Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

For six months, Evelia couldn't sleep.

Every time her eyelids fluttered shut, the ghosts emerged. Pouring in from the shadows, their whispers turning into a storm of accusations. They surrounded her, their faces twisted in fury, eyes burning with betrayal.

She told herself they weren't real. That they were just figments of her traumatised mind. But no matter how hard she tried to shut them out, they lingered. Haunting her. Because they weren't just around her.

They were inside her.

No matter how far Evelia ran, no matter how deeply she buried herself in the crowds, the ghosts would follow. They were a relentless tide, a constant weight on her chest, pressing down until her last breath.

Even when her eyes stayed open, they never truly left her. Visions would strike without warning, tormenting her mind. Most nights, it was the redhead from District Two, her figure walking toward Evelia with an eerie calm before the gruesome scene unfolded, her body torn in two by an invisible force.

And then there was the ocean.

Every time she neared its shores, a shadow would rise from the depths. A monstrous, lurking presence that belonged to the Megalodon, its massive form threatening to swallow everything whole. Once, in September, Evelia had seen it so clearly, so vividly, that she screamed at the others to get out of the water.

They laughed, knowing it was just another one of her hallucinations. No shark. Only harmless fish.

It took six hours, locked in her own trembling hands, to regain even a semblance of control. Six hours to force her breath into something resembling normal, to claw her way back from the edge.

For those six hours, Evelia had been alone. She no longer lived with her mother. Not after the betrayal. The pain of that abandonment still festered. Instead, she had taken refuge in the victors' village, away from the echoes of her past. But they never truly left her.

Mags was a constant presence, visiting when she could, bringing food, offering her steadying hands for chores. She'd even drag Evelia out sometimes, but it never really mattered.

Evelia still spent most of her days in bed. Panic attacks tore through her at random, leaving her breathless and shaking. By the time night fell, she was drifting into the nightmare-filled sleep that never seemed to end.

It was a relentless loop.

She was trapped in it. Trapped in a life she couldn't escape. Evelia had come to accept it. It would never change. This was her life now. Until the day she died.

February arrived too soon.

The Victory Tour.

Evelia couldn't wrap her mind around it. Had it really been six months? Six months of isolation, of barely speaking to another soul? One on the only exceptions was Mags. Mags, who couldn't even answer her with words.

Her old mentor had returned from the Quarter Quell... different. Not just changed. Transformed. The weight of something she couldn't seem to talk about (literally) clung to her like a shadow. She was thinner, paler. Her hair, once completely brown, was now threaded with grey streaks. And she didn't speak. Not a single word.

The Peacekeepers had been quick to offer an explanation. Trauma, they said. The burden of mentoring four tributes, only to watch three of them die. The survivor drowning himself in liquor.

Evelia didn't buy it.

Mags had been mentoring for years. She had played the Games four decades ago. If trauma had silenced her, it would have happened long before now.

No, this was something else.

Something had happened to her in the Capitol. And Evelia needed to know what.

Of course, Mollie visited often. She was seventeen, still in school, so most of her visits were on weekends. She'd sit with Evelia and talk. About District Four, about their old friends, about who was dating who. Small things, insignificant things. But Evelia knew what she was doing.

She was trying to remind her that life hadn't stopped. That the world outside her door was still turning. That something—anything—was waiting for her, if she'd just step outside.

Then came the knocking.

Evelia ignored it. She didn't want to wake up. Didn't want to move. She wanted to stay in bed, sink into the sheets, and never surface.

But the knocking grew louder. More insistent. More aggressive. Her patience snapped. With a groan, she forced herself to get up, dragging her feet across the wooden floor.

She passed a mirror, and froze.

A ghost stared back at her.

Her pyjamas were filthy. How long had she been wearing them? How long since they'd last seen water? She had no idea.

Her long blonde hair was a tangled mess, as if a hurricane had torn through it and left nothing but knots in its wake. Her skin—pale, sickly pale, despite the endless sun of District Four—clung too tightly to her bones. Her cheeks were hollowed, her eyes sunken.

She looked dead.

God. Her stylist was going to kill her.

"Finally!" Zephyria Bloom exclaimed the moment the door swung open.

Before Evelia could react, her stylist breezed inside, her presence as overwhelming as ever. Behind her, the prep team flooded in, chattering excitedly, their arms full of supplies. And then—Mags.

The older woman smiled softly as she stepped inside, but Evelia didn't miss the way her eyes lingered on her. The way she looked at her. Like she was trying, desperately, to hide the worry tightening her face.

Evelia swallowed. "Hi, Mags."

Mags raised a hand in greeting, her silence louder than words.

"Evelia, darling," Zephyria said, settling onto the couch with a dramatic sigh once everyone had gathered in the living room. "What happened to you?"

Evelia's face burned as she dropped her gaze to the carpet.

"Partied hard yesterday," she muttered.

A lie. A weak one. But it was better than the truth.

Zephyria let out a delighted laugh, clapping her hands together. "Now that's the spirit every victor should have! Enjoy life! No need to be embarrassed, my dear."

Before Evelia could reply, Zephyria stood, all business now. "Come on, let's get you ready for the interview. It's in two hours."

Evelia barely had time to register Zephyria's words before the prep team descended on her like a swarm of well-dressed wasps. Hands closed around her wrists, tugging her forward with the kind of efficiency that left no room for resistance. She stumbled down the hall, blinking at the blur of motion until the scent of jasmine and rosewater hit her.

The bath. It was always the bath first. She remembered that much from Mag's explanations, carefully written down on a piece of paper she gave her a few days ago.

Steam curled in delicate tendrils above the water, perfumed oils swirling like liquid gold, rose petals floating on the surface as if she were being prepared for some ancient ritual. Before she could protest, her filthy pyjamas were stripped away, and she was shoved into the heat. It bit at her skin, burning at first, then melting into something almost soothing. She might have enjoyed it if not for the scrubbing.

They attacked her with sharp nails and rough sponges, their hands a blur of motion as if trying to erase the months she had spent wasting away. Evelia gritted her teeth, wincing as they yanked through the knots in her hair with merciless precision, each pull sending a sharp sting across her scalp. By the time they were finished, her skin was raw, flushed pink from the relentless cleansing. She smelled like salt and jasmine, her hair gleaming under the bright bathroom lights.

Zephyria circled her like an artist contemplating a blank canvas, tapping a manicured finger against her lips. "Tch. The damage." A snap of her fingers sent the team into action.

Scissors whispered through Evelia's tangled hair, trimming with meticulous care until golden waves cascaded down her back in effortless perfection. They wove delicate pearls into thin braids, twisting them like silver-threaded constellations against the blonde. Heat curled the ends into soft spirals, bouncing with every movement.

Next came the makeup.

Evelia sat stiffly as powders and creams were dusted across her face, smoothing away the hollowness beneath her eyes, warming the pallor of her skin. Soft gold shimmered on her eyelids, catching the light when she blinked. A stroke of bronzer carved out sharp cheekbones, and a warm coral stain brushed over her lips, like she had woken up looking this perfect. Like she hadn't spent six months drowning in grief and depression.

Then came the dress.

Zephyria lifted it like it was something sacred, the silk rippling like water between her fingers. Seafoam green, embroidered with delicate silver threads that traced waves across the bodice. The skirt flowed in airy, weightless layers, shimmering like sunlight on the ocean. Evelia swallowed hard. It was the kind of dress a victor would wear.

She let them slip it over her head, let them lace the back until it fit like it was made for her. In the mirror, the transformation was complete.

Gone was the girl in dirty pyjamas. Gone was the shadow of a tribute who had survived by sheer instinct and luck.

In her place stood the victor of the 51st Hunger Games.

"Perfect," Zephyria purred, stepping back to admire her creation. "Absolutely perfect."

Evelia clenched her fists.

If only she felt that way.

Zephyria's gaze flickered across the living room, assessing, calculating. Her eyes landed on the white coffee table in front of the couch, lingering on the vase perched at its centre. The blue lilies inside had begun to wither, their petals curling at the edges, their colour fading into something muted, almost ghostly.

"Cute flowers," she remarked, her tone light. "We don't have lilies in the Capitol."

