleeding across wet paper.

They sit like that for a while longer. Not as tributes and mentors, not even really as a team. Just as people lingering in the evening light. Tomorrow, the new Games begin. But tonight, there's still room for a sip of peace.

Eventually, as the laughter fades a little and the glasses gradually empty, Flora rises with the lazy grace of a cat, casting a conspiratorial glance around the room.

“Time for dinner,” she says. “The balcony’s already set. Smells so good I almost forgot how tired I am.”

The group gets up, reluctantly drifting out of the lounge. The hallway to the balcony is wide and softly lit. The doors are already flung open, and the evening air spills into the apartment, carrying scents from the kitchen and the freshness of the city at dusk.

A long table is laid out on the spacious balcony: a white tablecloth, simple yet elegant place settings, glasses gleaming under hanging lanterns suspended from metal arcs. In the center, dishes chosen with care and taste — roasted vegetables, fresh fruit, crusty bread, platters of fish and pasta, carafes of cold water and wine.

Sage is the last to step outside, lingering in the shadow by the threshold. Her dress — still that treacherously tight silver — flutters in the breeze like a thin sheet of metal. She takes a few steps forward, catches the smell of food, hears the voices — and feels a warm, slightly heavy tiredness settle on her shoulders.

Paisley joins her, quietly, not deliberately. She’s just suddenly there, as if by chance.

“You’re holding up good,” she says, not looking directly at her, but somewhere just ahead. “It went well.”

Sage blinks. Caught off guard. Almost touched.

“Not sure I can tell the difference between ‘well’ and ‘I didn’t embarrass myself and that’s as good as it gets.’”

“You survived the arena. We’ll manage two teenagers somehow.”

Sage lowers her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching faintly. She looks like she’s about to say something, but changes her mind — and just nods, quietly.

They head to the table. Alcyon is already laughing loudly at his own joke. Moira is murmuring something to Frill, who listens, nodding. Artemis is helping herself to vegetables, Paisley reaches for a glass of water.

Sage sits. She feels the wind brush her cheeks, the hum of concrete beneath the table, the quiet clatter of movement in the kitchen. Everything is calm. For the first time today — genuinely calm.

Alcyon raises his glass:

“To our first victory, ladies and gentlemen.”

The wine is poured — almost black in the depth of the glass. Everyone clinks. Flora takes a piece of bread and slowly dips it in the sauce, not looking at Alcyon. He, meanwhile, is already in full charm mode: lashes half-lowered, head tilted, a sly smile playing on his lips.

“You know,” he says, drawing the syllables out just a touch too long, “I once read that every great stylist eventually meets a muse who outshines him.”

“What a pity,” Flora replies, “that it’s not your story. Not yet.”

Moira lets out a stifled giggle. Alcyon isn’t offended.

“Flora, you turn my heart into a pincushion. Please don’t stop.”

“I’d love to,” she says, breaking the bread in half, “but I don’t make a habit of entertaining boys over dinner. Even talented ones.”

Her voice is soft, almost gentle — but there’s steel under the softness. Alcyon bows his head, as if conceding defeat. Or pretending to. His smile stretches, entirely satisfied: Sage has long understood that these two are playing a game of their own.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the table, Paisley leans back in her chair, lifting her chin to the evening breeze. The city below looks as if it’s been sealed under a sheet of glass, everything moving just a little slower behind it. As if it’s not a view, but a stage — and they’re merely the spectators.

“So?” she says, glancing at Moira and Frill. “How are you feeling?”

Moira bites her lip, thinking. Frill looks off to the side, clearly trying to find an answer, but saying nothing.

“It’s… strange,” Moira admits. “Like I forgot, for just a moment, where we’re headed. Like we’re just… a team. That’s all.”

Sage nods silently, eyes still downcast. She eats in tiny bites, with a kind of almost scientific precision. Paisley notices the slight tremble in her fork — and subtly moves her own glass out of the way, not to distract her by accident.

Moira grips her water glass with both hands. Her eyes are still a little wide, like she’s still under the cameras. Or still standing in that hall, beneath the giant screens. Her voice is quiet:

“So tomorrow it really begins?”

“Yep,” Paisley says thoughtfully. “You’ll have three days to learn as much as you possibly can. Get a good night’s sleep — you’ll need it.”

“Three days?” Moira echoes softly. “That’s… not a lot.”

“It’s what you’ve got,” Paisley leans back, reaching for a napkin. “And it can be more than enough, if you know what to look for.”

“Do you want us both to train you together,” Sage asks, “or should we split up?”

A pause hangs for a moment. Then Moira asks:

“What happened last year?”

“Well, last year I worked with Sage, and Cecelia took the boy,” Paisley replies. “That was easier for us. We coordinated, but didn’t overlap.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Sage adds, folding her napkin neatly on the table. “I think you should choose whatever feels most comfortable. You’ll be spending a lot of time together. Better if it’s not… unbearable.”

Moira lowers her gaze. She seems like she wants to say something, but doesn’t quite dare. Frill looks at Sage — there’s more exhaustion than fear in his face. He’s not avoiding the conversation, but he’s not eager for it, either.

“I…” Moira begins quietly, hands clenched on her lap. “I’d be okay if you worked with me,” she nods at Paisley. “You’re… calm. And serious. That’s good.”

“Noted,” Paisley answers briefly, her expression unchanged — but something softer slips into her voice for just a second.

“Then I’ll take you,” Sage says to Frill. He shrugs a little.

“Honestly, I don’t mind,” he says. “I’m not a fighter. Not the wild type. Just… don’t like getting yelled at.”

“I’m not fond of shouting either,” Sage replies. “So we’ll manage.”

Alcyon claps his hands together like someone just announced an engagement, beaming.

“Well then, settled! Pairs assigned, balance restored. Now all that’s left is survival — but do try your best, won’t you?”

The wind picks up slightly. Somewhere below, an advertisement flares to life. The shadow from the glass stretches across the table, long and uneven. Sage picks up another piece of roasted carrot and slowly chews, staring into the distance. Everything freezes. Only the rustle of the wind. Only the clink of dishes. Only the hum of the city below, like a distant sea. Only they — alive, weary, still not fully understanding how long they’ll have to remain just like this.

Later, when conversations start to quiet down, glasses empty, and the light in the living room softens and grows dimmer, everyone begins to drift away. Artemis is the first to get up and disappear, muttering something about a tight schedule. Flora, smiling, leads Moira away, still explaining how to make the light “work for her.” Frill yawns and stretches — almost comically — before heading for the bedroom. Even Alcyon, beaming and content, eventually says his goodbyes with a parting remark, “I’ll leave you with your demons, my angels.”

Sage is left alone. For a few minutes, she just sits, staring at her empty glass. Then she rises and heads to the bathroom.

Under the cold, precise light, she stands before the mirror for a long while. Her dress is still on — fitted, deceptively beautiful. The lines of her face sharper from fatigue, shadows beneath her eyes like faint strokes of ashy watercolor. She looks at herself as if she’s a stranger.

In this silence, her reflection seems almost motionless. As if waiting — for something. Or someone. From the mirror, someone stares back at her, someone Sage would struggle to describe if she saw them on the street. Maybe an actress. Or a corpse, just before the funeral.

She tilts her head slightly — mechanically, as if for a photoshoot. The light from the lamp slides down her cheek, like a blade. Sage looks into her own eyes — foreign, outlined, without a glimmer. And thinks about the fact that soon she’ll have to speak again, smile again, play the part of someone who knows how to inspire. The one who once survived. The one who is now the example.

She doesn’t feel like an example. She feels the dress squeezing her chest, like it’s not fabric, but someone’s hands. Beautiful hands, smelling of lavender and vinegar. Gentle. But strong. For a moment, she thinks she sees, in the reflection behind her, the uniform of a tribute — a jacket with a worn collar, hair in a messy braid. But no — it’s gone. Only she remains. Or what they’ve made of her.

Sage exhales — slowly — and finally starts to unbutton her dress.

When she leaves the bathroom, now dressed in her nightgown, the apartment is quiet — only the muffled hum of the air conditioner and the sound of her bare feet on the carpet. The cool air of the hallway seems to scrape the remnants of warm light from her skin. Her hair is loose, the dress carefully folded over her arm.

She enters her room, and the first thing that catches her eye is the neat white envelope on her pillow. No name, no seal. Just lying there, as if waiting. As if someone had come in while she wasn’t looking, left it — and left.

Sage looks at it with a brief sense of wariness. Then she approaches, sits on the edge of the bed, and takes the envelope in her hands. The paper is thick, slightly textured. Pleasant to the touch. Inside is a sheet with the engraved heading:

"Dear Miss Bradbury,

We are pleased to invite you to attend an exclusive fashion show at the Astoria Museum of Art.

Start time: July 7th, 23:30
Event status: Private

We look forward to your attendance and are pleased to inform you that you will be accompanied by Mr. Sylvanus Groff, the official representative of our event."

Nothing more. But the hint is clear.

Sage stares at the paper for a long time, unblinking. Then she slowly folds it, returns it to the envelope, and hides it in the drawer of the bedside table, as if not closing a letter, but a door. A twist of the key in her mind: not now.

She turns off the main light, leaving only the bedside lamp on, and slowly lies down in bed. The sheets — fresh, Capitol-style, with a faint scent of roses and laundry detergent.

Sage closes her eyes.

Tomorrow. She’ll think about it tomorrow.

***

It’s late morning; the air outside is cool, almost transparent — like water straight from the tap, still unheated. Sage steps out onto the balcony barefoot, closing the glass door behind her and sticking a cigarette in her mouth. She flicks the lighter — twice. The first try doesn’t catch.

The first few puffs burn, as always. Then — it gets easier. She leans against the railing, stretching one leg out to keep her calf from cramping, and looks at the daylight contours of the Capitol. The morning rises in her mind, like an undercooked egg. A conversation at the table, a cup of coffee, a couple of awkward jokes, all of it laced with tension, as though everyone in the room was waiting for an explosion.

And Frill. Quiet. Cautious. He looked at the food like it was a puzzle. Barely raised his eyes. When Sage suggested discussing strategy — he shrugged. He said, "I don’t know. I don’t know how to do all this."

She tried. Asked if he’d ever held a knife. No. An axe? No. A stone? "What, should I throw it?" No.

And yet — he’s not useless. She can see that.

He’s strong. Physically, noticeably. His body is sturdy, resilient — he’s carried something heavy most of his life. Shoulders, back, arms — the kind you get from growing up around machines or in warehouses. Not sculpted — but real. But he moves... cautiously. As if afraid of breaking something by accident. Or drawing attention. Or maybe both.

Sage exhales a stream of smoke, and it immediately drifts toward the city. She thinks about all of this to avoid thinking about the envelope. There were no threats, no orders in the invitation. But she’s no fool. She knows what it means.

That they’ll look at her again. That someone else’s hands will touch her again — not cruel, not rough, not even violent. Just foreign. Sweet, confident, smelling of shaving cream and money. They’ll smile, give compliments, and she’ll accept them. Because fame demands it. Because someone somewhere decided her body was part of the Games. And all that’s left for her is to pretend it’s her choice. That she loves champagne. Loves silk. Loves being the object.

Her fingers still smell of tobacco, and the skin on her lips is bitter from the smoke. The wind brushes her face — warm, sticky. Somewhere below, the city hums, as if calling her back into the cages, into the light, into the system that is always hungry.

So, this is how it will be now. After the parades. After the interviews. After the victory. After surviving but not escaping. She is merchandise. A face. An inspiration. And, most importantly, she is always available.

Not today, though. Not today — not yet. Today, she’s just Sage Bradbury. Tired, crumpled, smelling of smoke. The one who survived. And the one who’s still trying to get used to this new life.

After all, she and Frill have something in common. Neither of them likes being in the spotlight. Being what others expect them to be. Being guilty. And that’s what can be done with him. Something worthwhile can be sculpted from that. He won’t be sharp, he won’t snap, he won’t start swinging a spear in the first minutes. But maybe he’ll become like an underground cable: until you touch it, you won’t know if there’s power.

She crushes the cigarette against the railing, leaving a tiny ash mark on the white stone. A drone hums overhead — a soft buzz, like an insect. Sage sighs heavily.

Winning the Hunger Games without killing is impossible. She knows that for sure. Frill isn’t a killer. She knows that too. But maybe he can become someone else. Someone who survives not because he’s stronger. But because he’s unnoticed, because he’s resilient, because he doesn’t make mistakes. Exactly, by instinct. Exactly, as though he can hear the earth move under his skin. Like her.

Sage returns to the room, pulling the sleeves of her t-shirt down as she walks. The air inside feels warmer than it should — soft, muted, as if the walls and floors themselves are unbearably tired. Paisley is sitting on the couch, leaning back against the cushions, flipping through TV channels. Her hair is loose, striped socks on, a coffee mug beside her.

"Take a walk?" she asks without looking up.

"Yeah," Sage answers, flopping down next to her. "Breathed. Smoked. Thought about the meaning of life."

Paisley hums.

"Find it?"

"Maybe not."

She pauses, staring at the ceiling. For a few seconds, only the soft murmur of an ad fills the room.

"You know..." Sage begins slowly. "I keep thinking about what I’ll do when it happens."

Paisley doesn’t respond immediately. She clicks the remote, turns off the TV. Only then does she look at Sage.

"What do you mean?"

"Well..." Sage smiles crookedly. "Let’s say when Frill dies. Or Moira. One of them. Or both. It’s going to happen."

"Yeah," Paisley says quietly. "It will happen."

"I just..." Sage pauses, fiddling with the edge of the pillow. "I don’t know if I’ll be able to. Watch all of that. Pretend it’s okay."

Paisley looks at her carefully, but without pity. She just listens. Then she says:

"No one knows, until it happens."

"Great," Sage mutters. "You’ve really calmed me down."

"I’m not here to lie to you. We can’t change anything. All we can do is try everything we can to make sure at least one of them makes it out."

A silence stretches between them, but it doesn’t weigh them down. Instead, it becomes something familiar, almost cozy — like a cold evening outside when it’s so dark that it feels almost childishly scary.

Time in here, in the room, feels like something foreign — there’s no present, no future. Only what was. And what will be.

Sage quietly pulls her knees up to her chest, holding them with her hands. She sits like only she can at moments like this, when the whole world seems too big and she feels too small for everything happening in it. Her fingers touch the edge of the pillow again, and she doesn’t want to move.

Paisley looks at her, her eyes soft, but still the same as always. She doesn’t say anything else, but Sage feels her gaze. Not sympathy. Not pity. Just presence. And strangely, that makes it easier. Easier than if someone had said something comforting and false.

Time drifts by, unhurried. Somewhere deep below, the first training session begins, and Sage absently thinks about how tomorrow will be a new day. And no matter how cruel it is, she’ll have to face it, as always.

Chapter 31

Frill sits in a chair in the common room of the apartment, holding a bottle of water with such force, as if it’s the only thing that can keep him from collapsing right onto the floor. He looks exhausted, but it seems like he’s doing everything he can to make sure no one notices. He pours himself a drink, tilts his head back, and the tired expression on his face shifts to a faint tension, as though each moment of struggling with himself is already a victory.

The door swings open, and Sage rolls into the room.

Literally.

She pushes a wheeled board in front of her. On the board is a neat column of names, each with an endless number of arrows, notes, and clarifications in parentheses:

SAGE B.
MAISIE V.
HEYWOOD T.
FINNICK O.
CASHMERE K.
GLOSS K.
TOPAZ R.
PAISLEY M.
SILAS L.
GLORY B.
CECELIA S.

On Sage's forehead are gigantic, absurdly shiny Alcyon's glasses, giving her the look of a gloomy professor. Alcyon follows behind her, carrying a box of markers as if it were a family heirloom passed down through the mentor line.

"Good evening, my little source of trouble," he purrs.

"Today, we’re going to do something truly amazing: analyzing deaths," Sage continues with feigned enthusiasm, matching his tone.

Frill nearly manages not to choke on his water.

"I’ve rewatched the most important moments of the Games from the last ten years," she continues, approaching the board and circling the names. "And I can officially say: I want to gouge my eyes out."

"Oh, she’s dramatizing," Alcyon says, almost apologetically for her. "Actually, no. She’s not. I was there when she rewatched Paisley’s victory. There was the denial stage, then—aggression. I ran away at the depression stage."

Okay, so maybe Sage had been a little dramatic. She rewatched almost everything — except her own Games. That was the line she couldn’t cross. In the morning, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea, but as soon as the familiar factories appeared on the TV screen, she realized: this was too much. Even a year later, even with some distance, the memories still returned as a heavy wave, as if she had just closed her eyes and found herself there again.

But she decided to distance herself. She tried. To do so, she had to immerse herself in someone else’s Games, in the moments of someone else’s pain, to keep herself from getting attached to her own. Sage tried to be smarter, colder, more detached. She looked at the victors, studied their mistakes and wins, their strengths and weaknesses. She cycled through footage of tributes from other years, surviving and dying, the ones she’d never seen, and those currently on other floors of the Training Center, until it made her nauseous.

