Chapter Text
"Tell me, Evelia," Caesar Flickerman's voice pierced the air, sparkling with an unnerving cheerfulness. "How does it feel to win the 51st Hunger Games without having killed a single soul?"
Evelia blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The bright lights of the Capitol's lavish studio seemed to press in on her from all sides, distorting the world around her. She was supposed to be here, basking in the surreal glory of victory, but how could she focus on anything when everything felt like a hazy dream, so far removed from reality?
How had it happened? Just hours ago, she had been there, trapped in that suffocating, brutal arena. Her throat had burned with thirst, her body battered and broken by the vicious mutts that had stalked her every move. And now? Now, she sat in front of thousands of people, alive, untouched, a contradiction of everything she should have been.
The shift was almost more than a mind could bear. It was like being caught in a jest that would not end.
When the stylists ushered her into the sterile room after the medical checks, the mirror before her revealed a face she scarcely recognised. It was as if the girl she had once been had been erased, replaced by something alien, something fractured.
She was so thin, her skin stretching taut over bones.
Her arms hung weak, the flesh sagging in a way that felt unnatural, as though one touch could make it peel away entirely. Her ribs pressed against the fabric of her clothes as if they might tear through at any given moment.
The dark bruises beneath her eyes were more than just the physical marks of sleepless nights. They were evidence of the terror, the anguish that had etched itself deep into her soul, far more than any wound could ever.
And her brown eyes held nothing. They were pools of emptiness. There had once been a flicker there, something fragile and fleeting that kept her moving forward. A spark of defiance, perhaps, or the memory of who she used to be. But it was gone now. The Games had hollowed her out, stripped away everything she had fought to keep.
There had been a time when she had welcomed the idea of death. When her name had been called during the Reaping, she had felt relief; an end to the torment of her life. She had planned to die with dignity, to show Panem the true face of the Games before she was silenced. That had been her resolve.
But she had failed. She had failed them all. Her allies—Haldin from her district, Delta and Griffin from Seven—they were all gone. And she was left alone.
Every act of defiance had been erased.
Ever since last year's Second Quarter Quell, the Games were no longer broadcast live. The footage was first screened, dissected by a team of Capitol officials, ensuring that nothing slipped through. Nothing dangerous. Nothing real.
Her speech was gone. The moment she had dared to call out Snow, the fire in her voice scorching through the arena, was silenced before it ever reached the districts. The act of melting snow, a quiet yet undeniable symbol of the president's downfall, vanished, as if the ice had never dripped at all.
It was as if none of it had ever happened.
Like she was just another victor. A name to be celebrated, a face to be paraded through the streets, stripped of all meaning beyond the Capitol's design.
A girl who had played their game and won.
A girl who had never fought back.
"Evelia?"
Caesar's voice cut through the haze, dragging her back to the present.
She blinked, forcing herself to focus. Then, she pulled her lips into a smile, one she prayed didn't resemble a grimace.
"Sorry, Caesar. I got lost in my thoughts. What were you saying?"
Her voice was light, perfectly rehearsed, the kind of effortless enthusiasm they wanted from her. And it worked.
Caesar's grin widened, his shoulders easing as he leaned back into his chair, flashing his signature, dazzling smile.
"All good, my dear! Becoming a Victor... it's a lot to take in, isn't it?"
Evelia hesitated, carefully choosing her words.
To the Capitol, she was a fallen angel. That was what they whispered. The girl with an angel's face and a soul weighed down by sorrow. A tragic beauty for them to admire, to pity, to turn into a story that suited their narrative.
She hated it.
She didn't want to be seen as sad. As fragile. As weak.
Even if she was.
But they didn't need to know that.
"It is," she said smoothly. "But it feels good. Looks like I won't be joining my dad six feet underground anytime soon."
The crowd burst into laughter.
They loved dark humour. Because they didn't understand it.
To them, it was just a joke. Nothing more. No bitterness hidden beneath the words, no quiet ache woven into the syllables. Just something to laugh at, to enjoy.
Because they didn't know what loss felt like.
"Well, it seems like you haven't lost your sense of humour in the arena. If anything, you've gained some," Caesar observed, his smile unwavering.