"Really?" Evelia forced herself to say, the word slipping out more from habit than any real curiosity. She didn't care what flowers grew in the Capitol.

If anything, she was glad they didn't have lilies.

Lilies stood for purity. For grace. For things the Capitol could never claim to possess.

"Oh, by the way," Zephyria drawled. "There's some brunette outside demanding to see you. Absolutely insufferable, if you ask me. You really ought to make better choices when it comes to friends."

Mollie.

Evelia's head snapped up, her glare locking onto Zephyria with razor-sharp focus. Her jaw tightened.

"What did you say to her?"

Zephyria gave a languid shrug, as if the whole thing was beneath her. "That you were busy. That she could come back after the interview." She sighed, pressing a hand dramatically to her chest like she'd suffered a mortal wound. "And in response, she told me to—oh, what were the words?—'fuck off' and then spat in my face."

A laugh bubbled in Evelia's throat, but she swallowed it down, barely managing to keep her expression neutral. God, she loved Mollie.

"Let her in," she said, voice firm. "I need her here."

Zephyria scowled. "She's dangerous."

"Dangerous, how?" Evelia shot back. "Because she spat on you? You should be grateful she didn't say more."

"She told me to fuck off!"

"Exactly."

Zephyria shot Evelia a withering glare before turning to the prep team, clearly expecting backup. But the three of them suddenly found the floor, the window, and the couch fascinating, avoiding her gaze with a kind of synchronized awkwardness that would've been funny if the tension weren't so thick.

Zephyria's last hope landed on Mags, her expression tight with expectation. But Mags only shrugged, then tilted her chin toward the door—a silent message that was impossible to misinterpret. Let her in.

Something softened in Evelia's chest, a quiet warmth spreading through her ribs. She shot Mags a small smile.

Zephyria let out an exasperated sigh, throwing her hands in the air.

"Fine!" she huffed. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

Evelia barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes as Zephyria stormed off, heels stabbing against the floor with each indignant step. A second later, the door swung open with a sharp creak, and there she was.

Mollie stepped inside like she owned the place, her long brown hair clinging to her face, her scowl as fierce as ever. Her sharp gaze flicked over Zephyria like she was sizing up something unimpressive.

"Still here?" she muttered.

Zephyria straightened, lifting her chin. "Obviously. Evelia is under my watch, young lady!"

Mollie scoffed. "It was a rhetorical question."

Zephyria blinked. "Oh."

Mollie shot Zephyria one last scornful glance before turning to Evelia, her expression softening. Just a little. She studied her for a moment, then smirked.

"Nice dress, Vane."

Evelia's smile came without thought, without effort. The same words. The same tone. Just like prom night, two months before her Games. The memory slipped through the cracks of her mind, unearthing itself from whatever locked drawer she'd shoved it into. The music. The laughter. The way Mollie had said it then, with a teasing lilt, not this faint trace of something heavier.

For a fleeting second, something almost like peace settled over her.

Mollie's grip was firm but gentle as she wrapped her fingers around Evelia's wrist, steering her toward the kitchen without a word. Once inside, she moved with practiced ease, pulling out mugs and setting up two coffees like she'd done it a thousand times before.

"If your team wants some, they can choke on it," Mollie muttered, her voice sharp as the snap of a whip. She scoffed under her breath. "Psychos."

Evelia exhaled slowly. "They didn't do anything, you know. If anything, it's thanks to them I'm still alive."

Mollie stilled for half a second, then glanced over her shoulder, her eyes unreadable. "They're not the ones who survived the arena."

"No," Evelia admitted. "They're not. But they're the ones who made me look like a fallen angel instead of a crazed rebel."

Mollie pressed her lips together, biting the inside of her cheek as she set the water on the stove, the blue flame flickering to life beneath it. For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft click of the burner and the distant murmur of voices from the next room.

Then, slowly, she leaned against the counter, arms crossed, her gaze locking onto Evelia's like a steel trap.

"But that's not what you wanted, Eve," she said quietly.

Evelia's eyes flickered to the floor, then away, as if the weight of the words was too much to hold. Of course it wasn't what she wanted. What she wanted was to die in that damn arena. To be a symbol. A martyr. Something that would shake the Capitol's grip on Panem, ignite something raw and unrelenting in the hearts of the districts. To make them feel the injustice, the chains tightening around their throats.

But she hadn't died.

She had survived.

She had failed.

The quiet rage curled beneath her ribs, sharp and smothering all at once. Who did she think she was? A girl from District Four, raised on salt air and false promises. What chance had she ever had of changing anything? How could she, a single fracture in a shattered system, ever hope to make a difference?

"Well, it's not," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "But it's fine."

Mollie moved then, walking across the small kitchen with a careful deliberation. And without a word, she kneeled in front of Evelia, her fingers gently closing around Evelia's hands, grounding her.

"Evelia," Mollie's voice was as steady as the tide. "Just because your plan didn't work in the arena doesn't mean it's over."

The words landed like a blow before Evelia even had time to brace for it. A sharp sting. The burn of tears welling up, blurring the world at its edges. She hadn't cried in... how long? It felt like an ability she'd lost, drained dry in those first few months after the Games. Or maybe it was just weakness. Maybe she was weak, sobbing into her pillow for six months straight, waiting for the emptiness to consume her whole.

She thought she'd run out of tears. That there was nothing left inside her to spill.

And yet, here they were, slipping hot and fast down her cheeks, carving silent paths through the carefully painted mask of her makeup. She wasn't supposed to cry.

But she couldn't stop.

"Sorry," she muttered, swiping at her face with the back of her hand, as if that would somehow erase the evidence.

Mollie didn't say anything. Just squeezed Evelia's hand, firm and steady, like an anchor keeping her from drifting too far into the storm.

"I can't make my plan work when Snow has his claws around my neck, Mollie," Evelia said at last, her voice thick with frustration. "More precisely, around your neck. Or Mags'. He knows I don't care about dying—"

"Don't say that." Mollie's grip tightened.

Evelia exhaled sharply. "Sorry... Anyway, he knows the only way to control me is to threaten the people I love. Maybe he'll go after my mum, but I doubt it. He knows we hate each other."

Mollie hesitated. "Have you two talked since Haldin's funeral?"

Evelia shook her head.

After Haldin's funeral, there had been a small gathering in the old graveyard building—what had once been a church, before the war left it nothing but crumbling stone and forgotten prayers. Her mother had tried to speak to her. Had tried to apologise.

Evelia hadn't wanted to hear it.

Because if she had been reaped, it was because of her.

Her mother had taken out tesserae in Evelia's name every month for a year. Not for herself, not even for Evelia, but for an old friend from Eleven. A runaway. A man hidden away in their garden's cabin, surviving on the grain and oil that Evelia had unknowingly paid for, with the odds in the reaping bowl stacking higher and higher against her.

And the worst part? Evelia agreed with the choice. She would have helped. If her mother had asked, she would have said yes. But she hadn't been given a choice. Her mother had done it all behind her back, knowing full well what it meant. Every tessera, every extra slip of paper with Evelia's name, had tilted the scales against her.

And in the end, it had been her name they called.

But the betrayal had started long before that.

Ever since the Peacekeepers had dragged her father away when she was four—after he dared to swap the names in the reaping bowls for Snow's—her mother had barely looked at her. Maybe because Evelia reminded her too much of him. The man she had loved. The man who had been taken for his defiance.

For thirteen years, Evelia had clung to the hope that he had escaped. That he had outwitted the Capitol, run beyond Panem's borders, found some quiet place where Snow's cruelty couldn't reach him. That maybe he was alive.

But no.

The day before her Games began, Snow himself had shattered that last fragile illusion. He had confirmed what she had spent years refusing to believe. Her father was dead. Had been dead for a long time.

And then, with a smile like frost creeping over a grave, he had promised her the same fate.

So, no. She hadn't spoken to her mother since the funeral.

"Nah. I don't want to speak to her ever again."

"She tried to get news about you through my parents, you know," Mollie said.

Evelia's gaze snapped up, surprised.

"Really? And what have they told her?"