It was easier. There was far less personal stuff in other arenas, less of the nightmare that hid behind the frames of her own past. After all, in her previous life, she watched the Games every year, so she could handle it now.

Sage snaps her fingers on the board.

"Here. I decided not to overwhelm you, so... the victors of the last ten years. Ten people. Different ages, different districts, different tactics. But all — survivors. I want you to start thinking about why they survived. What did they have that the others didn’t?

"Luck?" Frill suggests hesitantly.

"That too," Sage nods. "But not only."

She grabs a marker and starts writing next to each name: "brain," "strength," "charisma," "cunning," "lies," "stealth." Sometimes she adds two words.

"I’m not going to turn you into a killer in three days, even if I really want to," she says calmly. "But we can make it so that you survive long enough for something from this list to save you. And for that to happen, you need to understand who you are. And, even more importantly, who you can pretend to be."

She removes her glasses. Her hair is disheveled, dark circles under her eyes — which, much to Flora’s dismay, no concealer can hide. But her voice is still firm.

"And yes," she adds. "If you still think victory is just a matter of morality and spirit, please leave. I’m not sure I can pretend for another nine minutes."

Silence.

"Great," Sage says. "Let’s get started."

Frill furrows his brow, looking at the board as if it were a mathematical equation he has to solve to get breakfast. He raises his hand — clearly not because he’s actually interested, but because he can’t help himself.

"And what if I, let’s say, am not really..." he gestures vaguely, as if waving a knife through the air, "well, not really a fighter. What then?"

Sage turns to him as if this was the question she’d been waiting for.

"Then you don’t fight. You disappear."

She writes “Frill” on the board, and next to it — “invisibility.”

"You need to become a decoration. A stone. A twig. Anything that isn’t looked at twice. Until you blend in so naturally that even flies will fly past without noticing you. Others will be cutting each other up, while you remember. Listen. Find food. Hide. And when everything falls apart — you step out and seize the moment."

"What if they find me anyway?" he continues stubbornly. "If I literally run into someone, and there’s no way out?"

Sage narrows her eyes slightly.

"Then you do what you have to. Quickly. Then you run. And then — you live with it."

"Grim," Frill mumbles, rubbing his neck.

"Wait, sweetie, you’ve forgotten an important point," Alcyon interrupts, already pulling out a notebook from his pocket. "Everyone thinks victory is all about what's happening in the arena. But that’s not it. Victory starts before. From the moment you step out for the parade. How you move. How you hold your gaze."

He steps forward, waving the pen dramatically.

"You have to have a face. A legend. Let everyone think you’re a poor innocent boy who spends all his time writing poems. Or, on the contrary, a cruel predator. The key is the image. If they see something special in you — they’ll bet on you."

Frill shakes his head.

"Sponsors don’t save fools."

"They love beautiful fools," he retorts, dramatically jabbing his finger at the list as if it proves his point. Sage almost feels insulted. "Trust me on that."

"Alright." Sage puts down the marker. "Remember this: hide, listen, don’t play the hero. If you see someone with a weapon, don’t try to show off. And keep your feet out of the Cornucopia."

Frill still looks unconvinced, but there’s a hint of attention in his eyes. He looks at the board, then at Sage, then at his hands. He clenches his fingers.

"Okay, but what if…" he scratches his head. "What if I can get someone into an alliance? Like, if someone normal comes along?"

Sage crosses her arms and tilts her head slightly.

"Alliances work. Until they don’t."

Frill wrinkles his nose.

"Deep."

"Seriously," she continues calmly. "People will be nice as long as you’re useful to them. As long as it’s scary nearby. As long as someone else is more dangerous. But then everything changes. They’ll remember you’re not their friend. And if you get too attached to someone, it’s on you."

He snorts, but not with irritation — more with some nervous, adolescent bravado.

"Yeah. Well, great. Sounds like I should just fall into a hole and wait for everyone to tear each other apart."

"Sometimes that works," Sage shrugs. "But only if you can stay quiet enough in the hole."

Alcyon claps his hands, as if acknowledging the particularly sharp remark.

"Or if you get aesthetically wounded. Blood, dust, tragic gaze — and bam, next magazine cover. The Young Martyr of District Eight. People love young martyrs."

"Thanks," Frill grumbles. "Very encouraging."

Sage softens her voice a little.

"I’m not saying you don’t have a chance. I’m saying you won’t get a second one. Just one. And either you’re ready for it, or you’ll get eaten alive."

Frill presses his lips together. He’s quiet for a moment. Then he sighs.

"What if I panic?"

"Panic is normal," says Sage. "The important thing is not to let it take over."

She moves to the board and adds a new note next to Frill's name: "cold head."

Then she leans slightly forward, rests her hand on the edge of the board, and squints at him.

"Alright, genius. Now tell me: what did you do today in training?"

Frill hesitates. The board suddenly becomes more interesting than her face.

"Well... first I just walked around, looked. There’s, like, everything — spears, axes, some... harpoons? Why would you even need a harpoon?"

Alcyon, sitting on the armrest of the chair, perks up.

"To kill dramatically, of course. Being pierced by a harpoon — ah! — pure art. Especially if you’re at the right angle."

Sage doesn’t respond. She just nods, as if saying, "keep going."

"Then I went over to the sword section," Frill admits reluctantly. "They’re, like... huge. I grabbed one — just to look. And..."

He falls silent.

"And?" Sage raises an eyebrow.

"And I got it," he admits. "Well... not perfectly, but I swung it a couple of times, hit the dummy. It almost knocked it over. Even the instructor came over. Said I had an interesting arm. What does that even mean?"

"It means you’re strong, and they didn’t expect it," says Sage. "But how did it feel?"

Frill shrugs. Then, a little quieter:

"I don’t know. Like I wasn’t really shaking while I swung the sword. Like it all made sense. Just the target and me."

Sage looks at him more closely. Then she turns and writes on the board:

SWORDS: POSSIBLE

STRENGTH: USE

PANIC RESISTANCE: TO BE TESTED

"Impressive," Alcyon comments. "And that’s just on the first day. At this rate, by the final, you’ll be killing five people with a single harpoon shot."

"I’m not sure I’ll even make it to the final," Frill mutters, but with less gloom than before.

"That’s why we’re here," Sage says. "To make sure you outlive all the idiots with harpoons."

She leans back again and twirls the marker in her fingers, but her tone is no longer the strict, teacher-like one. Now, it’s more of a quiet, stubborn belief. Sage adopts a serious expression again, erases part of the notes on the board, and draws something resembling an eye with an arrow pointing toward some bushes.

"Now, seriously. Hide and seek. How are you at that?"

Frill frowns.

"What do you mean — how? Like... run and hide in a closet?"

"In a closet, not the best idea," Alcyon interjects. "Though aesthetically, it could work."

Sage ignores him.

"I mean: can you be unnoticed? Can you stay still, hold your breath, not move? Endure. Not give yourself away, even when you're scared?"

Frill squints, as if this question requires him to reconsider his entire biography.

"Well... when I was a kid, I often wandered alone where I shouldn’t. Sometimes the Peacekeepers would walk by, and I’d freeze. Once, one passed right by me and didn’t notice. I even held my breath."

Sage nods, as if confirming a hunch.

"Then there’s a chance."

"Do you really think hiding is a strategy?" he asks skeptically. "But that’s... like... cowardice, right?"

Alcyon hums but doesn’t say anything. Sage opens her mouth but can’t find the words immediately. For a few seconds, it feels as though something is stuck inside her — a breath, a thought, a moment. No anger, no bitterness breaks through. Just silence. Almost peaceful. Almost.

When she finally raises her eyes, they no longer hold irritation or mockery, as they usually do, but something strangely empty. Tired. Too grown-up for such a young face.

"Yeah," she says flatly. "I’m a coward. But that’s why I’m alive."

And in that sentence, there are no excuses, no desire to prove anything. Just a statement. A dry fact. But in her voice, there’s something more — not bitterness, but a thin, almost childlike hurt. The kind that stays with a person when, as a child, they were accused of something shameful — and they never had the chance or couldn’t explain that there was simply no other choice.

Sage takes a breath, a little deeper than necessary, as though squeezing the last remnants of a reaction out of herself. Then she suddenly stands up and walks to the board, as if the conversation is over. But between the lines — no, it’s just begun.

Frill is silent. Then he looks away.

"Alright," he exhales. "I’ll try. But it feels... kinda weird."

"Get used to it," Sage says. "Anything that works isn’t weird. Especially if you’re still alive."

She turns and draws something else on the board: now a schematic silhouette of a person under a hanging branch. Then she turns back to Frill.

"Another question. Are you afraid of blood?"

Frill rolls his eyes and finally leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest tiredly.

"Of course not. You keep talking to me like I’m eight," he grumbles. "But I’m not a kid. I’m only two years younger than you."

Sage looks at him with a squint.

"You know," she says, tilting her head, "I have an older sister. When we were kids, she had this thing where she’d line all of us up and make us rehearse emergency drills. Like, ‘What to do if our home suddenly explodes.’ I was four. She was eleven and terrifying. And if anyone interrupted her instructions—especially with something ‘smart’—she’d hit them with a rolled-up newspaper. No hesitation. I’ll leave it to your imagination how I deal with annoying people."

Frill rolls his eyes again — this time, more cautiously, with a hint of embarrassment rather than irritation. He clearly wanted to poke at her, show that he wasn’t just some kid under supervision. That he was independent, adult, capable of making decisions. But after hearing her response, he’s left with nothing — no outburst, no irritation — only calm, predatory irony. Like a cat who could scratch you but is only circling, her claws just tracing the air.

Sage goes back to the board, adds another arrow — from the word "invisibility" to the word "patience". She notes, almost petty, that she even enjoys teaching, but it's not just about that. There are still memories alive in her of what it’s like — not to scream when you want to. Not to move when your body demands it. And Sage isn’t entirely sure which is worse: that — or, on the other hand, when everyone only looks at her.

She wipes the board with her palm, smearing the marker’s ink. The room fills again with that attentive, tense silence that exists between those who don’t trust each other yet, but are already forced to walk side by side.

"I’ll manage. Really," Frill finally says. "I just... don’t know how yet."

"That’s why we’re learning," Sage says. "That’s why we’re sitting here. While there’s time. While the blood stays just memories."

Alcyon loudly inhales through his teeth.

"Ah, so poetic. I almost flinched. But fortunately, I’m here to add some beauty."

He walks over to the board and, using a purple marker, writes on the side: "Charm above all!"

Sage smirks.

"Thanks, Alcyon. As we all know, no one survives without charm."

"Whoever lives without charm shouldn’t be living," he scoffs.

Frill gives a crooked smile, but there’s still tension in his eyes. And Sage sees it. Sees it — and doesn’t say anything. She just nods at him and adds:

"Tomorrow we’ll go over the arenas."

"And today?"

"Today, we’ll pick your strategy."

They work for a few more hours. Not in the sense that it’s all intense, focused work — rather, it’s like a clumsy, stubborn attempt to hammer survival logic into one very stubborn teenager, amid madness.

Frill argues with her hoarsely at times, once — really — almost reaching the point of a fight: he suddenly throws a marker on the floor, and Sage stands up too quickly, as if she’s about to do something. But of course, she doesn’t. And after that — strangely enough — everything goes a little smoother. He listens. She speaks. They both pretend not to be exhausted to the point of death.

When the clock’s hands are creeping toward twelve, Sage finally exhales and stands up.

"That’s enough, off to bed."

"But I..."

"You’re a good boy. You’re going to rest. No arguments."

Frill grimaces but obeys. He gives Alcyon a parting wave and disappears down the hallway.

Sage sinks back into her chair and stretches out her legs, lazily swinging them in the air. Alcyon’s glasses have long since slipped to the tip of his nose. He offers her a cup of tea with a theatrical bow.

“Madam.”

“Sir.”

They clink cups. The tea steams gently. The room is quiet. Strange, but not oppressive. Just quiet. Without Frill, it’s easier to breathe — no lingering tension, no clicking pens, no raised eyebrows every time the word “death” is mentioned. The air now feels like it does after a storm — warm, but slightly electric.

Alcyon watches her over the rim of his cup.

“You’re chewing your nail,” he says.

Sage blinks. Pulls her hand away from her mouth like she burned it.

“Habit.”

“Haven’t seen you do that before,” he drawls softly. “And I’m a rather observant man, you know.”

She doesn’t answer. Just takes a sip — it burns her tongue. She swallows anyway.

“Miss your quiet, miserable life, where no one made you deal with someone else’s kid?”

Sage slowly sets the cup down. Steam still curls from the edges, wrapping around her fingers, like inviting her to linger in this moment — warm, hushed, almost normal.

“I’ve got plenty of reasons to be nervous,” she says finally. Her voice is steady, but a little hoarse, like the words had to be pushed out. “The Games alone are enough for a lifetime. But now, you know... there’s more.”

She doesn’t look at Alcyon. Just leans back again, tapping her nail against the porcelain. Click. Click. Click. He exhales and folds his hands beneath his chin.

“Tell me, darling — have you ever lived even a month without skirting the edge of a nervous breakdown?”

Sage finally lets out a dry, near-silent laugh.

“Possibly between July and August. When I was eight. I remember a single cornflower sprouted by the school entrance. For some reason, everyone thought it was a sign.”

“And wasn’t it?”

“Well, it dried out the next day. So... maybe.”

They both go quiet. Alcyon sprawls across the couch, stretching his arms along the soft cushions like it’s his throne. He grabs a few magazines from the coffee table, flips one open, and starts slowly browsing through the pages, pausing every third to comment on someone’s outfit.

Sage, momentarily distracted, gets up from her chair and flops onto the couch beside him — not too close, not too far — like she just needs to be near someone, not to talk, just to exist in company.

“Oh, here’s your mention,” Alcyon says. “How predictable.”

“Anything good?”

“Rubbish. A dress review. Oh, and they claim you’re having a fling with your district’s mayor.”

“God, he’s like fifty. Do I look like someone who’s that bored?”

After flipping through most of the magazine, Alcyon shoves it to the bottom of the stack and grabs a new issue.

“This stuff only ever says what they’re told to write from upstairs. Dull as dishwater. Not much about us this week… oh, look, your name’s in the crossword.”

Sage half-smiles, but without much enthusiasm. Alcyon keeps turning pages until he suddenly stops, glancing over at her with surprise.

“You’ve heard about tomorrow…”

“That fashion show thing? Yeah,” she cuts in, not particularly interested, though still watching his reaction. He lights up instantly, his whole posture filling with fresh energy.

“Ah, of course,” he says, reaching out as if this were a divine revelation. “Listen, this isn’t just some event. It’s the event of the year. I never miss it. Every year, the elite gather to mark the beginning of the Hunger Games — and they wear their absolute best. Designers are practically at each other’s throats to get their pieces on that stage.”

Sage gives a barely noticeable nod but doesn’t rush to share her thoughts. The invitation she received still lies quietly in her drawer, as if there’s nothing significant about it at all.

“I’m going too,” Sage says, without any hint that she considers the occasion important.

Alcyon raises his brows in disbelief. He blinks once, then again. Then he looks at her like she personally set the presidential mansion on fire.

“What kind of person are you! You get invited to the one event people claw for years to attend, and you…” — he throws his hands up, waving her off like a lost cause.

Sage breathes in gently. She doesn’t put much weight on the whole thing. Her place there will be obvious — part of the display, a living piece of décor no one will take seriously. She’ll be just another accessory in a fashion show.

“I’m not exactly dying to go,” she says, tilting her head back. Her voice is neutral, as always. “Honestly, I just have some things to do.”

Alcyon looks at her, narrowing his eyes slightly, as if assessing her.

“Ah, Sage. Ever the enigma.”

“That’s me.”

Her tone is almost ironic, but there’s no real bitterness in it. It’s just a fact — not something that needs fixing. Alcyon pretends to accept that, though the corners of his mouth still twitch with a smile.

“You’re not the kind who lights up a room, and that’s exactly what people do at those soirées. Then again, I know better than most — still waters run deep.”

Her voice remains even, but something shifts inside. Her thoughts drift to places she can’t quite control — to the show, to the night that’s coming, and the way it will once again turn her into something meaningless, something with a price tag she knows all too well but refuses to name. No matter what dress she wears, what shoes she picks, the outcome will be the same.

“I’ll tell you all about it when I get back,” she lies.

“Oh, you’ll tell me,” Alcyon replies. “I won’t give you a choice.”

He lifts his cup to his lips again, studying her expression. His gaze — as usual — is slightly mocking, but in the quiet of the room, it feels a little softer.

“I was just thinking,” Alcyon says, slowly turning his cup in his hands, “why are you named Sage?”