"Are you saying I wasn't funny before?"
More laughter.
People clapped, beaming at her as if she had given them a gift. As if this moment wasn't just another survival act.
"Of course not, Evelia," Caesar laughed, all charm and reassurance. "I would never."
Evelia forced a smile, hoping it looked natural as she swept her gaze over the crowd.
Then she saw her.
Mags Flanagan, seated in the front row, her expression gentle. A quiet, knowing smile on her lips. It's almost over, she seemed to say.
Evelia barely had time to exhale before Caesar's voice pulled her back.
"By the way, I have a question," he continued, his tone still light but with an edge of curiosity. "How... how on earth did you manage not to kill anyone?"
Evelia stiffened.
Her stomach twisted as the words sank in, her carefully maintained composure threatening to crack.
She didn't want to answer.
No matter what she said, it wouldn't change anything. Snow would still be furious. He already despised her. Because of her father, because of what he had done. And if he had seen the footage before it was erased, if he had watched her screaming at the cameras, melting snow right in front of them—
He hated her even more now.
And she knew she'd pay for it.
"Well, it's honestly just luck," Evelia forced herself to say, her voice steady. "I'm a normally constituted person, so the thought of having to kill someone repulsed me. My plan was simple; wait until only one tribute was left, then kill them. That way, I wouldn't have too many deaths weighing on my conscience, you see."
She wanted to slap herself.
She sounded like a Career.
Which, technically, she was. District Four. One of the trained killers. Except she'd never been trained. Not like the others. Not like the ones whose parents groomed them for the Games. Her mother had made sure of that.
"Turns out," she continued, forcing a shrug, "the last tribute, the girl from Two, died in a trap made by one of my old allies, Delta. So... yeah. That's how it went."
Her voice wavered. Just for a second.
She could pretend all she wanted. Smile, play the part, act like she was proud to be here.
But she couldn't hide the grief.
"But you were still willing to kill her," Caesar countered smoothly. "How did you feel when you realised you might become a killer?"
Evelia barely kept her expression neutral.
What kind of question was that? What kind of answer did he expect? Probably a classic one. The kind that would make the audience sigh with relief. A trembling confession—I was scared, but I knew I'd do whatever it took to survive. A reassurance that, in the end, she had the heart of a Victor.
But she wasn't about to give him that satisfaction.
Or Snow.
Especially not Snow.
She had nothing to lose, did she? A dead father. A mother who had never loved her, who had all but sent her to the arena with her selfishness. And allies who had become like family, only to be torn from her hands before she could even grasp what they meant to her. Evelia had already lost everything.
So why not set the Capitol on edge while she still could?
She tilted her head, a ghost of a smile curling at her lips. "The same way you must feel every time you step on this stage, Caesar."
The audience chuckled, amused by what they thought was another dark joke. But her gaze didn't waver.
Caesar hesitated just long enough for her to know she'd struck a nerve before he recovered. "And what do you mean by that, my dear?"
Evelia leaned forward slightly, her fingers curling into the silk of her turquoise dress. Her voice was steady, deceptively calm. "I didn't choose to be in that arena. But you? The Capitol? You chose to watch. You chose to cheer."
She let the words sink in before adding, "I chose the possibility of becoming a killer. To have blood on my hands. Just like you chose to have blood on yours by watching us. By sponsoring us."
Silence.
Not a deep, dramatic silence. More like a pause, a glitch in the illusion. The audience was still smiling, still poised for another laugh. But it didn't come.
Evelia let the moment stretch, let the discomfort settle. Then, as if flipping a switch, she plastered on a bright, airy smile. "But don't worry, Caesar. I survived without killing anyone. That should make you all so proud, right?"
A beat of hesitation. Then, someone started clapping. Others followed, gradually, as if convincing themselves it was still all part of the performance.
And it was.
Evelia was still playing.
She just had to make sure she wasn't the one being played.
Caesar's laugh returned, though weaker this time, a shade thinner, stretched just a little too tight. He was good at this, at making everything seem light and effortless, at steering the conversation back to safer ground. But Evelia had seen it.
The flicker in his eyes.
The hesitation.
She wondered if, just for a second, he knew she wasn't joking.