"Nothing. That it's not their place to give her updates about her own daughter."

A breath left Evelia's lungs, and a bitter smile ghosted over her lips.

Figures. Her mother had never fought for her when it mattered. Why should she start now?

And honestly, it was easier this way. Evelia had enough battles to fight. Her mother would only make it worse, dragging up wounds that had barely begun to scab over, forcing her to face things she had long since buried. She wasn't sure she had the strength for that.

Not when every day already felt like a war she was losing.

"Evelia, darling, it's time."

Zephyria's voice was as smooth as polished glass, slipping into the kitchen as she pushed open the door. The words slithered through the air, soft and unyielding. "The interview starts in three minutes."

Mollie exhaled sharply, her fingers uncoiling from Evelia's hands as if releasing something fragile, something that might shatter under the wrong pressure. Evelia forced herself to stand, limbs stiff, her body lagging behind her mind as though the two were locked in a silent disagreement.

The kettle on the gas stove let out a low, bubbling hiss.

"Coffee's ready," Mollie muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

Zephyria didn't so much as flick an eye toward it. "You'll drink it after," she said, brisk and efficient, before reaching out with perfectly manicured fingers to clasp Evelia's arm. The grip was firm but careful, like guiding something delicate, something that couldn't afford to break. ?Not yet. Evelia let herself be led, barely registering the movement as the door shut behind her, sealing her fate with a quiet finality.

The prep team was waiting.

They descended on her in a blur of movement, cooing disapproval at the smudges marring her makeup, dabbing away at the telltale streaks where tears had ruined their illusion of perfection. Powder brushes, sponges, quick, practised hands, each stroke erasing the evidence of weakness, of humanity.

Evelia felt like a doll.

"There." One of them stepped back, nodding in satisfaction. "Perfect again."

Zephyria's reflection appeared beside hers in the mirror. Cool elegance, effortless Capitol poise. A hand landed lightly on Evelia's shoulder, the touch deceptively soft. "Now, darling," she murmured, her voice honey-smooth, coaxing. "Just be yourself. Stay calm, stay poised."

A pause. A shift in her expression, something sharper lurking beneath the sugar-coated words. "And for the love of all things holy, do not say anything... reckless."

Evelia forced a nod. It was easier than arguing.

Zephyria's smile curled, satisfied, as she took Evelia's hand and guided her toward the door. A deep breath. A single step forward.

The anthem of Panem swelled to life.

The moment Evelia stepped outside, the cameras locked onto her. Hungry. Unforgiving. The weight of a thousand eyes pressed against her skin, dissecting, analysing, waiting for a slip, a crack in the mask.

Breathe. Step forward. Smile.

Her movements felt rehearsed, mechanical, like a marionette on invisible strings, each tug dictating her next motion. Her pulse thrummed against her ribs, frantic beneath the blaring anthem. The lights burned too bright. The cameras pressed too close. And beyond them, lurking unseen, President Snow was watching.

Waiting.

Zephyria's voice ghosted through her mind. Stay calm. Don't say anything reckless. But the words she truly wanted to say, the ones clawing at her throat like a caged animal, were the very ones she couldn't afford to let slip.

So she focused on the weight of her mask. The suffocating yet necessary shield. You've done this before. You'll do it again. Smile, nod, lie.

A flicker of light. The hologram of Caesar Flickerman's grinning face materialised in the centre of the street, his slicked-back hair now a striking shade of violet. His applause rang out, crisp and calculated.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Evelia Vane!"

Evelia smiled, feeling the telltale burn creeping up her cheeks. Not from excitement. Not from embarrassment.

From grief.

But on the screen, she probably looked thrilled.

Good. Maybe it would satisfy Snow.

Caesar's smile was as bright as the stage lights, his polished teeth glinting under their glow. "Evelia, my dear, it's wonderful to see you again. How are you feeling today?"

A harmless question. A script she knew by heart. Flash the perfect smile. Answer with poise. Let them see what they wanted to see. But her throat tightened, her mind a storm of all the things she wasn't allowed to say.

"I'm glad to see you, Caesar," she lied, her voice smooth, effortless.

He grinned, delighted. "Ah, that's our fallen angel! Gaining her wings back, I see. You look marvellous, my sweet. How's the victor life treating you?"

Like hell.

The words almost slipped out, sharp and bitter on her tongue. Six months ago, she might have said them. But she wasn't that girl anymore. That girl had been burned away, piece by piece, until all that remained was this. The Capitol's creation.

She forced a laugh, light and airy, the sound scraping against her ribs. "Great!" she chirped, layering on just the right amount of giddy enthusiasm. "The new house is lovely, the food is amazing, and there's even a private beach! Everything a girl could dream of!"

Caesar beamed, pleased. And Evelia swallowed the urge to scream.

Caesar's eyes twinkled with mischievous curiosity. "What about your friend? Mollie, right? How is she handling being best friends with a Victor?"

Evelia's stomach dropped, a cold weight sinking in her chest. She forced her face to remain as neutral as stone, but inside, her heart was hammering, every beat loud enough to drown out the carefully orchestrated chaos of the interview.

How did he know about Mollie?

She had never mentioned her. Not once. Not in any of the interviews or the endless rounds of Capitol-approved appearances. She'd kept Mollie safe by keeping her hidden, ensuring that the Capitol's sharp eyes never fell on her friend. The last thing Evelia wanted was for Snow to make an example of Mollie, something to remind Evelia who held the real power.

But somehow, Snow had found out.

Of course he had.

He was the President. The man had spies in every shadow, listening through every crack. He knew everything, even the things Evelia thought she could control.

She forced a smile, its edges sharp and deliberate, as she struggled to keep her voice steady. "Mollie's doing great. She truly is the strongest girl I've ever met."

Evelia's words lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. In that simple sentence, she wove a message as sharp as any weapon: Do not mess with Mollie.

She hoped Snow would hear it, would understand the subtle threat wrapped in her praise. She wasn't just talking about strength in character. She was making it clear. Mollie was untouchable. Not without consequence.

"You seem to care a lot about her," Caesar mused, his tone light, yet probing.

The questions kept coming, relentless, each one a subtle twist of the knife. Evelia couldn't disagree, not without exposing herself. Caesar had already labeled Mollie as her best friend, and Evelia hadn't corrected him. And now, to say she didn't care much about Mollie would be too risky. Disagreement would raise suspicions, particularly in Snow's calculating mind. It would confirm exactly what he thought: that she cared too much for Mollie. That she was the perfect weapon to use against Evelia.

And in that moment, Evelia knew she was trapped.

"I... I mean, yes, she's my friend."

Caesar's smile widened, his eyes glinting with knowing amusement. "Best friend, right?"

Evelia's throat tightened. The air seemed to thicken around her, the weight of her words pressing down like a hundred-pound stone.

"... Yes."

"Friends are important for a Victor," Caesar continued, his voice smooth and unbothered. "They help them recover from all the emotions created by the arena, and..."

"You mean the traumas?" Evelia interrupted, her voice sharper than she intended.

The words slipped out before she could reel them back in, and as soon as they were said, she regretted them. She'd had one simple rule: Stay calm. Don't say anything reckless.

And she hadn't.

"Erm... yes, I guess you could put it that way for some!" Caesar replied with a smile, unphased. "But what I really wanted to ask was, is Mollie an anchor for you? Helping you out, making you feel worthy?"

The question hung in the air like a challenge, Caesar's eyes sharp and calculating, waiting for her response.

Evelia's pulse quickened, a wave of heat flooding her chest. The word "anchor" felt like a weight crushing down on her, the urge to push back rising like a tide. But she couldn't. Not now. Not here.

She was trapped, her every word another thread drawn tighter, an invisible force pulling her in every direction. She forced herself to meet Caesar's gaze, her mind scrambling to find the words that wouldn't give her away, that wouldn't betray the truth she had to bury deep.

"Mollie's... important," she said, her voice tight, but steady. "She's been there for me. Like a good friend should."

The words felt like sand slipping through her fingers, hollow and empty, meant for someone who wasn't her. Mollie wasn't just a good friend. She was the one tethering Evelia to the world, to any shred of humanity left in her. But she couldn't say that. Not in front of Caesar, not with the cameras watching, recording everything.