Sage raises her eyebrows, a little confused by the question.

“In your backwater nothing grows, right? But you and your sisters are all named after flowers. Where’s the logic in that?”

Sage blinks, caught off guard. She tries to figure out if there’s some deeper meaning behind the question. What’s the catch?

“That’s it?” she asks, eyeing him with mild puzzlement.

Alcyon rolls his eyes, as if slightly exasperated, though there’s a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Of course not. You’re supposed to be smart — think about it. In a district where you can barely breathe, where everything’s gray... you’re a flower. That face always looks like a stormcloud, and still.”

“Ah,” she says, lifting her gaze thoughtfully. “It’s simple. My mom liked to paint. She used to say she wanted there to be something colorful in that gray place. So she named us after flowers. She thought maybe the world could have at least a sliver of beauty. Even if it was just us. That’s all.”

Sage shrugs and adds,

“That was her way of surviving. A strategy, I guess. Probably better than mine.”

They both fall silent again. Not because there’s nothing left to say — but because there’s no need to say more. The warmth of the cups slowly fades, steam melting into the air.

Sage rises slowly from the couch, as if checking whether her exhaustion — now practically part of her body — might fall off. She stuffs her hands into her pockets and looks at the board — still covered in words, arrows, names.

Frill. Patience. Cold head. Charm.

It all looks like a rough draft of something important, naive, and doomed.

“Goodnight, Alcyon,” she says quietly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just nods, eyes still on the magazine.

“Sweet dreams, darling. Try not to suffocate in your sleep under the weight of your responsibilities.”

Sage snorts. The door closes softly behind her.

Passing by the window, she pauses for a second and looks out. The Capitol doesn’t sleep — lights flicker in the windows like watching eyes, moving, blinking, alive. Everything glitters. Everything moves. But to her, it all feels far away — like it’s happening behind the glass of an aquarium. And she’s on the outside. Dry. Misfitting.

She collapses onto the bed without undressing. Just falls as she is. Stares at the ceiling — white, clean-looking — and for a brief moment wonders what the ceiling above her will look like when she falls asleep tomorrow.

***

The show is invitation-only — closed to the public. The space itself seems to bathe in gold and glass; the walls and ceiling so transparent it’s hard to tell where the room ends and the evening sky begins. Inside, there's a veil of soft, almost living light — it melts across surfaces or drapes around them like fabric, not just illuminating but breathing. Everything exists not to be looked at but to consume you in shimmer. The eye skims over everything like water, and all that glass and light and reflection starts to dizzy you, filling the air with a kind of gentle vertigo.

Sage walks across the mirrored floor, her heels clicking sharply with each step — every sound suspended midair like the room refuses to let it go. Sylvanus Groff walks just ahead. His outfit isn’t clothes, exactly — more like a runway exhibit that slipped out of a magazine. His cloak shifts and shimmers with each movement, as if even the lighting knows who he is and follows accordingly. The small top hat is tilted at an angle so impossible it almost defies physics. His gloves gleam like the night has skin.

He doesn’t take Sage by the arm, but his gaze — slick and measuring — slides to her every so often. It’s not warm. It’s not fond. It’s the look of a man admiring his new toy: not out of love, but because it photographs well. He leads her like it’s obvious she should be here — and that’s that.

“Smile,” he murmurs, without turning. “Everyone here either knows you or wants to.”

Sage obeys. Her lips curve into a polite smile. The dress — thin, nearly sheer, stitched with veins of silver thread that mimic a body’s blood map — leaves her feeling almost naked. The jewelry is sewn into the fabric itself, cold against her collarbones, scratching at her wrists. The makeup highlights every sharp line: cheekbones, lips, anything that could be considered desirable.

They enter the main hall. Heads turn. Glasses clink. Eyes flicker. Music drips down from the ceiling like mist. Cameras — some hidden, some obvious — catch every shift in expression. Sage feels the floor tremble faintly beneath her. The dress tugs across her shoulder blades. Everything tightens.

Somewhere else — far away, in a different world — Moira and Frill are probably already asleep. After their second day of training, they could barely stand: Moira had collapsed into a pillow before Sage could even wish her goodnight, and Frill had muttered something about “muscles I didn’t even know existed” before passing out. Their exhaustion had been clean, honest, deserved.

And Sage — she’s here. At the show. In gold and powder. Inside the mouth of the beast that grins with gilded teeth.

“Don’t stand there like a statue,” Sylvanus says over his shoulder. “Walk beside me. This isn’t a funeral, darling. Come on — you know how to perform. Or do I need to explain it again?”

He says darling like he’s chewing a bone.

Sage picks up her pace, falling into step beside him. Almost on autopilot, she flashes a smile at a passing couple — they nod approvingly, but their eyes don’t meet hers. They’re looking at the dress. At how it fits. At how it glows. At what it implies. Sylvanus brushes her waist — not to steady or comfort her, just to remind her he can. If he wants to. His hand is cold. Heavy. The rings press through the fabric.

Sage turns her gaze to a far corner of the room, to a small bar lit in soft haze — a blur of color and glass. A few guests gather there — not from her circle, more the gossipers and glam crowd, the ones here to name-drop and snap photos. Better to look at them than at him.

“I hope you understand what this costs,” Sylvanus says. “This place. That dress. This evening. I could’ve brought anyone. Any soft little girl. But I chose you. Know why?”

Sage nods, barely. Of course she knows. Because now she’s luxury. And because she said yes. Didn’t scream. Didn’t run. That’s what agreement looks like now.

“Because you’re smart,” he says. “That’s rare. Smart ones don’t scream as much. They know not to ruin the mood.”

He steps aside, signaling a waiter. Takes two glasses, offers her one.

“Drink. Relax. Stop thinking, darling.”

Sage takes it. Because otherwise, the night will go worse. She sips — once, twice. The champagne is sharp and freezing, with a bitter bite. It burns down her throat and settles warm in her chest. Not peace, exactly. But release. Like someone finally loosened the leash.

Sylvanus smiles as she drinks.

“There’s my good girl,” he says. “Now we can begin.”

He offers her his hand. She places her palm on top of his. The doors swing open — and light floods in.

The red carpet explodes with flashes. Cameras buzz like insects. Everywhere — noise, movement, a storm of color and sound. Reporters lean forward, hungry. Sylvanus squares his shoulders and strolls like it’s his personal stage. Sage glides beside him. Every step feels like walking on ice. She smiles — not with her eyes, but her mouth. Her mouth, yes. Just like she’s supposed to.

“This way! Over here!” shout the reporters, lifting their cameras without even pretending to be subtle.

“Ms. Bradbury, just a few words? Who are you with tonight? Is this a new alliance or just... a special occasion?”

“Mr. Groff, how do you maintain such impeccable style? And who inspired you this time?”

Sage doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze lingers on the blinding flashes, like she’s trying to use them as a shield. The questions don’t let up. She notices how Sylvanus smiles in response — slowly, deliberately, savoring the pause before he replies.

“Sage is my dear, exquisite, dazzling companion for the evening,” he drawls, tasting every syllable like it’s champagne. “It’s an honor to be seen with such a legend.”

Sage tilts her head — a little nod, almost like a bow, almost like gratitude. The spotlight turns her dress into a swirl of silver. Everything slows down.

And then Sylvanus suddenly turns to her.

“Look at me,” he says, almost in a whisper, through a smile.

She lifts her gaze — and doesn’t have time to register anything before he leans in and kisses her. Hard. Deliberately. Camera-ready. His hand comes up to cradle her face — no, to hold her in place — firm under her chin, like he’s making sure she won’t pull away. And she doesn’t. She already knows how this works. She doesn’t particularly want to find out what it costs to flinch.

So she stands still. Doesn’t move. Smiles, as soon as he pulls back.

Applause. Flashes. Murmurs. Someone’s already livestreamed it. Someone laughs. Someone envies. Someone stares in awe. They see a performance. And Sage feels the champagne hit behind her eyes.

She takes another step forward. Because going back isn’t an option.

Another step. Her heels catch the rhythm of the carpet. And now the shouts aren’t general — they’re aimed. Focused. They’re for her. Because after all, she’s Sage Bradbury. The victor. The legend. The darling of every headline.

“Miss Bradbury, how many kisses make a new romance?”

“You’re always at the center of male attention — is that a talent or a habit?”

“Do you choose your own dresses, or does someone help you curate your look?”

“Is your choice of companions strategic, or do you just have a thing for charismatic men?”

“Do you believe real love is possible for a victor?”

Sage turns her head as if posing for a magazine cover — slowly, with a soft smile, like she truly enjoys all of this. Her shoulders roll back just slightly, chin lifted, eyes wide open. Her voice comes out warm, almost melodic:

“Oh, I just fall in love so easily,” she says, with that faux-breathy rasp they’ve come to adore. “With good lighting. With chocolate truffles. And with men who understand that sometimes ‘no’ really means ‘oh yes, I’m yours.’”

The press laughs. Her posture, her voice, every calculated angle — it’s all routine now. But it belongs to someone else. Sage knows exactly who they want her to be. And she plays the part — happily. The silly one. The romantic. Too pretty to be a threat. Too delicate to be truly damaged. Too feminine to be hollow.

They eat up her every word. She can feel it.

She can feel her body and voice become something alien. And the further she slips into the role, the easier it gets. The woman standing in front of the cameras isn’t Sage. That smile isn’t hers — just a gesture that shuts people up and makes them swoon. The laugh isn’t real — it’s part of the act. Every glance, every movement, isn’t her — it’s the version of her that cannot afford a single mistake. Because the moment she slips up, she’ll fall back into reality — into the world of the scared little girl who can’t breathe right.

And really, it’s just easier to be someone else.

It’s almost comforting to watch people be mesmerized by the illusion. Not to think too hard about what’s hiding behind it. Just to be the doll on the stage, standing next to the handsome man, using his shadow as cover. Everything is happening to someone else. Someone else lives her life now.

“Ms. Bradbury, how do you stay in such incredible shape? Is it a secret, or just good genetics?”

“Would you say your looks are part of your brand?”

“What do you think matters more — brains or beauty? Or are you simply proof that both can coexist?”

Sylvanus is still beside her. His hand settles lightly but deliberately on her thigh. He doesn’t move it right away. His gaze lands on her at the same time, his body tilting just a little closer — like a quiet assertion of presence. She doesn’t look at him, but she feels it. Feels his fingers resting there, as if casually, as if incidentally — but not really. She would complain, but she’s not really here right now. Only her polished, flirty, entertaining version is.

Darling Sylvanus — always performing, always craving attention. Never lets a woman out of arm’s reach, never lets anyone forget who’s in control. Always has to be visible, and everyone must see what kind of girl he’s got on his arm. You can only imagine what’s going on in that head. What, mommy didn’t praise your finger paintings enough as a child?

Her gaze stays on the crowd, but a flicker of annoyance rises inside her.

Stop touching me, will you?

But outwardly — nothing. Just a smooth, almost imperceptible shift as she leans a bit away, catches another eye, and answers:

“I think every part matters,” she says with a voice almost too soft, too agreeable. “Without the outside, there’s no inside. And vice versa. It all works together. Success takes both.”

There’s a hint of playfulness in her voice, even under the weight of it all. She hears the relief in her own tone — no personal truths, just what these people want. Only what they’re ready to adore.

In the crowd — familiar faces, which makes it all feel almost absurd.

Cashmere smiles politely, a male model draped around her waist like a human accessory, sharp-featured and pout-lipped, holding her like it's his job — which it probably is. They both face the cameras, but her gaze slips away like water, never landing anywhere for long.

Topaz, the Victor from District One, is flawless as always. Hair in an intricate updo, face sculpted into a perfect, practiced smile. Her dress gleams like something forged from glass. Her companion — a silver-templed investor — leads her through the press with an air of curated charm.

Finnick is at the center of another group — laughing, nodding, dazzling. Next to him: Ariadne Wells, radiant as a jewelry ad. She places a hand on his shoulder and whispers something in his ear. He laughs, gestures broadly, looks like he’s thriving. Like he’s in his element. Like he’s happy.

Hecuba from Two stands tall, parade posture. Back straight, chin up, every move exact. She answers questions with drumbeat precision, no hesitation. Her companion tonight is an actress with a crimson ribbon across her shoulder and a foxlike face.

Sage watches them all — and in every smile, every tilt of the head, every graceful shift of weight, she hears it: rehearsal. Training. There’s no way all of them came here willingly. There’s no way they all just chose to be on display, under spotlights, under hands, under eyes, under someone else’s control.

How many of them are like her? How many were wrapped in silk and set on a pedestal and told to smile?

How many were sold, trapped in glittering cages, scared in the same quiet way she is?

How many?

Doesn’t matter.

Sage inhales — shallowly, carefully, so her corset doesn’t snap — and reminds herself:

Don’t think. Just don’t think.

“Sage Bradbury,” says yet another journalist with theatrical awe. “You look absolutely stunning. Truly radiant. Tell us, what’s it like to attend an event like this? Is this your first time!”

But Sylvanus cuts her off — he chuckles first, leans toward the mic.

“She’s being modest, but you should’ve seen her reaction when I showed her the dress,” he drawls. “Almost made me wish we had ten more events like this this month. Isn’t that right, darling?”

He says darling like it’s a splinter in his mouth.

Sage smiles. Precisely. Emptily. Just enough.

“It didn’t take much convincing,” she says, tilting her head slightly. “Sylvanus knows how to… present the right arguments.”

“Ah, your love of detail,” he picks up smoothly.

“So does this mean you’re officially together?”

Sylvanus laughs — and Sage knows that laugh. He’s rehearsed it in the mirror.

“We certainly spend a lot of time together,” he says. “But I’m afraid I’m far too invested in her career to be objective.”

“And I’m far too busy to make public statements,” Sage adds. She’s still smiling, but inside, everything grows colder.

The reporter nods, satisfied with the innuendo, and steps back with thanks. Someone captures them from the side: her, him, close, almost intimate, center frame. Applause echoes. Someone shouts, “Sage, turn this way!” Another yells, “Groff, hold her tighter!”

Sylvanus leans in, whispering into her ear:

“You’re just perfect. Those lips. That pose. Keep it up, and I’ll order you an entire collection from Celestina Burbidge.”

Sage keeps smiling, eyes fixed ahead. The fingers on her waist feel like glue. The glitter on her dress itches. The wine buzzes in her skull. And everything keeps going. The platform beneath her feet. Music she can’t hear. Photographs where she’ll look happy.

Sylvanus leads her by the hand — though it’s no longer a hand. It’s a leash. He stops at every guest cluster, shakes hands, kisses cheeks, says names like they matter. Sage stands beside him, smiling, laughing, pretending this has anything to do with her.

“This,” he says, gesturing to some glossy man with an acrylic cane, “is my companion, Sage. Of course you know her.”

“But of course,” the man says, taking her hand far too gently. “I was in the sponsor room during your Games. Unforgettable. Exquisite.”

Laughter. They laugh. Sylvanus joins in, patting her back like you would a well-behaved dog. Then he pulls her onward — to the next table, the next perfectly coiffed guest in this dollhouse of a room. The crowd parts for them like warm cotton — noisy, sticky, clinging. Light pours over shoulders, hair, glasses. The music shifts to something slow and crystalline, as if everything is supposed to feel magical. In reality, it just feels cloying.

Sylvanus pauses at a dessert stand, picks up a miniature tart, doesn’t even taste it. While he whispers into the ear of a TV host with pink eyelashes, Sage finally lets her shoulders drop — but only for a second. By the time they’re being dragged toward the stage, the anxiety is back in full swing.

The show starts abruptly: lights cut, a spotlight flares, and the first model glides silently down the aisle. The music thrums low in her chest, like a heartbeat. Everything is saturated — molten gold, synthetic black, lunar blue. Everything is dramatic, curated, theatrical.

Sage sits beside Sylvanus in the front row — the chairs are soft, silky, slightly slippery under her thigh. Knees together, spine straight. She does everything to look perfectly composed, like a still image. His hand lands on her knee during the third look — casually, like an afterthought. No words, no glance. He doesn’t even look at her. Just places his hand there, as if it belongs. His fingers are warm. Heavy. Pressing into the fabric of her dress, like claiming it. He does it with such ease, such familiarity, that it somehow makes it worse.

Sage doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. She just clenches her jaw slightly. Pretends to focus on the way the sheer fabric flows over the model’s body. Inside, everything holds its breath — like someone’s hit pause on her entire body.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sylvanus leans close, whispering in her ear. His breath is damp, tinged with alcohol and mint.

He smiles. His fingers inch higher — not enough to be obvious, but enough to stir a flutter in her stomach. Sage still doesn’t look at him. Her smile is carved from polite frost.

“Very conceptual,” she says, and her voice doesn’t waver.

He chuckles — short, low, like it’s a joke only the two of them understand.

“That’s why I keep you close,” he murmurs. “You’re clever. And so, so beautiful.”