"Well, Evelia," he said, his hands coming together, his voice smoothing into the familiar cadence of forced charm. "I must say, your performance in the arena was nothing short of extraordinary. You had the entire Capitol at the edge of their seats! From the moment you—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
What could he say? What was there to say?
What was her defining moment?
It wasn't a dazzling kill, a moment of victory over an enemy. It wasn't a sharp strategy that had kept her one step ahead of the bloodthirsty tributes around her. No, her story had been molded into something far cleaner, more palatable, more controllable. It was a tale the Capitol had rewritten, scrubbed of anything that might've made her truly human.
To them, she was just the miracle Victor. The girl who had won the 51st Hunger Games without taking a single life.
The thought made her stomach churn.
But Evelia let Caesar's voice fill the silence, his praise pouring like syrup over everything she couldn't stand. More empty words, hollow compliments. She gave the smile they expected, laughed when the audience did, nodded in all the right places. It was all she could do. It was all she had left to give.
Because, in the end, wasn't that the game?
Let them believe they owned her. Let them celebrate their golden girl, their fallen angel. Let them claim the miracle they had created.
"Ah, and now, the moment we've all been waiting for!" Caesar exclaimed, rising from his seat with a flourish. "It's time to crown our victor! Ladies and gentlemen, President Snow!"
The crowd erupted in a cacophony of noise, a wave of clapping, cheering, and singing that threatened to drown her. Evelia felt the weight of it pressing down on her, her head spinning, the sounds melding together until she thought, for a brief moment, that she might faint. Everything was too much; too many eyes, too much praise, too many emotions. She could hardly breathe. After being locked in an arena for eight days, she wasn't used to the noise anymore.
And then, in the chaos, she wondered what President Snow would say when he saw her. Would he be his usual cold, calculated self, slipping the crown onto her head, offering a brief congratulations before disappearing back into the shadows? Or would he give her a warning?
Not that it mattered. Evelia had already lost everything. She had only one thing left to cling to: Mollie. Her best friend. But she never mentioned Mollie in interviews, nor did she speak of her in the arena. She kept her name hidden away, out of sight. It was the only way she could keep her safe.
The anthem blared through the stage, its sharp notes reverberating in Evelia's chest as President Snow appeared on stage, as customary, in his red coat. The crowd erupted in deafening applause, but Evelia barely noticed it. Her eyes were fixed on Snow.
He looked terribly ill—pale, his movements unsteady as he made his way toward her. There was a sickly pallor to his skin, his steps uneven, yet his presence still commanded fear. Even in such a state, he exuded an authority that made the air grow heavy. In his hands, he held the golden crown of the victor, glinting like a symbol of everything she had lost.
"A crown to bear with pride," Zephyria had told her as Evelia's stylist were working on her. The Capitol's host, so glamorous and insistent, had delivered the words with a smile that barely concealed the venom beneath it.
But as Snow bent forward, his cold fingers brushing against her hair to place the crown upon her head, Evelia felt a wave of nausea crash over her. The weight of it settled like a stone in her stomach, and she suddenly wished she could tear it off, cast it aside, run far away from everything the crown represented.
Pride? There was no pride here. Only shame.
She was not the victor they wanted her to be. She was not the girl they celebrated. She was just a broken pawn in their game. A victor who hadn't truly won.
Snow extended his right hand toward her, the gesture seemingly polite, a signal for her to shake it.
Evelia stared at his hand for what felt like an eternity. Her gaze was unwavering, a silent defiance that simmered beneath the surface. Her hands were clasped behind her back, frozen in place, refusing to move, refusing to give him even the smallest semblance of respect.
She raised her eyes slowly, meeting the President's gaze. His sharp, calculating look bore into her, a glint of curiosity flickering in the cold depths of his eyes, as if he were waiting to see whether she would bow to his power.
But Evelia didn't flinch. With a slight shake of her head, she made her decision clear. She wouldn't touch his hand.
He may have controlled her every move in the arena, twisted her story, and crafted her image to fit his narrative. But here, in this moment, surrounded by thousands of watching eyes, he could not silence her.
The cameras zoomed in, capturing every second. The weight of their gaze pressed down on her, but Evelia stood her ground.