Caesar's eyes narrowed, a fraction of an inch, as if he were trying to unravel her, piece by piece.

"And do you think that's enough?" he asked, slow and deliberate, the casualness of his tone belying the weight of his words. "Is Mollie enough to hold you together when the Capitol has so many ways of... breaking you apart?"

Evelia's throat tightened, every word hitting her like ice. The question was a cruel reminder of the trap she was in, of how small her world had become. She wanted to scream, to tell him how little he understood. How little the Capitol understood. But she didn't.

Instead, she smiled, a practiced, perfect curve of her lips that never touched her eyes.

"The Capitol isn't breaking me apart. It's good to me. Gave me a house, food... made me feel valued throughout the Games..." She could taste the lie, bitter and burning in her throat. "I'm doing good."

The words felt like a betrayal to everything she knew. But it was the only way to keep Mollie safe.

Caesar's smile wavered for the briefest of moments, his eyes flickering over her face with the precision of someone searching for a crack in a facade. The mask she wore, finely crafted and immovable, threatened to betray her for a fraction of a second. But he didn't push, probably sensing that whatever game he played, he'd reached the edge for now.

"That's the spirit," he said, his tone smooth and falsely reassuring, as though they were old friends chatting over tea. "The Capitol always looks after its Victors. You'll be fine."

Evelia's throat tightened, the taste of his words sour against her tongue. Fine. As if a life like hers, now a trophy for their entertainment, could ever be anything close to fine.

"Now, enough about Mollie," Caesar continued, shifting in his seat. He leaned forward, his hands folding with practiced ease. "Let's talk about you. You've basked in luxury for months now, Evelia. But what comes next? What does the future hold for our newest star?"

The question was rehearsed, a performance he had surely delivered a thousand times. But to Evelia, it was a calculated maneuver, a subtle push towards the future they had planned for her. A future that wasn't hers to choose.

She swallowed hard, forcing her face to remain impassive. "I'm not entirely sure," she replied, her voice carefully measured, though the tension coiled in her chest threatened to unravel her calm. "For now, I'm just... adjusting. It's a lot to take in."

Caesar's smile crept back, wider now, as if his approval could be measured in how much he could stretch the corners of his lips. "Oh, I'm sure it is. The transition from the arena to luxury must be overwhelming. But we know you're strong, Evelia. You'll adapt."

The weight of his words crushed down on her, suffocating in their false comfort. It felt like the entire Capitol was watching, waiting for her to flinch, for the walls to break. But she didn't. She couldn't. Not here. Not now.

"Thank you," she said, her voice light, floating above the growing storm within her. The words came too easily, too rehearsed. "I'm sure I will."

Caesar leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, the gleam in his eyes sharpening as he searched for something more. His gaze was hungry, like a predator eyeing a weakened prey, yet his smile remained fixed. "And one last thing, Evelia. We've seen your strength in the arena. We've witnessed your bravery. But tell me... what about your heart? Your true feelings, darling. What do you feel for the Capitol? For the people who watched you fight?"

Evelia's pulse stuttered. The question was a trap, slick and insidious, designed to draw out a truth she would never speak. She forced her mouth to work, the words tasting like ash and smoke. "I feel... grateful," she lied, the syrupy sweetness of the words sticking to her teeth. "The Capitol gave me a second chance. A future."

Caesar's eyes sparkled with satisfaction, his lips curving into a smile that spoke of victory, of something won. He leaned forward again, elbows resting on the armrests, the final piece of the interview falling into place. "And we're so pleased to have you, Evelia. The Capitol's new shining star. We all look forward to seeing what's next for you."

Evelia rose from her seat, her legs unsteady beneath her, but she forced herself to stand tall, every inch of her poised and controlled. The spotlight swallowed her, the bright, unblinking eyes of the Capitol citizens fixed on her every move, every breath.

"Thank you, Caesar," she said softly, her voice hollow in the echo of the stage, offering a smile that never quite reached her eyes.

·✦·

The train rumbled steadily on its tracks, its destination set for District Twelve. The first stop on the Victory Tour. Evelia's heart beat with an anxious anticipation. She'd never set foot in Twelve before, but she knew the district's shadows well. Her father had spent a month there for work, coming back with a mockingjay pin that he'd received from a little blonde girl who had given it to him with a bitterness she couldn't quite understand. The girl had explained she hated the pin, but still handed it over like a token of something deeper. Then there was Flint Cartwright, the boy tribute from Twelve in Evelia's Games. Only thirteen, but someone she'd grown strangely attached to. He had told her stories about the Hob, the hanging tree, and the cold, oppressive silence of the Seam.

Now, with the train nearing its arrival, Evelia couldn't shake the strange feeling that churned in her chest. In just a few hours, she'd be walking through the same dust-choked streets he had described.

The journey to District Twelve stretched over two long days, the distance between Four and the east side of Panem feeling endless. Evelia spent the entire time shut away in her train car, deliberately keeping to herself, trying with every ounce of strength to suppress the rising tide of emotions. Panic was a luxury she couldn't afford now. So, when Zephyria handed her a cigarette, Evelia took it without a second thought, lighting it as soon as the familiar, sharp scent filled the air. Each drag brought a slight, if fleeting, sense of calm. She could understand now why Haymitch had fallen into his own dangerous habit. The smoke seemed to dull the edges of her anxiety, just as alcohol had numbed his pain.

Haymitch.

The name echoed in her mind, and it hit her all at once. She was going to see him in Twelve.

It was a realisation that sent a strange ripple through her. She hadn't spoken to him since that brief, hurried conversation by the pool in the Capitol, where he'd warned her with such urgency.

"Whatever they ask you to do, do not agree. Under any circumstances," he'd whispered, his voice low, almost frantic. They. Who had he meant? The Gamemakers? The Judges? Her prep team? Or was it Snow, always lurking in the background?

Nothing had happened after that. No one had asked her for anything. She had returned to Four the next morning in silence, too tired to question the weight of his words. And then, as time went on, she had let herself slip into the misery of her new life, letting it swallow her whole. But the nagging feeling of his warning was still there, buried in the back of her mind, waiting for something she couldn't yet see.

A series of sharp knocks, three quick raps, pulled Evelia from the haze of her thoughts, yanking her back to the present.​

"Yes?" she responded, her voice hoarse, the dryness lingering from two days of silence. She cleared her throat, but it didn't help much. She hadn't spoken a word in what felt like forever.​

Mags stepped into the room with a quiet grace, her presence a soothing balm to the tight tension coiled in Evelia's chest. The older woman's eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled gently, her gaze warm as she nodded toward the window.​

Evelia followed her gaze.​

Beyond the glass, the gray expanse of District Twelve unfolded, a tapestry of rolling hills and the faint, distant smog of the Seam. They had arrived.​

"You must be glad to be here," Evelia murmured, her voice soft as she glanced at Mags. "You'll see Haymitch again."​

Mags' smile deepened, radiating a warmth born of deep sincerity. It was the kind of smile that spoke of shared hardships and the quiet joy found in reunions. She nodded, the smile lingering as she sank into the chair beside Evelia's bed.​

Evelia's eyes drifted restlessly around the room. There was so much she wanted to say, so many questions pressing against her tongue, but an invisible barrier held her words captive. Haymitch's warning echoed in her mind, the weight of his words a constant pressure against her chest. She had no doubt that hidden microphones lurked within the walls, listening to every syllable.​

A quiet sigh escaped her lips. She would have to wait until they were in Twelve. Only then could she speak freely, could she finally tell Mags what Haymitch had warned her about six months ago. The thought churned her stomach with unease.​

The silence between them stretched, comfortable yet heavy, until the train suddenly lurched, grinding to an abrupt halt. The jolt threw Evelia forward, and she braced herself against the seat, her pulse quickening.​

Moments later, a sharp knock sounded at the door.​

Evelia's stomach tightened. The unmistakable sound of boots on metal followed as the door creaked open, revealing a Peacekeeper, his face grim beneath his helmet.​

"There's been an issue with the rails," he announced, his voice clipped and businesslike. "You'll have to continue on foot. The train station isn't far. We'll ensure the path is clear, and two of us will accompany you."​

Mags nodded without hesitation, her expression unreadable, though Evelia noted the subtle shift in her posture—a faint sign of concern. She then turned to Evelia, extending her hand. Evelia hesitated for a moment before accepting it, allowing Mags to help her stand.​

"Thank you," Evelia murmured.​

Mags gave Evelia's hand a reassuring squeeze before letting go, her presence a steady anchor amid the unfolding uncertainty. They moved toward the main train car, the heavy silence between them broken only by the rhythmic clanking of the train's slowing pace. As they stepped into the bustling compartment, the sharp tones of Zephyria's voice cut through the air, raised in mild protest.