On the runway, another model turns on her heels — something like a golden cage perched atop her head — and disappears into the glare of the lights. The next look: a girl in a dress made entirely of metallic ribbons, clinking with each step like bells on a collar. Sylvanus exhales with satisfaction.

“I’d like to see that on you,” he murmurs. His hand is still on her thigh. His fingers twitch slightly, as if debating whether to squeeze or continue their teasing drift.

Sage slowly turns her head, holding her smile just long enough to keep it from seeming strange. Even as Sylvanus continues lazily stroking her skin, she seems composed — in her stillness, in the slightly distant expression, in the careful way she holds her glass, making sure not to spill champagne on the man beside her. Her face is angled toward the stage, but her eyes betray her: not all of her is present.

The room dims further — the light now pooled entirely on the catwalk, where a new model emerges in what looks like a dress of mirrors and golden clamps. The music swells, the audience gasps, all eyes riveted to the spectacle. Or almost all.

She notices movement a few rows to her right. Finnick — or at least the shape of him — shifts in his seat, leans on an armrest, half-turns… and just so happens to glance in her direction. She leans forward slightly, trying to catch his eye — but by then, he’s already looked away. Sage blinks. Looks back at the runway. Sylvanus doesn’t notice; he’s whispering something to the person on his left. His hand creeps back toward her knee — relentless, smug.

More time passes. The lights shift. Applause fades. She sees it again — not a full stare, but a flicker of attention, like Finnick is checking to see if she’s still alive, still at the scene of the crime.

She can’t help it this time — she turns her head to look at him. And there it is: their eyes meet.

Finnick raises an eyebrow. Just barely. But it looks like a smile.

She smiles back.

The next model appears, wearing a crown of tiny light bulbs — so small they look like living fireflies. Someone claps. Sylvanus leans in and whispers something about “incredible delivery,” and Sage nods slightly, turning her attention forward once again.

The show ends in a flurry of applause, flickering lights, and the smooth descent of orchestral music. Sylvanus is on his feet first, grabbing her hand with just a bit more force than necessary — not painful, but firm. Possessive.

“Up,” he says without looking at her. “Now comes the fun part.”

And sure enough: as soon as they leave the hall, another flood of flashbulbs and voices crashes over them.

“Miss Bradbury, this way! What did you think of the show?”

“Who’s your favorite designer this season?”

“Is it true you inspired Cornelia Gibson’s youth collection?”

Sage blinks, as if waking up mid-sentence, and slowly shifts her gaze from one reporter to the next. Then — she smiles. Wide. A little dumb. Just coquettish enough.

“Oh gosh,” she says, batting her lashes, “you talk so fast. I’m just a Victor, you know. No one ever taught me to think at that speed.”

Laughter. Camera clicks.

“The show was stunning,” she goes on. “I didn’t understand all of it, of course… but when the model with the wings came out, I almost cried. I thought, ‘This. This is fashion.’ Or maybe that was the champagne. Everything’s so beautiful. I felt like I was in a fairytale.”

She takes a half-step toward Sylvanus, deliberately brushing his shoulder with hers.

“And this is my prince,” she adds with a soft smile. “At least for tonight.”

He lets out a pleased chuckle, as if all of this is thanks to him, and wraps an arm around her waist again.

“Don’t be so modest, darling. You stole the whole evening.”

“I just tried not to trip,” Sage says, rolling her eyes but still smiling.

An hour later — or maybe just ten minutes, time stretches like chewing gum in this world — they’re in the car. The cabin is warm, laced with leather and expensive cologne, and the city outside glows in soft blur. Sage sits by the window. Sylvanus is beside her — closer than she’d like.

He’s talking — about who was at the show, who wasn’t, who disappointed, who dazzled. But his voice is like white noise: smooth, self-assured, uninterruptible. His hand runs along the inside of her thigh. Gently, but with intent. Like the rest of the evening isn’t a possibility, but a scheduled certainty.

Sage swallows.

“You looked insane tonight,” he murmurs, leaning in, breath tickling her temple. “Everyone was looking. Couldn’t take their eyes off you. My girl.”

He strokes her thigh again, his fingers lazily sliding upward, under the fabric of her dress, toward bare skin. Sage doesn’t pull away sharply — she can’t. Hints don’t work on this idiot, so she has to take a different route. Everything needs to be smooth. No confrontation. No “no,” just a gentle “later.”

She turns her head, smiling faintly, placing her hand over his — lightly, almost playfully — and gives a small squeeze.

“You’ve spoiled me with attention,” she says, her voice low, warm, like sweet smoke. “I still can’t believe you chose me. So many stars around... and yet you — and me…”

Gently, she guides his hand back down to her knee. She doesn’t shove. She directs. Like inviting him to dance, not setting a boundary.

“But if you keep touching me,” she adds with a wink, “my hair will fall apart. And we’re going to the afterparty, aren’t we? So many people left to impress.”

Sylvanus laughs — the kind of laugh only a man can manage when he thinks he’s the lead in a play he wrote himself. Of course he thinks it’s flirting. Of course he’s sure he’s in control. Of course he thinks she enjoys slipping into a dress that’s one breath from bursting and letting a man parade her around like a diamond-collared pet, like he’s some fairytale prince instead of a pretentious bastard who — she’d bet money — jerks off to his own press clippings.

“You’re terribly wicked,” he whispers in her ear. “I’ll have to punish you later. Or reward you. Haven’t decided yet.”

“I only accept rewards,” Sage says, breezily. “I’m a delicate girl.”

He leans back into his seat, finally letting go of her leg. Sage turns back toward the window. The smile is still on her face — perfect, tired, vaguely dreamy. The smile of someone who doesn’t have a care in the world. But inside — only tension, held tight. Pretend ease. Graceful lies. All to make it through. To get to the end of the ride. To survive — one more night.

She tries not to think about how heavy her body feels from all the stares, the lines, the games. The car glides through the night, and the world outside becomes softer with every passing second. Sylvanus’ words float through the air, but she doesn’t hear them. Or maybe she refuses to. Her attention slips into the details: the curl of her lips into an uncertain smile. The way the dress brushes her thigh. The way her breath keeps shortening, as if she’s trying to hide how hard it is to breathe in this sparkling world.

Her knees ache from not being able to shift away from him. His hand — even when gone — leaves a memory. A placeholder. A reminder: she is part of the show. His show. His statement. His accessory. There is no choice but to keep playing the part.

“You don’t even realize how perfect you are for me,” Sylvanus says, as if her silence, her stillness, her tension were all just part of the performance. His fingers trail over her skin like she’s a sculpture — something to be touched without ever leaving a mark. “You’re flawless. No unnecessary words, no unnecessary noise.”

Sage tries to drift — to go anywhere else in her mind — but her thoughts slip through her fingers, refusing to settle. All she wants is to disappear. And yet, her body tenses instead, as if making the decision for her: she must stay. She must stay with him. She must get through this night. And another one. And another.

The car begins to slow, and with it, her heartbeat rises. She has only a few seconds to pull herself together. To become perfect again. For him. For all of them.

The car stops in front of the estate’s gates — tall columns washed in soft light, statues standing like sentinels, an entrance shaped like the open maw of some elegant beast. Sage exhales — not with relief, but simply because she’s been holding her breath too long. As expected, Sylvanus steps out first, smoothing his jacket, casting a glance at her over his shoulder like he’s summoning a prized possession. She follows. Smile. Straight back. Just like the script.

Inside — heat. The afterparty is in full swing. People already half-undone, in every sense of the word. Someone’s laughing too loudly. Someone’s draped across a velvet couch. Someone’s dancing barefoot in glittered socks. The music now is different — not the conceptual drone from earlier, but real music: pulsing, predatory, with a beat that knocks against her collarbones.

As Sylvanus pulls her from one guest to another, each more eager than the last to pour a shot down her throat, Sage stops thinking. Stops analyzing. It’s uncomfortable, yes, but she still lies within his power — with her head, her hands, her perfectly polished nails.

She doesn’t resist. She knows tomorrow will be different. She knows the only goal is to endure. But she doesn’t know how long it takes — minutes, hours? — before he yanks her out of the din, dragging her through the crowd and into a dark hallway. She doesn’t resist. She’s more than a little drunk now, and every movement feels slow, excessive, like her limbs are moving through syrup.

He opens the bedroom door and she follows, pulled by inertia into the shadow of his space. Sylvanus’ hands are on her back now — firm. Possessive. She feels his breath, close and damp against her neck, and his mouth finds the curve of her skin, leaving warm, wet traces that steal what little composure she has left.

Everything softens. Her shoulders go light. Her head feels too heavy.

Sylvanus kisses her neck, slow and hot, and Sage exhales — barely a sound, almost a sigh. Not the beginning of something, but the continuation of a quiet, weighted inevitability.

She doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t meet his eyes. Instead, her focus narrows to her own hand, rising weakly to press against his chest. But there’s no strength in the gesture — no power. Her body feels trapped in slow motion, imprisoned in its own stillness, where there’s no space for resistance. No room for protest.

Darkness swallows her, and for a moment, she thinks she hears herself whisper:

You knew this was coming, Bradbury, didn’t you?

But she doesn’t answer. Because the answer doesn’t matter anymore. Because this — this is her life now.

Notes:

i just love when sage’s inner mean girl wakes up mid-scene like “ugh, fine, i’ll do it myself.” also. she and alcyon are giving ✨sharpay and ryan evans✨ and i will not be taking questions at this time. thank you for coming to my ted talk.

Chapter 32

Notes:

for reasons™ i made enobaria older than she is in canon but honestly? it doesn’t matter lmao just go with it

ANYWAY. here we go. another games. because clearly sage wasn’t traumatized enough 🙃

Sage stands in the stuffy bathroom, her hands plunged into ice-cold water until her fingers go numb. Her arms are submerged up to the elbows, and in the mirror, her reflection stares back — pale, exhausted, slightly glistening with sweat. The glass is foggy, streaked, and still manages to show, far too clearly, how uneven her breathing is. Shallow. Like keeping air in her lungs is a matter of willpower.

If she were home, she’d have a drink. Half a glass of whatever — not to have fun, just to slow her pulse down and stop noticing how her palms are growing slick with fear. But the show must go on. Today is the interview. Moira and Frill will be on stage, in the spotlight, under scrutiny. And tomorrow… tomorrow they’ll step into the arena, the hatch will seal behind them, and no one will be able to stop it anymore.

Sage shuts her eyes and slowly counts to five. One. Two. Three. The world hasn’t ended. Four. There’s still time. Five. It’s not as bad as it could be.

At the afterparty following the fashion show, she thinks she might’ve caught someone’s interest. A couple of sponsors — or maybe just particularly drunk Capitolites who didn’t realize she wasn’t in the mood to flirt. Either way, someone had listened. Someone had watched. Someone had remembered the names. And that was already better than nothing.

The rest — irrelevant. Whatever happened after doesn’t need her attention right now. Sylvanus is just an episode. An episode that can be locked in a box. Nailed shut. Labeled: “Come back later.” Filed away in the same place Nemesis lives. Same with Verbena and Marina. Same with Xenon. That deep, muffled part of herself where she stores everything she’ll cry about — but only when nobody’s life depends on her holding it together.

Her pulse doesn’t slow. Her heart keeps pounding like it’s trying to crack her ribs from the inside, and the ringing in her ears makes it hard to breathe. Sage stays there, hands still in the freezing water, but it’s not helping anymore. Her shoulders tremble. Her ribcage contracts, and the air gets stuck somewhere in between. If she could — she’d slice herself open and pull the panic out like a splinter. But she can’t. So she just stands there, clinging to the sink like it’s an anchor, and tries not to cry. Just breathe. Just breathe.

It’s not working.

Someone knocks on the door — short, impatient.

“Five minutes,” says an unfamiliar female voice from outside.

Sage blinks. Once. Twice. Water drips from her fingers onto the tile floor, soft like something leaking inside her.

“Coming,” she says, and her voice sounds almost normal.

She dries her hands with a paper towel, not looking down. Checks her reflection — dull, but composed. Pinches her cheeks until a hint of color appears. Then she opens the door and steps out into a corridor buzzing with motion and static.

Backstage is already humming. Someone’s adjusting the lights, someone’s rushing past with a headset, someone’s arguing over timing. Sage walks through it like through fog. Everything blurs, like she’s inside an aquarium.

Paisley is standing by the wall, twirling her clutch in her hands, and she spots Sage immediately. Comes over. Speaks quietly, barely above a whisper:

“You okay?”

Sage nods. Sharply. A little too fast.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

Paisley looks at her for a beat too long. There’s something cautious in her expression — like she hears the tremble Sage is trying to hide underneath the words. But she doesn’t say anything. Just nods slowly and turns back to the monitors.

“There it is,” Paisley mutters flatly. “Their last normal day.”

“You think we can actually get one of them out?” Sage asks, so softly it’s practically under her breath.

Paisley opens her mouth to answer, but doesn’t get the chance — Cashmere and Gloss walk over, all lazy charm and immaculate smiles. They look like they just stepped off a magazine cover, and if not for the footage of blood and sand in past Games, Sage might almost believe they were just lucky, just famous, just pretty. They nod at her and Paisley, trade a few jokes, chat about their tributes — who’s holding it together, who’s clearly faking it, who’s surprisingly decent.

Sage listens with half an ear. Her thoughts drift. She’s already seen their tributes — fair-haired, dazzlingly fit, dressed in gleaming outfits with just the right amount of edge to turn child brutality into camera-ready charisma. If she didn’t know better, she might mistake them for younger siblings of these two.

The chaos is thickening — like too much perfume in the air. More stylists and mentors flood in: some adjusting hair, some glued to tablets, some just loudly ranting about how awful the lighting is today. Sage steps back, pressing near a column, letting a tall, dark-skinned man from District Eleven pass — he walks with calm confidence, quietly speaking to a woman from District Three, whose tight expression says she just wrapped up another silent meltdown. There’s tired kindness on his face, grim focus on hers. Neither notices Sage.

And then, right on cue, Alcyon bursts into the noisy half-dark like a well-rehearsed storm.

“Oh, but look at this chaos! I adore it. Adore it!”

He makes a theatrical sweep of his arm, as if conducting his own imaginary orchestra, and skips over to Sage, his face aglow. As always, he’s wearing something absurdly expensive: a velvet vest embroidered with gold thread, a massive star-shaped pendant, and glossy shoes practically radiating pretension. There’s some glittery contraption in his hair that Sage doesn’t even dare comment on.

“Not long now,” he announces excitedly. “In ten minutes the curtains rise, the fanfares begin, and these children will dazzle the entire nation. Isn’t it glorious?”

He snaps his fingers and spins toward the crowd, as if catching a moment — everything around him seems like a rehearsed production, and he genuinely enjoys every frame of it.

Sage gives a faint nod. Alcyon is living proof that if you treat life like an opera long enough, you eventually stop hearing the screams from the orchestra pit.

“Don’t stress too much,” Gloss says calmly, leaning in just a bit. “There’s still plenty of time to lose your mind once the Games begin. For now, you’re fine.”

Sage presses her lips together and smiles back — just a little. Just enough so her face doesn’t look blank. Gloss, of course, means well — but it’s easy for him to be reassuring. He’s polished, steady, sculpted out of confidence. And his tributes look like they were assembled from a manual. Sage knows what it’s like to have nothing to hold onto but words.

A soft laugh from behind. Paisley.

“Stop acting so unshakeable,” she says lightly. “We both know you almost fainted two years ago when your girl’s wig fell off mid-interview.”

“And you,” Gloss counters with a fond grin, “if I recall correctly, had a full-blown meltdown when your tribute accidentally called Caesar Cedric. I thought it was a charming moment.”

“I nearly beat him to death with my heel. That was the charming part.”

Sage lets out a rough little laugh, but nothing shifts inside her. The tension’s still there, lodged in her spine like a splinter. You can’t remove it — you just dull it a little.

After a few dragging minutes, a production assistant appears — a young man with an earpiece and the glassy eyes of someone who’s offered one too many hands to a sinking ship. He gives a sharp gesture:

“Mentors, please. We’re ready for you.”

Everyone moves at once — some with grace, others in a hurry. Sage walks near the end of the group, letting the rest drift ahead. They pass the wings, and a set of stairs leads them down into the dim, velvet-scented auditorium.

The cool air greets them. The stage lights are still off, but footsteps echo in the dark, and a distant voice murmurs, “Sound check.” Sage grips the railing as she descends, feeling the press of her ring against her palm. Her seat is third row, left side, between Paisley and a mentor from District Seven. She sinks into it and straightens her spine like that might somehow make it easier to breathe.

She looks at the stage — the stage she knows in her bones. Tries not to think about clasped hands on trembling knees, a frozen expression, a glassy-eyed stare — everything she’d felt the last time she stood there.