The Fifty-first victor of the Hunger Games, the Capitol's fallen angel, refused to shake President Snow's hand.
·✦·
Evelia couldn't sleep.
She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds as they stretched endlessly before her. The hours dragged on, sluggish and heavy, the silence of the Capitol suffocating. She didn't know how long she had been waiting. Waiting for the sun to rise, waiting to leave this cursed place and return to Four. But the night refused to end. Each second crawled by, slow and cruel.
By the time the clock hit three in the morning, she gave up.
Slipping out of bed, she pulled on a jacket and stepped toward the door. As she reached for the handle, her gaze flickered to the room across from hers. Empty.
It used to be Haldin's room.
Now, it was just another hollow space.
Because Haldin was dead.
Evelia's fingers clenched around the thin cord draped over a chair. The one made for her for training, light blue, marked with the number four.
She inhaled sharply, then turned the handle.
The door creaked open, and before she could take a step, two Peacekeepers snapped to attention, blocking her path. Their white uniforms gleamed under the dim hallway lights, their visors reflecting nothing but cold indifference.
"Go back to your room," one of them ordered, his voice mechanical, like some robot carefully crafted by the Capitol.
Evelia's jaw tightened. She had spent days trapped in the arena, forced to follow their rules, their script. And even now, they were still trying to cage her.
She forced herself to keep her voice even. "I need to take a walk."
The Peacekeepers didn't move. Their hands hovered a little too close to their weapons, their visors giving nothing away, but Evelia could feel their scrutiny. Measuring her. Calculating.
She clenched her jaw. "I've done everything the Capitol wanted. I smiled on stage. I played my part. And now, I just want to take a damn walk."
The Peacekeeper on the right exhaled, a short, barely audible sigh. "It's late. You're expected to stay in your room."
"I expect not to be treated like a prisoner."
Silence.
A thick, heavy pause stretched between them, filled only by the distant hum of the Capitol beyond the walls. Evelia's pulse pounded in her ears. She could feel the tension crackling in the air, like a match waiting to be struck.
Finally, the one on the left shifted his stance. "Fine," he said, reluctant. "You can go for a walk."
Evelia narrowed her eyes. That easy?
"But," the other one cut in, "we're coming with you. You don't go anywhere alone."
Of course. There was always a condition.
She exhaled slowly. It wasn't what she wanted, but it was something.
"Fine," she muttered, stepping past them.
Their boots echoed against the marble as they followed close behind.
Evelia stepped into the lift, pressing the button for the ground floor. The doors slid shut with a quiet hiss, sealing her in with the two Peacekeepers positioned stiffly behind her.
She exhaled sharply. "Can you at least give me some space?" she asked, not bothering to turn around. "I feel like I'm suffocating."
"No."
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. "What am I, a mother watching over her toddlers? I'm not going to run away. C'mon, give me a break."
The Peacekeepers remained silent. But when the lift doors slid open with a soft chime and Evelia stepped out, they didn't follow as closely.
Ten meters.
Not much, but enough.
Thank God.
Evelia walked slowly through the empty corridors, her footsteps barely making a sound against the polished floor. She tried to focus on the stillness, the dim glow of Capitol lights reflecting on the walls... Anything to drown out the images her mind kept replaying.
The gore. The screams. The moment she realised she had won.
She had been censored in the arena. Her speech was gone. The song from Twelve that her father had taught her had been erased. The melting snow, the quiet rebellion in every action she had taken had been wiped from existence.
But they couldn't erase this.
Everyone had seen it. The way she had kept her hands behind her back, the way she had refused to shake Snow's hand.
What would the Capitol say? That she had been too traumatised to remember basic manners? That she was so overwhelmed by shock she simply forgot? Of course, they would come up with some carefully crafted excuse, something palatable for the audience.
But Snow knew better.
What Evelia had thought was an act of defiance, something worthy—
Turned out to be reckless. A mistake.
Because the only person who truly understood what she had done... was him. Coriolanus Snow.
She had survived the Hunger Games.
But would she survive Snow's Games?
She hoped not.
She wanted to die.
Like she had let her friends die. Like she had let her father die.
But could Snow kill her as easily as he had killed her father? Wouldn't it raise suspicions? Two Vanes, both gone after daring to defy him?