"Walking? Seriously? I can't believe they're making us walk the rest of the way," Zephyria huffed, tossing her glossy hair over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing as she glared out the window. A faint trace of annoyance crept across her usually composed features, her elegance slipping ever so briefly.

Evelia, however, barely registered the words. She nodded absently, too lost in the churn of her own thoughts to pay attention. What happened to the rails? she wondered. I thought, since they weren't used often, they'd always work, especially since the Capitol trains used them.

Moments later, two Peacekeepers stepped into the car, their presence causing a tense ripple through the passengers. The sharp click of their boots against the polished floor echoed as they moved toward the front.

"We'll escort you to the train station. It's a twenty-minute walk," the first one said coolly.

Without waiting for a reply, the Peacekeepers turned and began to lead the way. Evelia, Mags, and Zephyria followed, stepping off the train and onto the platform. The brisk air bit into Evelia's skin, and she instinctively pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders, the cold sinking deep into her bones.

Outside, District Twelve stretched before them, vast and desolate, its gray sky blending into the sprawling expanse of barren hills and twisted, withered trees. In the distance, the jagged mountains loomed, dark and foreboding, their looming shadows slicing through the pale afternoon light like a knife.

Thin plumes of smoke rose from what Evelia assumed was the Seam, twisting and curling into the sky like the last remnants of some forgotten fire. The ground beneath their feet was hard and unyielding, coated with frost that crunched with every step. The dreary buildings of the district stood nearby, their dull, weathered facades offering little warmth or comfort. The only movement came from a few workers trudging between the buildings, their heads bowed, shoulders hunched against the cruel wind.

It was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that stretched unnervingly long, as though the world itself was holding its breath.

Zephyria fell a step behind Evelia, muttering under her breath, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement. "This place... It's worse than I remember," she said, her voice thick with disdain.

The Peacekeepers led them through the thickening mist, the silence wrapping around them like a heavy cloak as they walked toward their destination. The crunch of snow beneath their boots was the only sound that broke the stillness in the empty stretch of land.

Zephyria quickly adjusted her pace, falling in line with them, and soon began peppering the Peacekeepers with questions, her voice carrying over the sound of their footsteps.

"What the hell happened?" Zephyria demanded, her tone sharp with annoyance.

She was still wearing her pink heels, stepping cautiously through the snow, each step a potential disaster. At any moment, Evelia thought, she might twist an ankle. The image made Evelia's lips twitch into a smile.

"We're not allowed to give you any information," one of the Peacekeepers replied, his voice flat and authoritative.

"We are supposed to be back on the road tomorrow after noon!" Zephyria insisted, her voice rising. "Is the issue going to be fixed by then?"

"No. It's a massive crashout," the Peacekeeper said, his words clipped. "It'll take days to repair."

"Weren't you supposed to not be allowed to say anything?" Evelia remarked, her gaze shifting between the Peacekeeper and Zephyria.

Zephyria's eyes snapped to Evelia, the glare she threw her way a silent warning. Stay out of this, her eyes seemed to say.

"Whatever," the Peacekeeper muttered, clearly done with the conversation.

The walk stretched on in silence, broken only by Zephyria's unrelenting stream of questions, each one unanswered, falling into the vast silence between them. Evelia, deep in her thoughts, allowed the weight of their reality to settle in. A week, maybe more, here in Twelve.

And oddly, she didn't mind. It wasn't that there was anything pressing she needed to go back to. It wasn't arrogance that piqued her curiosity about this District. It was something far deeper, a longing to understand a place so far removed from the soft, salty waves of Four.

The landscape here was foreign, harsh. The barren hills rolled endlessly, their jagged edges sharp against the ashen sky. The trees were twisted and stark, reaching into the grey heavens, their branches fragile and brittle, as though nature itself had given up on this land. The air was thick, laden with the scent of something ancient, as if it bore the weight of a thousand untold stories, stories buried in the land's cracked earth.

Evelia felt the pull of it, strange and inexplicable.

The group moved forward, the cold biting through their layers, the sound of their footsteps crunching on the frost as they neared the station. The weight of the frozen air seemed to press against them, suffocating in its silence.

The train station loomed ahead, a small and forgotten thing. Its platform, concrete and scarred by time, was coated with frost, a layer of white that gave it a lifeless, distant feel. In the distance, the hum of workers drifted in the cold air, voices low and scattered, lost in the emptiness. It was quieter than any station Evelia had ever known.

As they drew closer, a figure emerged, cutting through the snow with an unsettling ease. A boy moved toward them with purpose. He reached Mags first, pulling her into his arms without hesitation. Mags wrapped her arms around him, her touch gentle, almost maternal as she caressed his back, soothing him, calming him.

They lingered like that for a moment, the world around them paused, before the boy pulled away. His gaze swept over the group, briefly meeting Evelia's, and his expression faltered. A flicker of disbelief crossed his features, as if the reality of their meeting had hit him harder than he expected.

Haymitch.

His brow furrowed, a quiet confusion clouding his gaze as the realisation dawned on him. Of course, this year's Victory Tour meant she would be here, in Twelve, but it was still a surprise to see her standing there.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The shock of the reunion hung in the air, thick and heavy, like the snowflakes that floated around them. Then, unexpectedly, Haymitch's lips curled into a smile. It wasn't loud, it wasn't a show of bravado—just a quiet, unexpected warmth that reached his eyes, softening them for a brief moment.

"Welcome to Twelve, mystery girl," he said, his voice low, but carrying an invitation, a strange sort of understanding that passed between them.

Chapter Text

The Victor's Village in District Twelve wasn't a celebration of triumph. It was a graveyard of broken promises, where victory settled like dust. The houses loomed in eerie silence, shutters drawn tight like closed eyelids, doors locked as if bracing against ghosts no one dared acknowledge. Snow clung to the rooftops, but the ever-present coal dust had tainted it, dulling it to a sickly grey. Even the air smelled of something brittle and empty, a cold that had nothing to do with the season.

It wasn't like Four's Victor's Village, where white-washed houses gleamed under the salt-kissed sun, basking in their own illusion of glory. Here, the homes slumped in on themselves, their wooden frames weathered and forgotten. Victory didn't shine in Twelve. It withered.

"Vane, you'll take the house next to Abernathy's," the Peacekeeper said.

Evelia nodded, forcing herself to look confident, though she had no idea where Haymitch's house was. But one glance at the row of identical structures gave it away. It was the only one with its windows thrown open, as if even the house itself couldn't bear to be suffocated.

Zephyria cleared her throat. The Peacekeeper turned his gaze on her, and Evelia could practically hear the exhausted sigh he was suppressing beneath his mask.

"And you, Mrs. Bloom, shall take the house in front. Along with the prep team."

"Absolutely not," Zephyria snapped, her voice sharp enough to slice through the frozen air. "I've lived alone since I was eighteen. That's not changing now."

A thick silence pressed down on them, heavy as the snow-laden sky. The Peacekeeper didn't argue. He just stood there, the weight of a decision flickering behind his cold gaze, calculating whether this was a battle worth fighting.

Haymitch, utterly unbothered, took a slow sip from his flask before tucking it back into his coat pocket.

"The prep team can take the house next to Zephola's. They're all empty anyway," he said.

Zephyria nearly choked. "Zephola?"

"Yeah. That's you."

"I'm Zephyria!"

"Oh. Crap. My bad."