Now it looks... alien. Too bright. Too far. Sage has stood on that stage many times — but she’s never sat here, below it, watching, from the side of those meant to judge. Up there, behind that fragile light, she answered questions, crafted jokes, pretended nothing mattered even when it did. Up there — she lived under a magnifying glass. Up there — she was the most herself and the least her own.

And now — she’s here. Sitting. Watching. And once again feeling like she’s split in two.

All of yesterday, Alcyon had been marching Moira and Frill up and down their apartment’s makeshift runway, waving cue cards and declaiming their sample answers with the kind of passion usually reserved for directing a national tragedy. He demanded “sincerity in the eyes, but without panic,” “a smile like you just saved a kitten and got paid for it,” and “posture suitable for mourning — but tasteful mourning, not melodrama.”

Sage, watching with a glass of syrupy wine, could say with confidence: compared to those two, she and Riven had been diplomatic geniuses. Even if Riven once called Caesar “a sparkly caterpillar with a teleprompter for a soul” and Alcyon smacked him on the forehead with a rolled-up magazine.

Still, Moira and Frill… managed something. Sometimes too rehearsed, sometimes awkward, but — it was something. Probably.

At least, it couldn’t get worse.

The hall falls silent. The lights dim, the music cuts off mid-note — and in the pause that follows, you can almost hear the entire audience taking a collective breath.

Then — a flash. A bright spotlight catches a tall figure emerging from the wings, dressed in a dazzling blue suit embroidered with gradient sequins, shimmering like the skin of a mythical dragon. He steps forward with perfectly rehearsed ease, as if he just happened to be there — and the crowd immediately bursts into applause, almost automatically, like well-trained pets.

"Good evening, Panem!" booms Caesar Flickerman, his voice rolling through the hall like velvet thunder, his smile outshining the spotlights. "Tonight is a special night. Tonight, you’ll finally find out who our young heroes really are. Who they are inside. What dreams brought them here. And which of them deserves your sympathy… and your gifts?"

The hall erupts in laughter. Somewhere in the back, someone yells, “We’ve already chosen!” — and Caesar only smiles wider, as if it were part of the script.

“Well then,” he continues, sweeping his arms with theatrical flair, “let’s not waste another second! Please welcome the first tribute of the evening…”

And the show begins.

Stage lights flood the floor and walls with a smooth, cold glow. Music booms from the speakers, making the seats vibrate in sync. Sage sits in the shadows next to Paisley, watching as one by one the tributes take the stage.

First — the girl from District One, mentored by Cashmere and Gloss. Tall, with a perfectly poised posture and a face carved from marble. Even her breathing seems under absolute control. Sage makes a mental note: dangerous. Her smile is too calm, her words fast but precise. Not a player — a machine.

Then her partner — louder, as if to balance her silence. Big gestures, easy charm, teeth — white and straight. He praises Caesar, Caesar praises back. The whole act looks textbook: How to Charm a Crowd and Not Die in the First Day. Sage squints skeptically.

Then comes the pair from District Three. A whole different story. No dramatic entrances, no loud declarations. Just kids. The girl — small, fragile-looking, constantly tucking her bangs behind her ear. The boy — hunched, nervous eyes, a shirt too big for his frame. They speak softly, stumble over words, smile awkwardly. Sage watches them longer than she means to. Kids like that don’t win, not usually. But she doesn’t want to think about that just yet.

Then the tributes from District Four. The boy is still guarded, reserved — everything in his expression and movement says he’ll fight to the bitter end. His partner, in contrast, plays the flirt — laughing brightly and just a little too sweetly, but working the crowd like a pro. Hard to blame her: she’s doing what works, and she’s doing it well. Sage gets it.

Five, Six, Seven… It all starts to blend into a smooth stream — faces, lines, applause. Sage is starting to zone out when her breath catches.

Caesar announces:

"And now, please welcome — Moira Vale of District Eight!"

The lights snap to the girl. Moira walks into the spotlight — hesitant, with a slightly stiff smile, but steady on her feet. Sage freezes for a second. She knew what Moira would look like — she’d seen the outfit, helped with the shoes, heard Paisley argue with Flora about the earrings. But still: seeing a kid in a robe with cocoa in the morning is one thing. Watching her step onto a stage like this, where every step is a statement and every word weighs gold — that’s another.

Flora and Artemis had pulled it off. Moira looks like a heroine from an ancient legend, filtered through the lens of Capitol prime-time drama. She wears an almost-white gown made of fine, flowing fabric that seems to glow from within. Around her waist — delicate gold accents, like slender flower crowns. Her hair is braided into an intricate, graceful twist, dotted with pearlescent beads. A thin strand of pale pearls circles her neck — subtle, almost girlish. Moira looks fresh, youthful, but not childlike — like there’s already something grown and solemn inside her, waiting.

Sage presses herself into the seat. Watches. Forgets to breathe.

Moira slouches slightly — not too much, just enough to make an audience want to lean in and comfort her. She approaches the chair with the tiniest stumble on the final step — not awkward enough to flinch at, just enough to make it endearing. Like a curtsey without the bow.

Caesar reaches out with theatrical warmth, helping her into the seat.

"Moira, sweetheart, you're simply delightful," he says with a slight tilt of the head. "How are you enjoying the Capitol?"

Moira smiles. A little shyly — but the right kind of shy. The kind that makes a girl look like a "little darling." She bites her lip like she’s not sure she’s allowed to speak — and then, as if gathering her courage, answers:

"It’s so beautiful. Everything sparkles… like it’s New Year’s everywhere."

Everyone laughs. The cameras catch every second.

Sage, watching from the audience, exhales a little more quietly. So far, so good. She even catches herself thinking that maybe Alcyon didn’t waste his evening waving cue cards and planting Moira in front of the mirror. Because right now, she isn’t just a pretty girl. She’s a potential crowd favorite.

Caesar chuckles along with the audience — just the way an adult should when they adore children but have no intention of babying them.

“New Year’s, huh?” he echoes. “Are you a fan of holidays?”

Moira nods, brightening slightly, as if something familiar, something real, has touched her.

“My sister always bakes cookies,” she says — and of course the crowd goes aaawww. “And we decorate the windows. With foil. Mom always gets mad we make such a mess.”

Caesar theatrically widens his eyes.

“I hope you’re going to say hello to her live on air?”

Moira turns to the camera, just like they taught her, and waves:

“Hi, Mom. I’m being good.”

Sage smirks, not looking away from the stage. Atta girl, she thinks. Clean, confident. Like she doesn’t realize her mother’s probably crying her eyes out at home.

“So tell me, Moira,” Caesar continues, “do you have a strategy?”

Moira frowns slightly, clearly choosing her words. Alcyon had fed her a line for this — Sage remembers.

“I don’t think weapons are the most important thing,” the girl finally says. “What matters is staying calm. Looking around. And remembering that the other tributes… they’re people too. Even if they attack you.”

The silence in the room lasts exactly half a second — and then comes the applause.

Caesar nods, impressed.

“What a deep thought, from someone so young! Tell me honestly, would you like to take over my job someday?”

Moira smiles — her first real smile, not one she practiced. The cameras catch it, the lights catch it, and judging by Caesar’s face, he’s already mentally placing a checkmark next to her name: she worked. The audience is sold.

Sage breathes a little easier.

So far, it’s really not going badly.

By the time Frill takes the stage, the crowd is thoroughly warmed up: Caesar’s on fire, the lighting is perfect, the orchestra delivers a lively fanfare. Frill walks out with a slightly mocking half-smile, like the whole thing’s a costume party, not a last-chance survival pitch. He doesn’t bow, doesn’t wave — just raises an eyebrow and sweeps the room with a lazy gaze. Caesar, of course, beams — this type suits Frill.

He’s wearing a deep forest-green suit with a subtle golden sheen — almost serpentine. The fabric fits him perfectly, showing off a frame that’s still teenage but already confident. Instead of a tie, a silk scarf is knotted loosely, like he couldn’t care less and still looks better than everyone else. His hair is slicked back, but not too severely. On his wrist — a heavy bracelet of twisted metal threads. He really does look like someone who’s not just here by chance — but someone who’s planning to win.

Sage watches him and feels a quiet, unshakable tension in her chest. Pride. And fear. And a tired kind of admiration.

“Well then, young man, how are you feeling?” Caesar asks.

“Better than you, I’d imagine,” Frill replies coolly — and the crowd, naturally, laughs.

Sage feels the faintest smirk tug at her lips. He’s doing it. He’s not overacting, not shrinking back, not afraid to take up space. He’s playing the crowd with an ease that’s almost eerie — like he’s been performing his whole life. Even Caesar falters for a second before recovering, giving him a nod that says, all right, let’s see what else you’ve got.

“You scored an eight in your private session,” Caesar continues, clearly steering toward the main event. “That’s impressive. Want to tell us what you did?”

Frill shrugs, leaning back like this is a casual break between classes.

“No idea,” he says. “Maybe I just look dangerous. Or one of the Gamemakers didn’t sleep and was slapping numbers at random.”

Laughter. The cameras zoom in on his face. He leans forward slightly and adds:

“Or maybe they just liked how I handle a— eh, let’s keep my secret weapon… a secret.”

Sage feels something tighten in her stomach — but no longer from anxiety. From hope. Yes, a sword. At least one weapon obeys him. That’s already more than she had — during her own training, her hands shook so badly the bow flew far off the target.

Coupled with those eight points, that confident look, that predator’s half-smile, that voice that doesn’t shout but draws you in — he has a chance.

He just has to survive.

Sage leans back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. She watches Frill calmly answer the next question — not too sweet, not too sharp, but just enough to make the audience want to hear more. He’s like a teasing prologue to a book you can’t put down. She knows it’s not hopeless, because they tried. Because Frill listened. Because she taught him.

In the past days, Sage has done everything to pour into him all she knew. No, not just that — everything distilled from ten previous Games. Everything that repeats: patterns, odds, behaviors. How to stay in the spotlight but not become a target. How to gather water without stockpiling. How not to sleep more than four hours at a stretch. How to recognize the sound of a predator. How to break an alliance without raising suspicion. How to die on time, if nothing else works.

And most importantly — how to survive not with strength, but with endurance. Observation. Adaptation. How to become invisible just until the moment to become a threat.

Frill learned fast. He didn’t always agree. Often argued. Sometimes rolled his eyes. But he learned. Repeated. Trained. He remembered better than she hoped. Even better than Riven had — and that thought makes her feel cold and empty inside, but Sage won’t let it take root. Now’s not the time.

She doesn’t know what he’ll actually use. Doesn’t know what arena will be like. Doesn’t know who will survive first, who will betray, who will shoot in the back. But she knows one thing: Frill is going in not helpless. And that already means more than it seems.

Caesar, as always, is charming. He nods with that familiar, slightly conspiratorial half-smile, as if speaking not to the camera but to each viewer personally. He knows how to set the rhythm — light, dynamic, with the right emphasis. He makes the tributes feel safe — just enough so they stop controlling their tone, movements, words.

Frill doesn’t give in right away. He answers politely, a little skeptically, squinting slightly — as if all this glitter and fanfare mildly annoys him, but he’s too polite to say it aloud.

“You look calm,” Caesar says, raising his eyebrows. “Really not nervous?”

“Oh, I’m nervous,” Frill replies. He leans forward a bit. “I just look better when I’m quiet.”

Laughter from the crowd. Sage feels Paisley quietly chuckle beside her, and Flora in the front row clapping with exaggerated enthusiasm. Frill smiles faintly but doesn’t continue — he holds the pause, which in itself is winning.

Caesar, of course, keeps the thread going:

“So you’re not one to bare your soul at first glance?”

“My soul, maybe, I have,” Frill says lazily, “but I’m not sure it’s TV material.”

Another burst of laughter. Caesar nods, laughs with everyone, but his eyes are sharp, studying. He makes a note on this boy: witty, sarcastic, likable — someone to work with.

“You seem pretty… confident,” he continues.

“Well, I tried. After all, not every day you get a chance to be a star,” Frill throws back with a smile.

Sage lets her shoulders drop just a little. The interview’s almost over, and Frill did well. He didn’t overshare. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t seem too cold — but didn’t spill himself on camera either. Just the right dose. He’s ready, Sage thinks. As ready as you can be for something unpredictable.

Paisley leans toward Sage, not taking her eyes off the stage. She smells of flowers and grapes, some oddly summery mix that somehow always fits.

“He’s holding up better than I expected,” she whispers, voice warm, almost surprised. “You have a talent.”

Sage snorts, crossing her arms.

“Or he’s just a good actor,” she replies in kind, watching Frill nod goodbye to Caesar. “Maybe he’s even out-acted me. Imagine that?”

“I can imagine,” Paisley smirks. “Especially if you remember how he acted on day one.”

“Progress,” Sage concludes quietly. “Self-irony — that’s already half the way to survival.”

Paisley narrows her eyes slightly, shifting her gaze to Sage.

“Moira’s good too. She makes you… want to take care of her.”

Sage snorts quietly.

“You talking about yourself now?”

Paisley smiles shyly, looking down.

“I’m trying not to get attached.”

Sage exhales loudly but says nothing. On stage, the tributes line up. The whole space is flooded with ceremonial light, the music swells — brass, percussion, all of it too loud, too clean, too triumphant. The orchestration of Panem’s anthem fills the hall, seeps under the skin. Cameras sweep across the faces of the tributes, capturing close-ups. Some smile nervously, some try to look proud. Some just stand there, barely breathing.

Sage is silent.

She sits in the half-shadow, watching them all — twenty-four children lined up in a row. Dressed in equally lavish outfits, sparkling like jewelry store displays. Some beautiful, some terrified, some just very, very young. Her gaze flicks from face to face, stopping on Moira, then on Frill. And she thinks: one of them will die first. Then another. And another. All the way to the end.

One will come back.

And she’s one of those who are supposed to help decide who that one is.

The thought creeps in, sticky and unfair, like a piece of candy stuck to your shoe: it’s not fair. It sounds childish. Pathetic. Naive. But Sage still can’t shake it. It’s not fair, repeats inside her, almost sulking. She’s already been through it once. Once, she stood there too. Under the lights. Under the anthem. Dressed up, shoulders tight with nerves. Back then, she had no one to save but herself.

Now she has two of them. And only one can survive. Or neither. And that’s how it’s going to be from now on.

The broadcast ends abruptly, almost without warning: the stage stays lit for a few more seconds, the music fades, and Caesar, with his dazzling smile, proclaims:

“Thank you, Panem! We’ll see you tomorrow — in the arena!”

Applause. The warm light becomes regular studio lighting. Slowly, like waking from a dream, people begin to rise.

Sage is the first to stand and offers her hand to Paisley, who grabs on, and together they head out into the lobby of the Training Center, where the entire audience seems to spill out with them — camera crews and reporters, stylists and Peacekeepers, mentors and tributes.

“This isn’t an evacuation, is it?” Sage mutters through her teeth, dodging someone’s oversized bag.

The crowd bunches up at the exit. A few journalists reach for familiar mentors, stylists try to grab their tributes, and for a moment, Sage and Paisley are sandwiched into a humid, cologne-scented crush of bodies.

“There they are,” Sage says, craning her neck.

Frill and Moira stand a little apart, both clutching small bouquets someone has handed them. When they spot them, Sage and Paisley push through the crowd, grab their wrists — and just like that, the kids are yanked away by the arms.

“Don’t let go,” Paisley orders, ducking under the shoulder of someone particularly important-looking.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll break his arm if I have to,” Sage replies.

Together, they cram into the elevator. For a second — as the doors slowly close, cutting them off from the golden chaos below — it’s almost quiet. Then the cabin moves, a barely noticeable vibration underfoot. The metal walls reflect their silhouettes — like shadows, sealed inside a narrow capsule.

“You did it,” Paisley breathes out.

“And the Games start tomorrow,” Sage echoes.

“Hooray,” Frill says in the most doomed tone imaginable. “Can’t wait to get diced like a salad.”

Sage leans against the wall and glances at the kids. They stand close, and now, without spotlights and cameras, they look much younger.

“Okay, listen,” Sage starts quickly, looking first at Moira, then at Frill. “They’ll wake you at some ungodly hour. You’ll get exactly one hour to get ready, each of you alone. Don’t waste it panicking.”

“You’ll panic anyway,” Paisley interjects. “Just do it efficiently. While eating, for example.”

“Or in the shower,” Sage adds. “Just remember — you’re not going in there to die. You’re going in to survive. That’s not the same thing.”

“Try to stay out of the chaos at the start,” Paisley says. “Especially you, Moira. If you see someone else going for what you wanted — let them have it.”

“And no heroics,” Sage adds, pointing at Frill. “No ‘I’ll save them’ or ‘I have something to prove.’ If you need to leave someone behind — do it. You can deal with the emotions later.”

“And food,” Paisley nods. “Stash it immediately. Don’t flaunt it if you get supplies. Especially if you start forming alliances.”

