Chapter Text
Light pours in through the large, gray-sealed window of my training room dorm.
In District Two, every self-respecting child enrolls in the Academy to train for the day every single child in Panem waits for: Reaping Day.
Of course I’ll be volunteering this year.
Freshly eighteen and the pride of my district.
I throw my legs over the side of my black bed frame, messily covered by a gray patterned duvet. My feet land heavy on the cold tile floor as I cross to the mirror-lined wall of the adjoining dorm bathroom. The early light bounces off the steel fixtures and glass edges, casting sharp shadows.
I take in the usual: blond hair that refuses to stay down no matter how many times someone tries to fix it. Arms, toned, defined, exactly how I’ve trained them to be, stretching the seams of my dark gray Academy t-shirt. My eyes are a little dark around the edges. I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. I was too wired, too ready, too focused on what’s coming.
Too eager to face all of Panem as their next victor.
I grin at my reflection, crooked, wicked, confident.
“I volunteer as tribute.”
The words come out smooth, easy. I brace my hands on the edge of the cold stainless steel sink, lean in, and say it again—this time deeper, firmer, as if it’s already being broadcast across the Capitol.
“I volunteer for this honor.”
I don’t break eye contact with myself. Not once.
But then I glance past the mirror, to the corner of the room where my reaping suit waits on its hanger. Simple. Pressed. Expensive. Designed to look effortless.
I don’t go to it. Not yet. Instead, I strip down and step into the monochrome glass shower, tossing one last glance to my reflection.
“It has to be today,” I whisper, almost like a prayer.
Then I switch on the water.
It slams into my back; hot, clean, relentless. The steam builds fast, swallowing the walls, smothering the glass. I close my eyes and let the heat draw red tracks across my skin.
The mirror behind me fogs over completely, erasing my reflection.
Good. That version of me, the smirking, polished, camera-ready victor-in-waiting, that’s for them.
For the Capitol.
For the stage.
Not here.
Not now.
I press my forehead to the chill of the tile. A fleeting moment of cold in an otherwise boiling room.
And I remember the moment it all shifted. The moment the Academy Director looked me in the eyes and said,
“You were made for this.”
But I wasn’t made.
I built myself for this. From blood, sweat, and bruises. From every cracked rib, every shattered knuckle, every broken, bloody nose. From every hour in the training room, every fight I won. From every sleepless night spent imagining how I’d win, how I’d make them remember me.
I built myself for this.
“Victory or nothing,” I whisper, low and steady. The steam drowns the sound before it can echo back at me.
I stay there until the water turns lukewarm, then cold. Until my muscles ache, not from pain, but from stillness. Then I shut it off. I dry off with a towel too large and far too expensive, wiping down the fogged mirror last. My reflection waits on the other side, just as sharp as it was this morning, but now colder. Calmer.
Ready.
I glance once more at the boy in the mirror. Bold, precise, a victor.
This is what they want.
I nod to myself. Just once.