Evelia let out a chuckle, the warmth of it curling into the icy air like smoke. Zephyria shot her a look, and Evelia quickly smothered her amusement, turning it into a cough. She heard Haymitch's quiet snort beside her, and when she turned her head, she found him watching her with the smallest smile tugging at his lips.

He raised an eyebrow, as if daring her to look away. Evelia steeled herself, using every ounce of Panem's cold endurance not to look down. Instead, she furrowed her brow, offering a smirk that said, You made me laugh, but I've got questions. Hopefully, Haymitch was sober enough to catch her drift.

But there was no sharp scent of alcohol clinging to him like it had the last time she saw him. Maybe he'd forced himself to lay off the bottle for Mags.

"Alright then. Each of you will get a house," the Peacekeeper announced. He plucked six keys from his belt, handing them out one by one. The cold metal landed in Evelia's palm like a shard of ice, biting against her skin.

Mags accepted hers with a small, grateful smile before turning to Haymitch. She pointed at herself, then at him, then at Evelia, before miming the motion of bringing food to her mouth.

"You want to have dinner with us?" Haymitch translated, one brow arched.

Mags nodded.

Haymitch exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know how to cook anymore, Mags."

Evelia blinked. "Then what do you eat?"

For a second, Haymitch didn't answer. His shoulders tensed, his gaze drifting somewhere far away, but not before Evelia caught it—the shift in his storm-grey eyes, darkening like an oncoming thunderhead.

"Sorry," she said. "It's none of my business."

A long silence stretched between them. Haymitch turned the key over in his palm, his grip tightening like he was trying to crush it, as if the pressure of the metal against his skin might tether him back to the present. Then, just as the quiet grew too thick, he let out a sharp breath and cast her a sidelong glance.

"You're right," he said, voice edged with something dry. "It's not."

But there was no bite behind it. Just a familiar, weary resignation, like someone too exhausted to be cruel, too worn down to fight.

Mags clicked her tongue and nudged him lightly with her elbow before tapping her temple, then motioning toward Evelia.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Haymitch muttered, rolling his eyes. "Be nice."

Mags nodded, looking smug.

Evelia barely held back a smirk. It was strange, watching Haymitch Abernathy—Victor, drunk, enigma—getting lectured by someone who barely spoke. Even stranger that he actually listened.

"How about eight p.m.?" Haymitch suggested, crossing his arms. "Gives me some time to get everything ready, you know."

"I'm declining the invitation," Zephyria said coolly. "I have no interest in eating something cooked by an alcoholic underdog."

Silence. A muscle twitched in Haymitch's jaw.

"Excuse me?" he groaned, his voice dragging over the words like gravel.

"You heard me."

Evelia shot Zephyria a pointed look, sharp enough to cut, a silent warning to shut up. Zephyria, as expected, ignored it. Instead, she flicked her wrist in a lazy, dismissive gesture.

"Anyway, I need a bath," she announced, stretching her arms. "I just hope the pipes here aren't rusted beyond saving..."

Without waiting for a response, she spun on her heel, the fur-lined edges of her coat flaring slightly as she strode toward one of the houses. Her boots crunched against the snow, each step leaving behind shallow impressions that the wind would erase soon enough as her prep team trailed behind her.

That left Evelia, Haymitch, Mags, and the Peacekeeper.

"You can go now, man," Haymitch muttered, flicking his fingers in a half-hearted wave. "We're good."

The Peacekeeper didn't move. His stance remained rigid, his face unreadable beneath the sterile white of his helmet.

"I get to decide when 'we're good,'" he said flatly.

Haymitch exhaled. He then pressed his fingers against his temples, rubbing slow circles as if the mere existence of the conversation was giving him a headache.

"Are we, then?" he drawled, voice edged with sarcasm.

The Peacekeeper's gaze flickered between them before he let out a barely-there shrug.

"Yeah."

Then he turned and walked away, leaving nothing behind but the crisp, military precision of his footprints in the snow.

Haymitch tipped his flask back and took a swig, the motion so practiced it was almost second nature. When he lowered it, he caught Evelia staring.

"What's up, mystery girl? Want some?" he asked, tilting the flask toward her.

Evelia shook her head. Once, maybe, she wouldn't have hesitated. But now? Now, alcohol wasn't an escape. It was a trap, waiting to pull her under. A single sip, and the ghosts would press in closer. Delta's wide, unblinking eyes. Haldin fallin into the endless nothing. Griffin's head staring at her like he was blaming her, his body laying next to it.

And then there were the others.

Her father, whispering how relieved he was to be dead, how lucky he was not to be here to witness the wreckage she had become. Her mother, stepping out of the shadows, her abusive words sharp, slicing through her skin like glass.

"I'm fine, thank you," Evelia said, keeping her voice steady.

Haymitch shrugged and tipped the flask back again, taking a few sips, before Mags moved.

Fast.

Faster than anyone her age should have been able to, her hand flashing out like a striking eel and snatching the flask from his grip before he even registered the movement.

"Hey!" he blurted, eyes widening in genuine offense. "If you want some, you can just ask, you know."

Mags shot him a look so sharp it could've sliced through steel. Then, without hesitation, she popped the cap off and, to his utter horror, tipped the flask upside down.

Dark liquid splashed against the snow, staining it like spilled ink. For a brief moment, the ground swallowed the drink greedily before the cold leeched it away, leaving nothing but dampened ice in its place.

"No!" Haymitch groaned, throwing his hands up. "C'mon, that was my last bottle!"

Mags didn't spare him so much as a glance. Just shrugged and turned, making her way toward her house with the unshakable confidence of someone who knew she was absolutely in the right.

Haymitch stared at the ruined snow like it was something sacred, something broken. His expression was unreadable at first, just blank exhaustion, but then the cracks formed. His shoulders sagged. His mouth pressed into a tight, pale line.

"I gotta go to the Hob now," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Really don't want to."

"The black market, right?" Evelia asked, tilting her head slightly.

Haymitch blinked, caught off guard. "Yeah... How do you know about that?"

Evelia's smile was small but knowing. "Flint Cartwright. He told me about it. Said he found toys there sometimes for his little sister."

For a moment, something flickered across Haymitch's face. A shadow of something softer, something older, like a memory brushing too close. Then his lips twitched, forming the ghost of a smile.

"Right. Flint..." He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "He told me about you, y'know. Said the girl from Four was kind. Helped him figure out which fish wouldn't kill him in the arena. Stood up for him when that Career from One came swinging."

Evelia's smile remained, but something in her eyes dulled, like a flame dimming behind glass.

"Yeah. He was a sweet kid."

"He was," Haymitch said, quieter now. The smirk slipped from his face, replaced by something heavier. "Thank you. For protecting him."

Evelia shifted, crossing her arms like she could physically block out the weight of his words.

"I failed in the end," she murmured. "So there's no need to thank me."

Haymitch scoffed, but there was no bite to it. Just something dry.

"No, really, mystery girl," he replied. "He was doomed from the start. You gave him an easy death. That's more than most tributes get. So... thank you."

Evelia bit the inside of her cheek. Let the sharp sting ground her.

He was wrong.

Flint had died because of her. He'd eaten the berries meant for her. That wasn't mercy. That wasn't protection.

That was a mistake.

Maybe Haymitch was just being polite. Maybe he was trying to lighten a guilt he assumed she carried.

Or maybe he actually meant it.

"You can call me by my name, you know," Evelia said instead. She needed this conversation to move. Needed to push Flint's ghost aside before it buried her.

Haymitch's lips curled again, amusement sparking in his tired eyes.

"I don't know your name."

"Evelia," she said, meeting his gaze head-on. "Evelia Vane."

He nodded, tucking the name away like it mattered. Like it meant something. For a fraction of a second, his expression shifted, but then the smirk was back.

"Nice to finally know the name behind the mystery, mystery girl."

"Stop calling me that," Evelia sighed. "You know my name now."

"Would you rather I call you the 'fallen angel'?" he teased, eyes glinting.

Evelia exhaled sharply through her nose. She recognised a losing battle when she saw one, and Haymitch looked far too pleased with himself.