“And remember,” Sage’s voice drops slightly, “we don’t expect you to be picture-perfect. We just want you to come back.”

Frill nods silently. Moira fidgets with the sleeve of her dress, like she’s trying to stop her hands from shaking.

“Hey,” Paisley says softly, “you’ve already made it through the public insanity. That was the weird part. What’s left is… just the arena.”

“Just?” Frill snorts, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward.

“Relatively,” Sage clarifies. “At least in the arena no one asks you to smile before they slit your throat.”

The elevator slows. Numbers on the panel light up with the eighth floor. Everything goes still. Everyone falls silent.

“We’ll be there,” Sage says, straightening up. “Watching you all day, helping however we can. Okay?”

They both nod.

The doors open.

***

The next morning, Sage and Paisley ride to the Games Headquarters in a long limousine with tinted windows — like a hearse. Sage sits by the right door, fingers knotted in her lap. The skin of her palms is red from stress.

Across from her sits Enobaria — the victor a year before Cecelia. She sits upright in an expensive but understated suit, with a lazy, predatory ease, as if everything happening today is already predictable and boring. Sage can’t quite figure out what scares her more — the calm with which she faces a day when twenty-four children will be killing each other… or how quickly she once did it herself, without even flinching.

Sage tries not to look at her. She stares out the window instead, at the blurred, grey streets rushing past. The city feels like it’s holding its breath.

“So,” Paisley says in a tight voice, leaning slightly toward Sage, “you ready for this? Mentally, I mean.”

“Almost,” Sage replies, still watching the window. “You?”

“Ha, not even close. But we’re not hopeless.”

“That’s true,” Sage nods. “Frill… he’s strangely composed. And Moira’s smarter than she pretends.”

“The most important thing is that they remember what we taught them. And not get caught in the first two hours. If they survive the launch… that’s half the battle.”

Sage nods again, something tired flickering in her eyes, like this is a conversation they’ve already had a hundred times.

“I still can’t believe I’m part of the Games again,” she exhales, finally.

Paisley snorts softly.

“Welcome to the victor’s life.”

The limo keeps moving. Enobaria turns her head slightly — her gaze brushes over them with no curiosity, no irritation. Just assessment. Sage looks away, unsure what to do with her hands.

Suddenly, Cashmere leans over Paisley — flawless in a perfectly tailored dress, hair like a perfume ad, and the kind of smile that carries just a bit more bite than she probably realizes.

“Don’t be afraid to show you care,” she says, voice smooth as silk. “A sentimental mentor always plays well.”

Sage huffs, but can’t manage a response. Her throat tightens with anxiety. She feels like there’s not enough air in her chest.

She remembers this morning — on the launchpad, when Moira was shaking so badly that Flora had to help her step forward. The girl’s lips were trembling, her eyes darting like a frightened animal’s, and Sage, standing beside her, didn’t know what to say. Because there’s nothing left to say. It’s too late. Everything that could be given — they’ve given.

But Frill…

Frill looked at the hovercraft with a kind of indifference. Not anger, not fear — just stillness. He met Sage’s eyes for a moment, nodded… and walked. Didn’t even look back. And somehow, that was the scariest thing of all.

Sage lowers her gaze to her lap, fingers gripping the edge of the seat.

Please let him survive. Please, just let him survive.

The car slows gently—almost imperceptibly—but Sage feels every muscle in her body tense, as if the brakes hit her directly. Outside the tinted windows looms the Games Headquarters: heavy white stone walls, glass galleries, pillars with built-in floodlights that shine even in daylight. Giant Panem flags ripple in the rare morning breeze. Everything is designed to press down, to overwhelm, to remind you who’s in charge here.

When the car doors open, a blast of cool, conditioned air hits her face, carrying a faint metallic scent. Paisley steps out first—spine straight, chin slightly lifted. Sage follows, feeling her toes press against the insides of her boots as if she could stay grounded by gripping the earth itself.

A coordinator greets them immediately—silent, dressed in white, with a tiny earpiece and a face void of expression. He gestures: follow me. And they do.

Inside, there's a hum, the echo of footsteps on polished floors, massive screens that aren’t broadcasting yet—just the Capitol’s white logo on a sea of blue. Escorts are already gathered—like they stepped out of a fashion catalogue, all dyed hair and faces that seem to know only three expressions: charm, disdain, and boredom. Among them, of course, is Alcyon.

He spots them at once and practically jumps with excitement.

“Sage! Finally! I was starting to think you were skipping all the fun. Let me walk you through.”

He grabs her arm without asking and leads her forward with the energy of a school teacher teetering on the edge of a meltdown.

“Okay, listen closely—I’m not repeating this,” he says, as if disclosing state secrets. “The name of the game here is spectacle. We’re in the HQ. The heart of it all. The Capitol elite will be here. They come to watch, to whisper, to drink and place bets.”

He gestures toward a vast hall—at its center, white sofas arranged in semicircles, and along the edges, tall cocktail tables stacked with champagne, tiny tartlets, and things that probably count as appetizers but look more like wax food decorations.

“This is where you’ll be most of the time,” he continues. “Everyone will see you here. So try to look decent, don’t faint, and if you absolutely must run to the bathroom, make it dramatic. Eyes are everywhere, you know.”

Sage nods, a beat behind—barely able to keep up with his words or his stride.

“Over there are the rest areas, if it gets too much,” he says, pointing to an inconspicuous side door. “Each district has its own. You can sleep or shower there. Theoretically. In practice? Everyone crashes in the dining room with a cup of coffee because the show runs 24/7. Oh! And yes,” he adds with almost ceremonial flair, “snacks are served round the clock.”

Sage just nods again—she doesn’t have the energy for more. Her shoulders are tight, her legs feel like cotton, and she has to remind herself to breathe. To listen. To keep walking. She knows that in just a couple of hours, it will all begin.

The massive screens are still dark. But soon, they’ll come to life. And the children will appear.

She lets Alcyon pull her forward—through a marble arch into the center of the hall. He’s still talking. No pauses, no breath, seemingly no need for oxygen:

“...you won’t believe it, but last year some idiot bet a hundred coins on a girl from Five just because she looked like his ex-fiancée! And then he sat here sobbing into his drink when she got her skull cracked. So yes, Sage, human stupidity is our most renewable resource.”

She gives a distracted smile but doesn’t respond. While he continues to chatter, Sage scans the room. Everything is too bright, too polished, too well-fed. She spots familiar faces—tributes from past years, now older, richer, more worn down than they were on their own Games. Some hug, some laugh over champagne, some are already clinging to sponsors’ arms, whispering in mock intimacy.

Every face is a story. Every glance—a potential ally or disaster. And Sage knows: within the next few hours, she’ll have to choose who to approach, who to question, who to remind of her presence. Who to smile at. Who to touch on the elbow. Who to brush off like a fly.

Alcyon’s making a comment about the tunic cut of one of the sponsors, but her attention is already slipping.

“Is that vintage or just poor taste, what do you think?” he chatters—but Sage doesn’t care. Because Paisley, without a word, takes her hand. The warmth of her palm anchors her.

Sage turns her head. Paisley says nothing. She just looks at her—steady, focused, just a touch stern. It’s not “You’ve got this.” It’s “I’m here.”

Sage squeezes her fingers in return. And takes a breath.

Time to work.

Suddenly, a deep, chiming sound rings out above the hall—something between a music box and a bell. It slices cleanly through the murmur of voices, slipping under the skin like a signal for something important. Sage flinches—not from fear, but from the way it cuts through the illusion. Up until now, everything had felt like a fake party. Now, reality begins to sober her.

“Ah!” Alcyon exclaims, raising his hand theatrically. “There it is—our magical gong. Welcome lunch, my dears! One last chance to pretend we’re civilized beings before the Games begin.”

He turns to Sage and Paisley, patting both on the shoulders with exaggerated solemnity.

“Dining hall. Assigned tables. Pretend to be relaxed, try to meet everyone. And don’t forget—today, we can still drink.”

Paisley rolls her eyes. Sage exhales and looks away—forward, toward the already open double doors, where the scent of something creamy and spicy drifts in, accompanied by the muted notes of a piano. People begin moving in that direction—some in a rush, some gliding as if still on a runway.

And Sage pauses for a moment, feeling her knees go weak.

They’re still laughing now. Champagne is still flowing. But in a few hours, there’ll be blood in the arena. And the only thing she can do is hold herself together enough not to fail her tributes.

She bites the inside of her cheek to ground herself. It doesn’t help.

But still—she steps forward.

Chapter 33

Sage sits at a round table under a ridiculous crystal chandelier, feigning interest in the conversation and feeling her cheeks ache from the practiced smile. A wine glass in her hand, a salad on her plate — untouched — and across from her, three potential sponsors, each making her want to faceplant into a tartlet.

She hasn’t bothered to remember their names, but mentally, she’s given each of them a nickname.

Mrs. Plum — in an overstuffed purple gown with fur trim that must be unbearable in this heat, yet she seems to derive aesthetic pleasure from slow-cooking herself.

Mr. Pimple — in a mint-green silk blazer, his face covered in sweat droplets and some kind of cosmetic pearls, making him look like a slightly distressed toy.

And seated between them, the jewel of the gathering — Baroness Chirp — miniature like a porcelain doll, but with the gaze of a hungry crow. Her voice is a mix of syrup, glass, and passive aggression.

Sage nods, blinks politely, and says — for the third time that evening:

"…but of course, he’s very smart. Smarter than he lets on. And there’s something about him… calm. Steady. He’s the real thing."

Mr. Pimple hums:

"Is that the boy in the green suit?"

"That’s him," Sage nods. "Frill. He’s… well, you saw him yourselves. Strong, but not showy about it. That’s a rare trait in the Games."

Mrs. Plum sips her champagne with the look of someone debating whether to buy new drapes to match the tablecloth:

"But isn’t he a bit…," she waves her hand vaguely, "quiet?"

Quiet? He’s as snarky as a sixteen-year-old lamb on his way to the slaughterhouse should be, Sage thinks. But on her face — only a light smile.

"Sometimes silence speaks louder," she says. "Trust me, I’d know."

Chirp purses her lips and taps her glass with a doll-like cruelty.

"And the girl — the one with the braid? Any potential there? Or is she just… decoration?"

God, I’d love to kill this woman. Just kill her. No pain, no drama — just drown her in the dressing.

But Sage only inclines her head:

"Moira’s observant. She reads people deeply. It doesn’t show right away, but…" — she pauses to sell it like it’s a secret, — "…I wouldn’t count her out."

Baroness Chirp smiles like Sage just offered her a discount.

Sage exhales slowly and takes a sip of wine. Inside — just irritation and exhaustion. But on the outside — the same polite pleasantness. The ditzy-girl mask she’s already getting used to. The kind of persona that lets you say just about anything — and still get forgiven.

Chirp, she thinks, you’re an imbecile. If you had two brain cells, you’d poison yourself with your own thoughts. Pimple, you probably place bets based on eye color. And Plum… Plum thinks picking a tribute is like choosing this season’s trendiest accessory.

She keeps smiling. Keeps talking. Keeps selling. Because her job is to convince these people that Frill is worth their coins. And if that means laughing at Pimple’s jokes and nodding at every sigh Chirp exhales — so be it.

Sage nods, says all the right things, highlights her tributes’ strengths, even steers the conversation away from certain unpleasant realities (like the fact that both of her tributes look embarrassingly outmatched next to some of their competitors). She does everything she’s supposed to.

And it still doesn’t work.

Mr. Pimple keeps glancing over at the next table, where some redheaded actress is downing champagne and laughing like this is a gala, not the prelude to a bloodbath. Chirp is more and more distracted by the screen, where the arena demonstration is about to start. And at some point, Plum takes out a mirror and starts touching up her makeup — while Sage is still explaining why Frill is the perfect candidate for surviving extreme conditions.

At the last sentence, her voice catches. Her throat goes dry, as if dust has settled inside. Sage takes a sip of water, but it doesn’t help. Her body feels heavy — sticky with fatigue. It’s like the day has lasted a week, and there’s a low hum in her chest — tension knotted tight. The lights sting her eyes. Her back starts to ache, right beneath her shoulder blades. Everything is too loud. Too empty.

She speaks. She smiles. She holds it together. But inside, it’s already beginning to crumble.

Maybe it’s because she remembers what it’s like — being on the other side of the screen. What it’s like to know no one is coming. That there’s no plan. That it all depends on chance, whim, luck. That you can be forgotten before you’re even remembered.

And now, looking at these well-fed, polished, smug people, Sage feels her fingers trembling. Just a little. Not enough to be seen — but enough to be felt.

She falls into a pause between phrases. The usual reflex — smile and keep talking — fails. Her tongue goes numb. And for a second — just one — she wants to bolt. To run. To hide somewhere between the tartlet trays and the wine crates and just… not be.

But she can’t.

So Sage forces herself to sit straighter, meet Mr. Pimple’s eyes, and say with perfectly pleasant, well-modulated brightness:

“Frill also has excellent composure. It’s rare at his age. Honestly, I already respect him.”

Chirp smiles — but it isn’t kind. It’s the kind of smile you make when scraping something disgusting off your shoe. Pimple reaches for a canapé. Plum scratches her neck.

No one says anything. No one asks for details. No one, clearly, plans to sign a contract.

Sage smiles again — but this time, she can’t even feel her jaw.

Please, just let this be over.

“District Eight, if you’ve been paying attention,” she says, with the calm cadence of a reminder, “has had three victors in the past ten years. If we save one of our tributes this year, that’ll be nearly a record. And Frill — he’s especially promising. He’s not just strong. He’s observant. Calm. He—”

“—has excellent cheekbones,” Plum interrupts, eyes still on her drink. “Yes, we noticed.”

Sage blinks. For a moment she’s not sure where that came from, but then recovers with a practiced smile.

“—scored an eight,” she clarifies. “In the private session. I think that speaks for itself.”

“Darling,” says Chirp, leaning in with almost maternal condescension, “you’re clearly trying very hard, but don’t you think he’s a little… too polished? Like a magazine cover. No edge.”

“Or no drama,” Pimple adds. “And without a personal sob story, it’s all a bit… dull.”

“Maybe you should just tell us what he is to you,” Plum says with a sly smile. “You’re pitching him so hard, I could guess all kinds of juicy things — but I heard you’re still seeing Sylvanus?”

Sage straightens just a touch more. Her hands clench under the table.

“Mr. Groff and I have a special relationship,” she replies, too quickly. “But right now I’m talking about Frill. And—”

“No, but really,” Chirp cuts in. “Are you two together? Or was it just one fun night? You can trust me!”

“Honestly, I thought you were in love with that boy from your arena,” Plum sighs. “He was a bit younger, sure, but life’s messy. One dead, one came back — not bad odds.”

Sage feels her face flush a little warmer, but she’s still smiling. Always smiling.

“We’ve all lost something in the arena,” she says after a beat. “But thankfully, some of us come back. And those are the ones worth betting on. Frill knows how to wait. He knows how to act when others break. Don’t you want to invest in results, not just noise?”

For a moment — silence.

Chirp taps her glass with a manicured nail. Plum yawns.

“You’re so amusing,” Pimple drawls. “So different from… well, other mentors. Still fresh.”

“Mmm, yes,” Plum coos. “You remind us of mint candies. Sweet at first, but then they burn your nose. Simply delightful.”

Sage blinks. Then takes another sip of wine and reminds herself the evening is just beginning. There are still screens. Cameras. Death. And she’ll have to smile again and again if she wants anyone to survive.

But for now, she gives up. Sets her fork down, slumps slightly, and stops trying. Time to look for new candidates — convincing these three is pointless. And smiling at them is nauseating.

Sage listlessly pokes at something green and creamy on her plate, not even trying to remember what it’s supposed to be. She doesn’t have the energy to chew, nor the desire to swallow. She nudges the wine glass slightly away, as if putting some distance between herself and the urge to get blind drunk.

Lunch goes on. Laughter, clinking cutlery, soft music playing somewhere to the side. The Games are only minutes away now, and the hall is already beginning to vibrate with tension — not the overt kind, not the real kind, but that tension under the skin, as if everyone already knows what's coming but pretends they can't smell the blood in the air.

Paisley is at the neighboring table, surrounded by a cluster of elderly elites, chattering with the kind of enthusiasm Sage knows will cost her a migraine later. She gestures, leans forward, beams — it seems like in just one week in the Capitol, she's spoken more than she does in an entire year back in the district. Sage can't make out the words, only the soft rhythm of her speech, like a starling chirping over the sound of a siren.

She turns her head the other way. The escort table — placed slightly apart, as if they belong to a different world. Alcyon sits in the middle, in a theatrical pose, neck long and eyes narrowed — and it’s clear he’s bickering with Effie Trinket. Her hands are clenched in her lap, her face taut, and she looks like she’s fighting the urge to slap him. Alcyon, by contrast, smiles with deadly calm.