People would talk. They would dig. They would search for answers.
And the Capitol despised unanswered questions.
Evelia didn't even realise where she was until she looked up.
The garden stretched around her, a hidden oasis within the cold, sterile walls of the Training Centre. Towering trees loomed overhead, their branches shifting ever so slightly in the night breeze, like silent watchers. White roses curled between them, eerily pristine despite the season. Of course, they were unnatural. Everything in the Capitol was.
Ahead, a pool glistened under the moonlight, its surface smooth as glass. Something deep inside her stirred at the sight. The pull of water. The call of home.
Her steps slowed as she reached the small wrought-iron gate. She hesitated, fingers curling around the latch before pushing it open. The quiet creak sent a shiver down her spine, but she ignored it, moving forward until she reached the water's edge.
She kicked off her shoes, toes curling against the cold stone. The urge to dip her feet in was almost unbearable. Just for a moment. Just to pretend, to feel something other than the Capitol's suffocating grip.
But then—
The flasbacks hit her.
The arena. The lake. The Megalodon.
A shadow, massive and merciless, surging from the depths. The crushing grip, the impossible strength dragging her down, down, down. Water filling her lungs. Haldin's screams, distorted and fading. The desperate lunge, the spear plunging into unyielding flesh, the thrashing, the blood—
Her stomach clenched.
The water wasn't home. Not anymore.
It was a grave.
Ignoring the tremor that wracked her entire body, Evelia slipped her shoes back on and stared at the water, her gaze hardening as if willing herself to control the storm inside. Even something as simple as the water, something that should have been a comfort, had been twisted by the Capitol, leaving scars too deep to forget.
She was from District Four. The ocean had been her life, its salt air, its waves, the rhythm of the tide lapping at the shore. She had swum in it every day, diving beneath the surface with a sense of freedom only the sea could offer. She had fished, felt the weight of the world drop into her hands with each catch.
But now...
What would she do when she went back home? Would she ever be able to step into the water again without seeing those haunting shadows lurking just beneath the surface? Without feeling the crushing weight of Haldin's body pressed against her, his breath frantic and desperate as she fought to drag him back to shore? Would the memory of his screams echo in her mind, the bloodcurdling sound, the final, dreadful second before the Megalodon's monstrous jaws closed in on them, pulling them into the abyss?
The gate creaked open again. Evelia clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to groan. She had asked the Peacekeepers to give her space. And for once, they had actually listened. So why were they back now?
What did they think she was going to do? Drown herself in the pool?
...Fair enough.
But she didn't have the energy for that tonight.
"I told you to leave me alone," she said flatly, eyes still closed.
A beat of silence. Then—
"Didn't realise I was interrupting."
Not a Peacekeeper.
Evelia's eyes snapped open.
It was Haymitch Abernathy. Last year's victor. What the hell was he doing here? Evelia's mind raced, trying to piece it together. She had heard the rumours, the whispers that he'd shut himself off from everyone. He wasn't talking to anyone anymore, rejecting every person who dared approach him, spitting at their attempts.
She could understand why. She had heard about the accident, the one that took his mother and little brother. She knew grief. She had known it too well. Even more now, after the Games. But why was he talking to her now? Was he going to lash out at her too?
Her gaze met his.
And somehow, instinctively, she knew.
No. He wouldn't.
He had kind eyes. Empty, sad—yes, but kind.
Something in those eyes told her all she needed to know. He wasn't here to unleash his rage, to tear her apart. He was just... here. Broken, yes. But still human.
"I thought you were a Peacekeeper," Evelia muttered, her eyes narrowing as Haymitch sank down on the edge of the pool, a few meters away from her.
He didn't respond immediately, instead lifting a bottle to his lips and taking a long sip, the alcohol burning its way down. He exhaled slowly, like the weight of the world was in every breath.
"Those two morons out there? They're here for you?" he asked.
Evelia nodded, the bitterness rising in her throat.
"Yup. Scared I'll run away, I guess. So they're following me."
She glanced back at the Peacekeepers standing guard a distance away, their eyes fixed on her, waiting for any sign of trouble. She had never felt so trapped.