Still... there was something different in his tone now. Something warmer. Something she wasn't sure she knew how to handle.

"Mystery girl it is, then," she conceded, before smirking and adding, "sweetheart."

"Sweetheart? That's me?"

"Yeah..." Evelia blushed. The word had slipped out too easily, like a nickname meant for someone else entirely. "It's... well, it's the first stupid thing that came to mind."

Haymitch rolled his eyes, but Evelia caught the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he was trying to keep it from fully forming. It suited him—his face, when it wasn't twisted in anger, or grief. Or dulled by drink.

"Right. You're funny," he said, before his gaze drifted toward his house. The humour faded. "I'll try to get everything ready. I haven't cooked since..."

His voice cracked. Just a fraction, just enough to hear. He cut himself off, eyes dropping to the floor as if searching for words he couldn't find.

Evelia didn't need him to finish the sentence. Since his mother and brother died. Since the last remnants of his family were wiped out.

Her throat tightened. Should she say something? Pretend she hadn't noticed?

The silence stretched, thin as glass. One wrong move, and it might shatter.

"I'm sorry," Evelia whispered, the words barely escaping her lips. She didn't dare look at him. "For your family. I heard about the accident."

Haymitch shifted, the movement small but telling. Evelia looked up and a flicker of something—discomfort? Annoyance?—crossed his face.

At first, Evelia thought he was reacting to the sympathy, but then she replayed her own words in her head. Accident.

Something about the way he stiffened made her stomach tighten.

Had she said something she shouldn't have?

Hadn't it been an accident?

"Forget it," Evelia said quickly, her voice steadier than she felt. "I'm just sorry for your family. Whatever happened."

She meant it. Whatever the truth was, accident or not, grief was grief. And Haymitch had lost everything.

His jaw tightened, but he didn't correct her. Didn't confirm or deny. Just stood there, staring at the ground like the answers might be buried beneath it.

"Thank you, Evelia," Haymitch said at last. Then, after a beat, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. "I'll see you later?"

Evelia offered a small, sad smile.

"Sure. I'm excited to try the food cooked by an underdog," she said, mimicking Zephyria's accent with an exaggerated lilt.

Haymitch scoffed, the ghost of amusement flickering in his eyes.

"Oh, you're gonna love it," he deadpanned.

·✦·

The house was steeped in gloom. No sunlight, no warmth. It felt nothing like Four, yet was eerily similar to Evelia's new home.

She never opened her curtains, never let daylight in. Shadows clung to the corners, stretching across walls that had long forgotten the touch of warmth. Every window was sealed shut, locking out the sun's golden embrace. But Evelia didn't care. She was always buried beneath her blankets, cocooned in the safety of her bed, as if that could keep the ghosts at bay. As if she could smother them with silence.

But here, the walls weren't white. They didn't glare at her, didn't burn into her skull and send sharp, needling pain through her temples. It was a relief, something almost soothing. Almost. Because the ghosts were harder to find now. They no longer stood stark against blinding walls, waiting for her in plain sight. Instead, they lurked in the shadows, slipping behind the furniture, melting into the darkness her weary eyes couldn't quite chase away.

The silence stretched. Evelia exhaled slowly, her breath barely stirring the stale air. The darkness in the corners seemed to pulse. Waiting. Watching.

She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing the heels of her palms against them until bursts of colour flared behind her eyelids. They're not real. She repeated it like a mantra. They're not real.

But then—

A whisper. Barely audible.

Her hands dropped to her sides.

The shadows in the corner stirred, twisting like tendrils of smoke, folding into a shape that seemed almost human. Evelia froze, her breath catching in her throat as the form stepped forward, emerging from the darkness like a spectre born from nightmares.

A girl.

Curly brown hair clung to her head, matted with the remnants of dried blood. Her lips parted, as though she would speak, but the words never came. Her eyes (those sharp, piercing brown eyes Evelia had once known so well, eyes that had sparkled with laughter, blazed with fire, and ached with pain), were now vacant, hollow, yet they locked onto Evelia's with a strange, unyielding intensity. Her once-beautiful, dark skin was now marred by a tapestry of scars, bites, and bruises.

Delta.

Evelia's heart lurched in her chest, a brutal thud that felt like it would break her ribs.

"It's nice here," Delta murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Evelia's throat tightened, her vision blurring. No. This isn't real.

Delta took a step closer. The flickering light cast long, distorted shadows over her gaunt features, over the wounds that marred her skin. But there was no anger, no rage in Delta's expression. No fire to burn, no vengeance to seek. Only a quiet, unsettling curiosity.

No ghost had ever been so calm. Not when it came to her.

Perhaps it was a trick. Perhaps Delta was playing at softness, at gentleness, just waiting for the moment when Evelia would let her guard slip, and then she would lash out. Spit in her face.

"Delta..." Evelia whispered, her voice little more than a breath, trembling. "I'm—"

"Sorry," Delta interrupted, her tone light, almost dismissive. "Yes, I know. No need to repeat it every time I visit."

Delta moved through the room, her gaze scanning the space as though it were a curious exhibit. She paused by the brown couch, her fingers drifting over the hite and dark red pillows scattered haphazardly upon it.

"Cute," she said, the word soft, but it held an eerie emptiness, a hollow quality that made it feel foreign. It was as though she didn't truly see the couch, just as she didn't truly see Evelia.

"What do you want, Delta?" Evelia's voice shook, a fragile thing, almost unrecognisable. The question felt wrong, as if she wasn't speaking to Delta at all. She knew this wasn't her. This wasn't her friend. This was a figment of her mind, a fragment of her shattered self. She wasn't speaking to Delta. She was speaking to her own guilt.

It was survivor's guilt, she reminded herself. Or PTSD. Or maybe both. She didn't know which was worse.

"I'm not here to blame you," Delta's voice rippled through the silence. "If that's what you're wondering. I'm here to warn you."

"Warn me? About what?" Evelia's chest constricted, her heart racing in response to the creeping uncertainty that tightened its grip around her.

Delta shrugged casually, as though nothing mattered at all. It probably didn't to her, after all. She was dead.

"I don't know, Evelia. I'm one of your creations. A part of you. The real me is gone, remember?" Her words were a cruel reminder, a jagged blade slicing through Evelia's chest.

"But deep down, in that corner of your mind, you know you have to be careful," Delta continued, her voice now as cold and impersonal as the shadows that stretched long across the room. "You're being watched. Recorded. Analysed. Every second, every minute of every day."

Evelia's breath hitched, a cold sweat prickling her skin. A strange, insidious itch crept along her spine, as if something was crawling just beneath her skin.

"Do... do they see me talking to myself right now?" Her voice cracked, raw with the vulnerability she couldn't hide.

Delta's gaze gleamed with something unreadable, an emotion too alien to name.

"It's likely, yeah. They've been watching for six months."

"What do they think I am now?" Evelia's voice faltered, barely more than a whisper. She raised her hands to her head, fingers threading through her blonde hair, the strands slipping between them like water. Slowly, she slid down the wall, sinking to the cold floor as if the weight of her own fractured mind had become too much to bear.

"The fallen angel," Delta answered, her tone emotionless. "That's who you are now. The old Evelia Crimson Vane died the moment you stepped into that arena."

Evelia's heart pounded, hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her hands trembled, fingers twitching as though they weren't entirely her own. Was she really spiralling into a panic attack in the middle of one of her hallucinations? That had never happened before. And it couldn't happen now. Not when she had dinner with Mags and Haymitch in less than an hour.

Not when she had to be normal.

"My name is Evelia Vane," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I am seventeen years old. I was born on April 3rd. I won the Games. I am safe. My name is Evelia Vane. I am seventeen years old. I was born on April 3rd..."

Again and again, she forced the words out, clinging to them like a lifeline. A mantra. A tether to reality.

The brain could only focus on one thing at a time. If she concentrated on the facts—on who she was, on what was real—then maybe the panic would subside. It had worked before.

Not always, though.

Her breathing hitched. Shallow. Too fast.

She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, fingers splayed over her frantic heartbeat, as if she could will it to slow. As if she could claw her way back to control.