Their lips move fast, but Sage can’t hear a word, only sees Alcyon say something that makes Effie flush like an overripe cherry. Sage smiles — almost genuinely. Even now, Alcyon can still push someone’s buttons. It's oddly comforting.

She rests her chin on her hand, letting her gaze drift across the room. White linen tablecloths, golden utensils, plates full of food that the sponsors are shoveling into their mouths — food the mentors barely touch. People are laughing, placing bets, adjusting their jewelry, talking about favorites — all of it under the soft glow of chandeliers, as if there’s still room in this world for celebrations.

Sage takes another sip of wine. Doesn’t think. Doesn’t speak. Just breathes. For now.

“You know,” says Plum, her tone now slightly apologetic, “what we remember is strength. Emotion. A story. And your tributes… well, let’s say Frill hasn’t exactly made a memorable impression. And the girl...”

That was a mistake. She doesn’t get it. She says it like advice — like Sage could still tweak the script, embellish the arc, sweeten the story.

For a split second, the mask nearly slips. Something dark rises from within — not quite rage, more like memory: fragile, spiky, smelling of ash. One second, and she’s almost replying with her teeth instead of her voice. Almost letting the whole polite façade fall.

But then she blinks. Breathes in — deep, slow — and the mask clicks neatly back into place. Sage folds her arms, tilts her head slightly, and glances up with that familiar coyness she always trades for a sliver of attention:

“Believe me, that boy’s not as simple as he looks.”

She pauses, letting the line hang.

“You just haven’t seen the full picture yet. It suits him to seem forgettable. That’s part of the strategy. Think back to my own victory. I’d never have made it if I’d rushed in too soon.”

“A hidden gem,” Chirp smiles.

“Exactly,” Sage echoes, letting a conspiratorial gleam flicker in her eye. “And gems, as you know, are worth the most when they’re hard to find.”

The sponsors laugh. Plum nods in approval. Chirp sips her drink. And even though something inside still aches and pulls, Sage smiles — just as hollow, just as polished. And goes on selling the boy who isn’t dead yet.

***

Lunch winds down not with a sharp cut, but the way music fades: dish after dish is brought out with decreasing ceremony, the noise in the hall breaks into scattered voices, some guests already rising while others still linger over dessert. The glasses on the tables are nearly empty, and the waiters in gleaming vests swiftly clear the plates, replacing them with new ones that no one really notices anymore.

Sage picks at the cream of some miniature pastry. It smells like peaches but tastes like cardboard. Around her, everything clatters — laughter, dishes, chairs scraping back. Plum gives a polite parting nod. Sage replies with yet another mechanical smile.

Finally, the room begins to visibly empty. Couples and clusters disperse and drift toward the exits. Some are animatedly discussing odds charts; others are trying to smuggle out as much champagne as possible. Sage rises with effort, rounds the table, adjusts the strap of her dress out of habit, and heads into the vestibule, where Paisley is already waiting, leaning against a column.

“Well?” Paisley asks, straightening up.

Sage rolls her eyes.

“Dubious flirting, zero coins, overwhelming urge to punch someone.”

“I got a couple of ‘I’ll think about it’s, one sponsor who asked about my diet, and a woman who asked three times what Moira’s name was.”

“Only three times? That’s encouraging.”

“It’s always like this. Everyone’s unsure. Especially on the first day. Give it time — soon they’ll be betting based on trouser color.”

“And Alcyon?”

Paisley looks toward the glass doors of the hall, where his familiar silhouette is still visible — animatedly gesturing at a table surrounded by two feathered women and a man in a velvet jacket who looks moments away from falling asleep.

“He’s been trying to hook someone all week,” Paisley says calmly. “No luck so far, but that’s normal. The beginning is always slow. Don’t overthink it.”

Sage shakes her head. Everything still rings inside her, but she pretends to listen — and that’s all that matters right now.

They walk slowly down the hallway back toward the main room. As they go, Paisley pulls a hair tie from her purse and twists her hair into a high ponytail — carelessly, without a mirror, like she’s done it a thousand times. Sage walks slightly behind, staring at her own fingers: short nails, neat, covered in a glossy polish.

“They’re about to start any minute now,” Paisley says without turning. “You okay?”

“No,” Sage replies honestly. “But I doubt that’ll stop the broadcast.”

They round the corner into the room — clusters of chairs, couches, and poufs arranged in semicircles around enormous screens built into the walls. Some of the screens are already on: countdowns pulsing above them, but the arena cameras haven’t turned on yet.

People are taking their seats. Some already have glasses in hand. Others have notebooks or tablets.

They pass the first circle — a couple of tipsy elites are already there, laughing too loudly. A little further on, they find two empty chairs and sit down in near-perfect sync, without a word. Around them, the hum of conversation buzzes like a hive. Some are loudly discussing past arenas; others are arguing over how many weapons the tributes will be given this year.

“I thought it would feel different,” Sage admits after a pause, eyes on the screen. “They’re judging us as much as the tributes.”

“That’s our ace,” Paisley replies. “While they’re watching us, we play to their emotions. A little charm, a little wine — and suddenly you’ve got water, bandages, maybe even a knife in your supply queue.”

Sage doesn’t respond. The screen flashes a countdown — less than fifteen seconds until the cameras go live.

In the corner of the room, Alcyon is still chatting someone up. From the way he’s moving his arms, he’s demonstrating how, in his expert opinion, the tributes will throw their spears. One of the people listening claps. Sage watches it with no expression.

“You think he managed to get anything for us?” she asks, eyes still fixed ahead.

“Hope so,” Paisley replies. “Judging by the color of his face, he’s either feeling confident — or very drunk.”

They fall silent.

“You scared?” Paisley asks suddenly, barely audible.

Sage tilts her head slightly.

“Always.”

Paisley nods, and that’s enough. The countdown flashes its final seconds on the screen. Around them, the chatter fades — not entirely, but noticeably. Glasses freeze mid-air. Someone leans forward.

Sage sinks into her chair and thinks only one thing: let them last at least an hour. Just one hour, and that’ll already be half the battle.

The space between the screens and the seating seems to tighten — stretched thin with silence, anticipation, something electric. Somewhere behind her, someone holds their breath. Her eyes suddenly catch a familiar silhouette by the far wall.

Short, dark-haired, with a loose braid falling over one shoulder, Maisie stands alone, cupping her glass in both hands like it’s giving her warmth. She’s wearing a light off-shoulder dress — too modest for this place — and something in her posture, in that taut fragility, makes Sage straighten her back.

Maisie came back from the arena a year before Sage. That year’s Games had been deemed catastrophically dull: the tributes were dropped into a frozen wasteland, and most didn’t survive the second day — they simply froze to death. The cameras had panned across lifeless snow, desperate to find even a flicker of drama, something more than teenagers burrowing into drifts and falling silent forever. When the hovercraft picked Maisie up, she could barely speak.

Sage swallows, then says to Paisley:

“Watch my seat. I’ll be right back. Just want to say hi.”

Paisley just nods, and Sage steps out of the circle of light, crossing the room with quiet steps, almost on tiptoe. Maisie notices her a beat too late, but when she does, she looks unexpectedly warm.

“Oh. Hey,” she says softly. “Change of scenery?”

“Sort of,” Sage replies. “My chair’s not glamorous enough for an event like this. Thought I’d mix up the visuals.”

They fall silent for a few seconds. It isn’t awkward, more careful — like they’re testing how far the conversation can stretch.

“We’re both kind of the new girls,” Sage says first, her gaze drifting across the room where voices start up again. “Figured I’d say hello properly.”

Maisie smiles a little — not exactly happy, but understanding.

“Yeah. First year’s the weirdest,” she says. “Everyone already thinks you’re part of the system, and you haven’t even figured out how to breathe in it yet.”

“And you end up voluntarily talking to people when all you want is to crawl into a well and never show your face again,” Sage adds with a sigh.

“I thought that was just me,” Maisie sighs too and takes a sip from her glass.

They fall quiet again.

“How’s it going for you?” Sage asks after a second. “Get anything out of anyone?”

Maisie makes a vague gesture.

“Someone said my girl had ‘potential for beautiful on-camera crying,’ or something like that. I think it was a compliment. If I’m lucky, she’ll get a water bottle and a protein bar by the end of the day.”

“Inspiring. I got a few ‘maybe later’s, which I’m pretty sure is Capitol code for ‘kindly fuck off.’”

“Better than ‘too normal to be interesting.’ I already feel like hitting someone. Possibly myself.”

“Just not yet. Games haven’t even started,” Sage says. “Save it for the first bloodshed.”

They exchange a glance — tired, knowing. The kind of look only people who’ve survived the same thing can share.

“Oh, look. It’s starting,” Maisie says finally, straightening and nodding toward the screens.

The overhead lights dim — not abruptly, but enough to make the room shift, the space feel deeper. The low hum of voices dies down. Everyone turns toward the massive displays, where, for a moment, all that appears is the seal of Panem, pulsing in slow rhythm, like a heartbeat.

Sage all but jogs back to her seat and sinks beside Paisley.

Then — a click.

And the broadcast begins.

First — an aerial view. The camera glides like a drone over a toy-sized world: a landscape of blackened, fractured ridges split by jagged crevices. The earth is cracked and scorched, streaked here and there with glowing veins of lava, slow-moving between slabs of rock. In the distance, silhouettes of volcanoes loom against the red haze, their craters glowing with smoldering heat. Even through the screen, the air seems to shimmer.

The center of the arena is a long caldera — a sunken, circular basin. Inside it lies an almost perfectly flat platform, and in the middle: the Cornucopia. It looks especially menacing against the ashen backdrop — metallic, all sharp edges, gleaming under the sun like a blade. Inside it — supplies, weapons, backpacks. Everything arranged with perfect symmetry — a suicide choice made as fair as possible.

And just as the audience leans in to study the details, the commentary cuts in.

“Good evening, Panem!” says a familiar voice. “We’re thrilled to welcome you to the 69th Annual Hunger Games! I’m Claudius Templesmith, and tonight I’m joined by the inimitable Calliope Kingsley!”

The feed cuts to the studio — dazzling white, lit with violet accents, and two armchairs. Claudius is dressed in a graphite-gray suit, his smile as polished as a toothpaste commercial. Calliope wears a dress that shifts between copper and gold; her hair is swept into an elaborate updo, studded with sparkling drop-like ornaments.

“What a landscape, Claudius,” she says dreamily, tilting her head. “Absolutely breathtaking. I think this year’s arena is especially aesthetic.”

“Structurally, it’s fascinating,” he nods. “Volcanic activity, thermal currents, unstable ground — everything you want for maximum drama.”

“And danger,” Calliope adds, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’ve heard some zones may collapse beneath their feet. And of course, the temperature shifts! If your endurance’s weak, you’re out by the first night.”

“Not to mention,” Claudius continues, “that tributes will face a serious choice: run for the Cornucopia, where all the good stuff is, or flee in search of shelter. As you saw, Calliope — there’s nowhere to hide. Just craters and smoke.”

“Which means,” she says, “the first clash is inevitable. I’m sure many of our viewers have already placed bets on who’ll be the first to fall.”

The camera cuts back to the arena. Now — close-ups. The tribute platforms are already in place, faces lit from below by flickers at their feet, as if the ground beneath them is breathing. Frill stands with his shoulders down, calm — frozen, almost. Moira is pale but not crying. Her lips are pressed into a tight line.

The countdown begins.

Back in the sponsor lounge, the quiet is total. Half-drunk glasses sit untouched. Conversations hang in mid-air. Everyone’s on edge. Sage and Paisley sit side by side, rigid, unmoving. Maisie’s three chairs over, chin resting in her hands. Even Alcyon is silent.

A silence with weight — the kind that only comes before something irreversible. Less than a minute now.

Sage sits upright, but her fingers dig into the armrests, knuckles white. She barely blinks — as if missing a single frame might be fatal.

There’s emptiness in her stomach, or maybe it’s in her chest. Or maybe everywhere. On the outside, she’s composed — still face, eyes locked on the screen. But inside, something scrapes and pricks, like needles beneath the skin. Not fear — fear was yesterday. This is something sharper, quieter. What’s left when there’s nothing else to be done.

“Ten,” says Claudius, and somehow, his voice feels obscenely out of place.

“Nine,” echoes Calliope.

Sage inhales — but the air seems to stop halfway. And suddenly she realizes she doesn’t even know who she’s hoping for most. Both of them? Frill, with his real chances? Moira, small and shaking like a stem in the wind?

“Five…”

“Four…”

“Three…”

“Two…”

“One! Ladies and gentlemen, let the 69th Hunger Games begin!”

Instant — a burst of light, a swell of sound—and the tributes run.

The cameras go wide immediately. The space erupts into movement: silhouettes launch off their platforms, some sprint toward the Cornucopia, others flee in the opposite direction. Screams ring out. Someone trips. Someone else rips a backpack from another's hands. One tribute already holds a bow and arrows.

And then—Frill appears on screen, moving surprisingly fast, precise. He leaps from his platform and runs — not toward the center, but sideways, down a slope. The camera loses him for a moment, too many figures in motion, but then he reappears: crouching, grabbing a small backpack tossed near the edge of the platform, and without hesitation, slips behind a jagged boulder.

He freezes there for a few seconds. Sage sees him listening — pausing — and then he disappears, almost melting into a crack in the ground.

She doesn’t realize she’s exhaled until she feels her shoulders trembling. Her hands are still clenched, but inside her chest — just for a second — something flickers. Something close to relief.

He didn’t overreach. Didn’t panic. He did exactly what he was supposed to. What she had drilled into him over and over again. Don’t play the hero. Don’t take more than you can carry. Disappear while the others kill each other.

“Frill’s handling it,” Paisley whispers beside her — not in surprise, but with quiet recognition.

“Yes,” Sage answers, barely audible. “He got it.”

But there’s still no sign of Moira.

The cameras haven’t shown her. She might have run. Might have stayed. Might be frozen on the platform like a stunned animal. Or maybe… No. Sage won’t allow herself to finish that thought.

It’s like this every year. The first few minutes are chaos. Commentators fill the air with analysis, viewers place bets, everyone notes who comes out aggressive. But names of the dead aren’t announced yet — too much confusion. Only when the blood settles do the tributes begin turning into numbers.

“Minerva from District Two — my word!” Calliope laughs, pointing at a girl chasing someone from Nine with a knife.

But Sage barely hears her. She’s scanning the screen. Eyes darting across each frame, catching flashes of movement and light. A predator’s panic, sharp and primal, coils inside her.

Where’s Moira?

Where the fuck is she?

Another wide shot — the Cornucopia shrouded in smoke. The camera can’t seem to decide who to follow. One body already sprawled motionless. A few figures dart toward the center — one with a crossbow, another with a blade. It’s too fast. Too frenzied.

Sage blinks — her eyes are dry, as if she forgot blinking was even necessary. She counts silhouettes, tries to track who’s alive, who’s running, who’s still. The screen cuts briefly to a boy from Two hurling a spear blind. A hand slick with blood. Still no sign of Moira.

She swallows hard. Her fingers won’t loosen their grip. Her palm’s slick with sweat. She glances at Paisley — hunched forward, gaze locked on the screen. No one breathes too loudly. No one speaks.

“Where’s the boy from Disctrict Ten?” someone murmurs behind them. “I had him in my top three.”

Sage doesn’t turn. The cold is creeping back into her ribs. What if the camera just didn’t catch her? What if...

No. Not now.

Then — the feed cuts sharply.

A camera dives low, as if riding a drone’s shoulder — it sweeps past a lava ridge, banks hard to the side, and finally catches it: forest.

Charred. Twisted. As if it’s burned a thousand times and still refuses to fall. Among the blackened husks — a figure. Hunched. Running in bursts, gripping at tree trunks.

Sage recognizes the red braids.

Moira.

Not hurt. Yet. Not shaking. Yet. Still alive. For now.

And she’s doing everything right: not in the center, not near the Cornucopia, not with the others. She’s moving deeper, farther away, as if instinct is dragging her from the screams and the light. Her steps are awkward, but intentional. The camera loses her in the smoke, then finds her again. She slips between two jagged boulders — a gap too narrow for most. But for Moira, it’s perfect.

Sage closes her eyes for a second. Her chin trembles, but she takes another breath. Cold. Cautious.

“There she is,” Paisley whispers, barely audible. “Little fox.”

The footage begins to shift faster now. Sweeping panoramas of the arena: scorched trees, steep volcanic ridges, a steaming river. Everything painted in crimson gleam and ash.

“And here they are,” Claudius booms from the speakers, “our first hours — the birth of legends. Some will be heroes. Some will be traitors. And for some, it’s already time to say goodbye.”

Sage straightens slightly. Her face stays composed, but something underneath starts to itch again. The Games have only just begun. The worst is still ahead. But right now — both her tributes are alive. And that means there’s still something to hold onto.