Haymitch took another long sip from his bottle, his eyes darkening with each pull. When he finished, he set it down next to him with a soft thud. Then, without a word, he tilted his head back, his gaze rising to the sky. Evelia assumed he was staring at the stars, though she couldn't be sure. Why else would anyone bother with the heavens when they were surrounded by a world of concrete and cold?
It didn't matter.
At least he wasn't talking.
Evelia wasn't in the mood for a chat. Not with him, not with anyone.
The silence stretched, wrapping around them like the dark night itself had decided to settle in and take root.
Then, as if the moment had been stretched too thin, Haymitch broke it.
"You the new victor?"
Evelia's gaze flicked to him, brow furrowing in quiet confusion. Wasn't he supposed to be a mentor? Didn't he know who won and who lost? But then again, the bottle in his hand spoke volumes. The alcohol had probably blurred the line between memory and forgetfulness.
"Mhh," she grunted, a sound that could have been anything, but she didn't care to clarify.
"And what's your name?"
Her name. Why did he even want to know? Why ask something so trivial when there were far heavier questions hanging in the air? He could've asked about the arena, the bloodshed, the allies who betrayed, the mutts that haunted her every step. But he didn't.
Evelia didn't feel like answering. She turned her face away, lifting her chin to the vast expanse above them. The stars blinked cold and distant in the ink-black sky. Maybe her father was up there. Maybe Delta, Haldin, and Griffin were too. She felt the sharp sting of tears prickling the corners of her eyes.
Her father had once told her, before everything fell apart, before Panem swallowed their world whole, that there was something called Greek Mythology. In those old tales, sometimes the dead were turned into stars, their spirits immortalised in constellations. Each one a reminder of what they loved, what they fought for. Was that what her loved ones had become? Stars in the sky, forever out of reach?
"Don't feel like talking?" Haymitch's voice was low."Fair enough. I didn't want to talk to anyone after my Games either. Hell, I still don't."
Evelia stole a glance at him, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"Then why are you talking to me?" The question slipped out before she could stop it, a bitter edge to her words.
Haymitch shrugged, his movements slow and careless, as if he couldn't be bothered by anything.
"Felt like it. I don't know, mystery girl."
"'Mystery girl'?" she repeated, the words tasting odd on her tongue, as if they didn't quite belong in the same sentence.
Evelia was a lot of things, but a mystery wasn't one of them. She was an open book, every page laid bare for anyone who cared to read. It bothered her more than she'd ever admit. She had spent the entirety of her Games trying to keep herself shut off, her thoughts locked away. She'd hoped she succeeded. Hoped she managed to keep her true self hidden beneath the layers of survival and rage. But it was a hope she didn't dare voice.
"You won't tell me your name. But it's fine. Don't tell me. It's better if I don't know it."
Haymitch pushed himself to his feet without another word, grabbing his bottle with the kind of ease that only came from practice. He moved toward the gate, one hand reaching for the latch, but then he hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then, before Evelia could even question it, he turned back. Crossed the space between them in a few uneven steps, then awkwardly kneeled. His face was inches from hers, close enough that she could smell the alcohol on his breath, see the sharp glint in his tired eyes.
"Whatever they ask you to do, do not agree," he whispered. "Under any circumstances."
Evelia stiffened. "What? Ask me what?"
"Anything. Anything that means staying here. Or coming back to the Capitol if it isn't during the Games. No matter what arguments they throw at you, you cannot accept."
She let out a hollow laugh. "They're making it pretty clear there's no room for arguments."
A flicker of something crossed his face. Pain, maybe. Or something heavier.
"Sing them the song you sang under that tree," he murmured. "And they'll let you choose."
And just like that, he was gone. The gate clicked open, then shut, leaving Evelia alone beneath the cold, quiet sky.
She sat there, still as stone, the weight of his words pressing down on her. Then it hit her.
Haymitch had heard her sing. The song her father had taught her.
She hadn't been as censored in the arena as she'd thought.
The realisation slotted into place like the final piece of a puzzle. Haymitch hadn't just been rambling. He was warning her. Telling her not to fall into the Capitol's trap. Showing her how to fight without lifting a weapon.
He was trying to save her.
And he didn't even want to know her name.