***

The next few hours blur into a smeared reel of images — jittery, relentless, like a bad dream with static in the background. Cameras jump from scene to scene, sometimes lingering too long on especially brutal moments — someone gets wounded, someone flees, someone chases, soaked in someone else’s blood.

Frill stays mostly offscreen. He glides through the background, avoiding conflict with uncanny precision. Slipping through smoke. Sheltering under crags. He doesn't fight — but he survives.

Moira is seen rarely, too. A glimpse at the creek. Another moment under a rock ledge. At one point, she creeps beside a slow-moving lava stream, staying low in the shadows. And Sage’s heart tightens — the girl is calculating. She has a plan. Already.

Paisley leans forward and exhales.

“If they don’t find her in the next day... she’ll last.”

“She’s doing better than I expected,” Sage admits.

“Frill knows what he’s doing too,” Paisley mutters. “Did you see him slip past that guy with the crossbow? I wouldn't have noticed if the camera hadn't caught it.”

The room stays low-hummed — everyone watching, everyone waiting. Some audience members whisper about betting pools, others mutter about how certain tributes “didn’t deliver.” A few sponsors exchange disappointed glances. Tributes they'd invested in are already gone.

Someone gasps as the boy from District Seven slips, mid-leap, into a lava flow. Sage squeezes her eyes shut, but the sound alone is enough.

The screen flashes again: two tributes — one with an axe, the other with only a rock. Seconds later, there’s only one left. The commentators chime in.

“And there he is, our young man from District One... taking initiative.”

“Yes, Claudius, and note how he doesn’t just fight — he builds a persona. That could matter later when alliances form.”

Sage wants to groan, but just blinks and keeps watching.

And then, finally, silence.

The commentators’ faces vanish from the broadcast. The sky above the arena turns darker — evening. The sun sinks behind the volcanic ridge, and the clouds are stained wine-red and smoky. The cameras pull back. For a heartbeat, everything stops.

Sage knows what’s coming. They all do.

The first anthem. The first tributes.

Above the arena, holograms begin to shimmer into life. The first face — the boy from District Three. Then the girl from Six. Another. And another.

Five. Seven. Nine. Paisley counts along with Sage — silently, just moving her lips. When the eleventh portrait appears, they both freeze. Only thirteen tributes remain — twelve of whom will die later. But neither Moira nor Frill are among the fallen.

Sage exhales. Only now she notices how shallowly she’d been breathing. She covers her mouth with her hand. Her head buzzes. She’s alive again. For now. They’re alive.

“They made it,” Paisley says with a thread of awe. “First day survived.”

But Sage doesn’t let herself celebrate. Joy is a luxury. And it fades too quickly into something else. Worry. Helplessness. And work.

She straightens up, smooths her hair with a quick motion, and lifts her face again into the familiar mask: the slight half-smile, the narrowed eyes, the polite interest. No one’s going to save her now — except, maybe, a few well-placed words.

She takes a sip — just water, not wine — then walks deliberately toward a low table where two sponsors are seated. One is a man in a velvet blazer with a ring on every finger, his face polished and pale like porcelain. The other — a woman with a tight halo of violet curls and a haughty half-smile, like she’s only here out of obligation and would much rather be spritzing perfume in some other room.

Sage leans in slightly, brushing her fingers against the back of the empty chair.

“Excuse me, may I?”

They turn in unison. The man gives a courteous nod. The woman arches an eyebrow, as if to say, well, go on then, if you must.

Sage sits, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

“You’d agree, wouldn’t you — the real spectacle hasn’t even begun?”

“Undoubtedly,” the man says. “Today was more… rehearsal. Warm-up.”

“Yes,” Sage agrees, “but sometimes the warm-up carries a story. A hint of what’s to come. Take Frill, for instance. He didn’t fight. Didn’t freeze. Didn’t panic. He just… vanished. In the first hour. That’s an image. A challenge. A mystery.”

The woman scoffs.

“Mystery doesn’t score points,” she says, still not looking directly at Sage. “And it doesn’t draw sympathy. You need heroes. Or villains. He’s neither.”

Sage leans in slightly. Her voice remains soft — but something sharp glints beneath it.

“Or maybe that’s exactly what makes him dangerous. No one’s expecting him. Everyone’s watching the tributes from One, from Four. And then — bang. He’s the last one standing. Because he was smarter. More patient.”

“Or just luckier,” the man adds, sipping his champagne.

Sage smiles, even as her jaw tightens slightly.

“But isn’t that what you’re betting on?” she murmurs. “The chance. The possibility. That one special story no one saw coming.”

The woman finally turns her face toward Sage. There’s something alive in her expression now — amused, perhaps, but engaged.

“Well… it’s nice to see you holding it together, darling.”

Sage nods as if accepting the compliment.

“Thank you. But I’m not holding it together. I’m selling. And you, luckily, have the chance to buy.”

The man chuckles softly. The woman rolls her eyes — but less sharply than before.

“Fine,” he says. “Let’s suppose you’ve convinced me. How much?”

Sage bites the inside of her cheek, just briefly. Because this is where it gets dangerous. Because behind the numbers, it always comes down to the same question: сan this kid live one more day?

“That depends on how much you’re willing to give,” she says at last.

“Oh, don’t take it too literally,” the man replies smoothly. “I’m just curious for now. You know — interest isn’t commitment.”

Sage gives him the sweetest smile she can summon.

“Lucky for you,” she says, “I’m very good at turning interest into commitment.”

Behind her, a burst of laughter rings out — sharp, brittle, like shattered glass. One of the guests has drawn everyone's attention, and half the room's gaze drifts toward the new spectacle.

Sage’s companions both turn their heads at once. The woman reaches for her drink. The man visibly loses interest in Sage — as if their entire conversation had only ever been one of dozens that evening.

She keeps her expression exactly the same: measured, composed. Inside, everything hums with tension, but from the outside — not a single crack. Her job is to wait. To be visible. To be easy to buy. Not too eager, but just memorable enough.

Someone like Flora could probably pull this off without effort — but Sage spent most of her life terrified to open her mouth around strangers.

She smiles again, though it’s slightly more crooked this time. The tension in her shoulders stopped being temporary long ago. It’s structure now. Constant.

The screen flickers again — a quick flash of Frill, crawling between two sharp boulders, barely breathing. His face is smeared with soot, but he’s alive. At least for now. Sage pretends this gives her strength. In truth, it’s only a delay.

She scans the room again. Looks for a new target — someone alone, distracted, someone who already regrets coming here. And there she is. At a distant table: a woman in an emerald-green jumpsuit, her hair coiled like a snake around her head. Her hands are folded, her glass empty, her eyes wandering across the screen without much interest. Perfect.

Sage stands, straightens her posture, and heads in that direction. Smoothly, like she’s simply drifting between tables. Unhurried. Halfway there, the feeling hits: that fragile mixture of determination and self-loathing.

Finnick appears out of nowhere. He glides past her with infuriating ease, hand already resting on the back of the woman’s chair. He smiles at her like they’ve known each other for years. Says something — low, conspiratorial — and she’s smiling back. A moment later, he’s seated, looking like someone who knows he’s being listened to, while the woman crosses her legs and nods along to his every word.

Sage freezes in place. She wants — desperately — to swear out loud.

Instead, she turns and walks slowly back to her seat. But when he strolls past again five minutes later, she can’t help herself.

“You stole my sponsor.”

Finnick feigns innocence.

“Who, me?”

“The woman in green. Face like a disappointed widow. I had her in my sights.”

“Well, you should’ve been faster.”

“I was faster. I was walking toward her.”

“And I was already next to her.”

“That’s cheating. She was my target. My hope. My potential medkit.”

“You can comfort yourself with the fact that I’ve been working on her for three years.”

Sage blinks.

“Three years?”

“She said I lacked a ‘dramatic element’ the first year. So I tried to be dramatic. Then she claimed I was too popular, and she wanted to ‘invest in the shadows.’ Sounded like a strategy to me. This year, she said my tributes were too photogenic, whatever that means. At this point, I’m just committed out of spite.”

“You…” Sage frowns, then squints. “So you didn’t steal her. You hogged her. That’s worse. Do you know what my six-year-old sister would call you?”

“Everyone has their tragedies,” Finnick says, mock-sagely. “Mine is wasting the prime of my youth on a woman who pretends I don’t exist.”

“Shall I wish you a happy marriage?”

“Please do. We’ll even make you maid of honor.”

Sage rolls her eyes, pretending not to care. But something still stings. Because unlike him, she has nothing to offer but words, time, and carefully modulated tone. While half the other mentors just have to smile and the whole room falls into their hands — they just need to get there first. Why can’t she be more like Cashmere?

“I just hope she gives you an actual contract and not another compliment,” Sage mutters.

“Why not both?”

Sage presses her lips together.

“Just so you know. Next time, I’m going first.”

“You got it. Promise. Next time, I’ll step aside.”

Finnick sounds tired, but light — like the evening is a little easier for him. Or maybe he’s just good at pretending. Then again, aren’t they all?

“All right,” he goes on, in a different tone now. “Let me offer compensation. Look.”

He leans in slightly and nods toward a table near the column.

“See the guy with the white carnation on his lapel? That’s Tybalt. Always sends gifts to tributes. Also, his foundation sponsors the annual puppy showcase. Try not to mix up which one's cuter.”

“Uh-huh. And that one with the suspenders?”

“Oh, him. Bacchus. Owns three houses, has five personal bodyguards, and a habit of speaking to women while staring at their chests. Especially if sponsorship is involved.”

“Charming. I hope someday he loses everything and ends up living in a basement with cockroaches who make him pay rent for dinner.”

“Such a kind soul you are.”

“Go to hell,” she says, then points at a young guy in an iridescent jacket. “And that one clearly snuck out of school.”

“Eros. Just inherited a massive fortune after his uncle tragically choked on an oyster aboard a yacht. Now he’s decided he’s destined to change the world. So far, he’s mostly doing it through alcohol. But there’s hope.”

Sage snorts, a small smile tugging at her lips — barely there. Then she frowns slightly, head tilting just a little.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Hm?”

“Why do you keep bothering with me?”

“Who knows. Maybe I’ve got a soft spot for grumblers who don’t watch where they’re walking.”

“That happened once. And I’m serious.”

“Who said I’m not?”

Instead of answering, Sage gives him a look. Not irritated. Not surprised. Just steady. Sharp. Like a weight pressed up against glass. And Finnick, as if catching the current beneath the surface, eases up — just a notch.

“Someone’s got to keep an eye on the new girl with the half-face eyes, who always looks like she’s one breath away from passing out. Since you stepped on my foot, I figured it’s my burden now.”

“Oh, so I’m a charity case?”

“Something like that. Let’s say I have a generous heart. You can light a candle for me.”

“I’ll think about it,” she says.

An explosion flashes across the screen — somewhere in the northern part of the arena, near the volcanic ridge. Someone must have tried to reach the water and picked the wrong path. The camera pulls back, and once again, nothing is clear: ash, thunder, smoke.

Nearby, glasses are still clinking, people laughing, planning, negotiating. Sage suddenly remembers she still doesn’t have a single contract — and immediately catches herself fantasizing about running headfirst into a wall.

“Day one,” she mutters under her breath. “Never comes with clarity.”

“Only instincts. And guesswork.”

A pause. She glances sideways at Finnick, then turns her eyes back to the screen.

Around the Cornucopia — complete desolation. Anything not bolted down is gone. Blades, helmets, ropes, medicine. The ground underfoot is dry and cracked, dark like charred bones. Wisps of smoke still trail lazily across the dirt. In the distance, almost at the edge of the frame — narrow threads of lava glint like fractures in glass. They shimmer ominously, as if whispering: don’t come closer.

“Alright,” Sage sighs at last. “Back to pretending I have a plan.”

“Good luck. Try not to smother anyone with your charm.”

“I’ll try. You try not to choke on your own ego.”

“No promises.”

Sage turns, her smile intact but already cracking at the edges. Each step back into the crowd feels heavier than the last — like the air itself is thicker here, saturated with perfume, greed, and performance. She straightens her shoulders anyway, lets her mask settle into place like armor, and moves forward. There’s no applause for surviving the first day. Only more eyes. More noise. And the endless work of making them believe she matters.

***

She remembers Eros somewhere during her third slow circle of the hall. He’s standing near one of the far tables, slightly removed from the rest — like he doesn’t quite belong here. His hair is neatly slicked back, his shirt collar pristine, and his eyes have a hesitant flicker, like he’s shown up to a class in the wrong school. He can’t be more than five years older than her — probably less. But he’s already got a gold bracelet around his wrist and a signet ring on his pinky — a symbol that screams: I’m rich, even if I blush when spoken to.

Perfect, Sage thinks as she approaches. The ideal target: not yet jaded, not yet learned to sneer. Maybe even dreaming of doing something noble. All she needs now is a way in.

She smiles, sets down her glass, and leans on the edge of his table.

“Hopefully someone’s already told you how charming you look tonight. If not — I’ll gladly be the first.”

He startles — not in terror, but definitely in surprise. He offers a shy smile.

“Miss Bradbury… that’s very kind of you.”

Miss Bradbury. Sage blinks. So that’s where we are.

“Oh, come on, don’t look so alarmed,” she whispers conspiratorially. “I’m not on the arena anymore. I won’t bite.”

Eros chuckles, gaze dropping. His cheeks flush pink.

“But seriously…” Sage leans a little closer, softening her tone. “District Eight — three victors in ten years. We know how to survive. Even if we look like… well, like me. Or like my tribute.”

Eros nods, clearly flustered. But Sage can feel it — he’s nearly there. Almost convinced.

Until someone appears over his shoulder — a woman in her forties with perfect shoulders, gold earrings, and the expression of a hawk that’s just spotted lunch.

“Oh, Eros! There you are,” she purrs, placing a hand on his elbow without hesitation. “We’re late for the Harrington meeting, remember?”

He stammers:

“Uh… but I…”

“Come on,” she cuts him off, smoothly and firmly steering him away — without so much as glancing at Sage.

Sage is left at the empty table. Silent.

Then she exhales.

“Choke on your Harrington, you clueless hag,” she mutters.

Her words are lost in the general hum. Someone clinks a glass. Someone laughs. The screens switch again to a group of tributes trying to cross hardened lava flows, and pain pulses in Sage’s temples — as if someone had clamped an iron band around her skull and started to tighten it.

She blinks, looks away from the screen. She’s hot too, but not from the heat — from anger. Small, stupid, completely unproductive anger. At that boy with the innocent face. At that woman with the blank expression. At all this performative superiority.

Sage straightens, slowly, like her skin is cracked underneath, and takes a step to the side. No one is watching. No one notices.

So she sticks out her tongue at Eros’s back.

Quickly, sharply, almost childishly. Just because she can. Just because it’s something, anything, she can do to fight back — even if it means nothing.

Then she smooths her dress and turns back to the screens. Still the same running — lava landscape, smoke, ash. Everything moves. Everything burns. Frill and Moira are out there somewhere. Maybe hiding. Maybe on the run again.

Then the feed shifts into a smooth, almost meditative aerial shot: across solidified lava fields, ochre canyons, steaming fissures where something pulses — like the ground itself is breathing. The camera picks out figures: here and there, lone tributes blending into the terrain; elsewhere, remnants of the initial bloodbath, bodies lying motionless in ash.

Suddenly, the camera zooms in on one point. At first, it seems like nothing is happening — but then it’s clear: a narrow crack in the rock below is widening, and steam coils up from it, rising like a ribbon into the air. Something is about to happen. Sage can feel it.

And it does.

The tribute from District Twelve — a boy about fifteen, hair messy, a jacket wrapped around his face like a scarf — is creeping along a narrow ledge, leaning out to peer into a gorge.

“Bravery or foolishness?” Claudius comments. “Sometimes the line between the two is far too thin.”

On screen, everything freezes for a moment. The camera closes in. The boy takes a step.

Then the ground shudders.

A dull, resonant thump — like a heart waking deep beneath the arena.

First another crack, thin as a serpent. Then — a burst of steam.

It shoots upward, blindingly white, and throws the boy into the air. A whirlwind of ash and vapor envelops him completely.

The room falls silent. No one screams. They just watch.

The camera shifts. Through the haze, the figure is seen falling back down — limp, twisted wrong. Not moving.

“…and there we have one of the arena’s surprises, ladies and gentlemen,” Calliope says gently, as if describing a feature of some new kitchen appliance. “Geothermal eruptions — unstable, deceptive, and deadly. Now our players will have to watch not only each other, but the very ground beneath their feet.”

Sage exhales slowly, trying not to react too strongly. Her palms are sweating. The air feels thicker. One thought circles through her head, over and over: not yours. Not yours. Not yours.

On the screen, faces flash by again. Someone is running. Someone is crawling slowly along a blackened slope. And all the while — beneath the rocks — the earth keeps breathing.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Girl, So Confusing | OCs fics