Safe. She had told herself she was safe. Said the words like they meant something. But if that were true, why did the walls feel like they were closing in? Why did the air feel thinner, like it was being stolen straight from her lungs?

She squeezed her eyes shut, nails biting into her palm, grounding herself in the sharp sting of pain.

"Evelia, you're not safe. Be careful," Delta murmured.

The voice was fading. Distant. Warped, like an old, static-ridden recording barely clinging to clarity.

"Careful of what?" Evelia whispered, her voice breaking, tears prickling at her eyes.

Delta didn't answer right away. The silence stretched, taut and suffocating.

"You'll have to figure that out," she said finally. "I'm just the embodiment of the thoughts buried at the very back of your mind. You know you're in danger. You just refuse to acknowledge it. I'm here to remind you."

"But I won the Games!" Evelia's voice cracked. "I did everything I had to!"

Delta tilted her head, something unreadable flickering in her hollow gaze.

"But did you?"

Evelia's head jerked up, breath caught in her throat—

But Delta was gone.










·✦·

Evelia's appetite had vanished. The thought of sitting at the table, forcing herself to eat while exhaustion curled tight in her stomach, made her want to sink into the floor and disappear.

Sleep.

That was what she needed. A few hours of escape from the relentless storm of thoughts clawing at her mind.

But Haymitch had spent the afternoon making dinner. Or maybe he'd just bought it from somewhere. She couldn't tell, and honestly, she didn't care. What mattered was that he'd tried. And the last thing she wanted was to be another person who brushed him aside. Panem had done that enough already, ever since the moment he stepped out of his Games alive. She wouldn't add to the weight he already carried.

So when she pushed open her door and spotted Mags stepping out of hers, Evelia forced a smile, even as weariness dragged at her limbs. The crispy night air wrapped around her, chasing away the lingering heat of the day.

Mags caught her eye and shuffled closer, her own smile soft.

"Hungry?" Evelia asked, though they both knew the answer.

Mags hesitated, just for a second, then shook her head.

"Same," Evelia muttered. "Let's keep that between us, shall we?"

Mags pressed two fingers to her lips before crossing her arms in an exaggerated X—her way of reminding Evelia that spilling secrets to Haymitch wasn't exactly an option.

Evelia huffed a small laugh. "Oh, come on, you know what I mean." The tension coiled in her chest loosened. "Besides, if you really wanted to tell him, you'd find a way. You're a smart woman, Miss Mags."

Mags' eyes twinkled as she tapped Evelia's shoulder, a light touch that balanced between fondness and playful reprimand.

Evelia grinned, raising her hands in surrender. "Sorry, boss. I apologise, boss."

Mags shook her head, amusement softening the lines of her face.

The weight in Evelia's chest lifted as she knocked on Haymitch's door. Delta's ghostly warnings still lingered at the edges of her mind, but they didn't press down on her ribs the way they usually did.

For the first time, she had shaken off a hallucination this quickly. Especially one tangled with a panic attack.

She didn't know what it was about District Twelve's air, but whatever it was, she wasn't about to question it. She just let herself breathe it in.

Haymitch's door creaked open a fraction.

He stood there, wearing a long-sleeved grey shirt and black trousers—clean, put-together in a way that made Evelia pause. His hair, once tangled and unkempt, was freshly washed, the strands falling soft against his forehead. The grime that had smudged his face earlier was gone, scrubbed away.

And he smelled... good. Not like alcohol. Like clean soap, edged with cedar and the smoky scent of a District Twelve fire.

"Don't just stand there. You're going to freeze to death. Get in," Haymitch said, his sharp gaze flicking between the two of them, arms crossed as if he had better things to do than play host.

Evelia didn't need to be told twice. She slipped past him, stepping into the warmth of the house. It was nearly identical to hers—grand yet lifeless, all polished wood floors and suffocating silence pressing against the walls. A Victor's Village uniformity. Something perfect and hollow, just like Victors were supposed to be.

Mags followed, pausing just long enough to wrap Haymitch in a soft hug before stepping inside. He let her, barely tensing, then shut the door with a quiet thud, sealing the cold outside.

The heat should have been comforting, but the house itself wasn't. It felt sterile. Unlived-in. Everything too pristine, too deliberately placed, like it had been staged rather than inhabited. Evelia glanced around. Same rigid furniture, same perfectly aligned curtains. Same brown couch. The only difference was the scent. Underneath the crispness of clean wood, there was something else. Something bitter. Alcohol.

Haymitch had tried to mask it, that much was obvious. The air carried the faint trace of perfume, as if an attempt had been made to scrub out the lingering stench. It hadn't worked.

Without a word, Haymitch moved past them, heading for the kitchen. The clink of glass, the scrape of plates. The kind of noises that filled a house, even when it felt empty.

"Don't expect anything fancy," he muttered over his shoulder. "I'm not exactly the hosting type."

Evelia smirked, shoving her hands into her pockets. "Would've never guessed."

Haymitch shot her a look but didn't bother arguing. Instead, he set three plates on the table. The meal was simple—bread, roasted meat, and what looked like mashed potatoes, though the consistency was questionable. Still, Evelia could tell he had made it himself.

Mags sat without hesitation, and after a beat, Evelia followed. She wasn't particularly hungry. But the moment she inhaled the food's scent, her stomach gave her away with a quiet, traitorous grumble.

Haymitch smirked. "Told you so."

Evelia rolled her eyes but picked up her fork anyway. She took a bite of the meat first, and to her surprise, it was good. Better than good. She rarely ate meat; back home in Four, it was always fish or nothing. Most days, she survived on avocado toast with a bit of salmon.

Then she tried the potatoes.

Instant regret.

They were undercooked, like someone had given up halfway through making them. She chewed carefully, masking her reaction with a neutral smile, not wanting to insult the effort. But Haymitch was watching her.

Their gazes locked, and after a moment, he let out a dry huff. "I'm not a potato master."

Evelia swallowed and smirked. "Yeah, no shit."

Haymitch took a swig from a glass she hadn't even seen him grab. "Well, next time, you can cook."

"I never said I'd do better."

"Exactly."

Mags tapped her fork against her plate, shooting them both a pointed look before nodding toward the food. A silent command: just eat.

Evelia sighed but obeyed, pairing the potatoes with the meat in an attempt to make them more bearable. Then she reached for the bread. It was warm, contrasting with the weather outside. It felt almost comforting.

Haymitch leaned back in his chair, watching her with an unreadable expression. He wasn't the kind of man who needed approval, but still, there was something waiting in his gaze.

Evelia met his eyes again. "The meat's good."

"They call me Meat Cooker in Twelve," Haymitch said, a trace of pride in his voice.

"No, they don't," Evelia shot back, raising an eyebrow.

"They could," he countered, a faint grin tugging at his lips.

Evelia let out a quiet chuckle, and for the briefest moment, the deep lines on Haymitch's face softened, just slightly, like a crack in a frozen lake. But she caught it. Mags flicked her gaze between them before tapping her glass with a slender finger.

Haymitch grabbed the old, weathered water pot from the table. As he poured, he glanced at Evelia.

"Water?" he asked.

She nodded. "Sure."

A smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. "Figures. You District Four people and water..."

Evelia arched a brow. "Every single human needs water to live."

Haymitch leaned back, arms draped over his chair, his smirk stretching wider. "Right... Don't go diving into your glass, mystery girl. We've got a lake out there if you need a swim. Though, I believe it's frozen."

"Good to know," Evelia murmured. "I'll keep that in mind."

Haymitch shifted his attention to Mags, slipping into conversation about his days, an existence that sounded eerily familiar to Evelia's.

Wake up. Do nothing. Stay home. Drown in memories. Sleep. Repeat.

Evelia wondered if all victors lived this way, buried in guilt and trauma. She knew Mags didn't. She walked through Four every morning, let the ocean wrap around her like an old friend, cast her lines into the waves with steady hands.

Maybe she'd once been like Haymitch. Like Evelia. Maybe, forty years ago, she had spent her days lost in the same fog of grief and emptiness.

And maybe she had learned how to find her way out.

Evelia could only hope.

Once the plates were cleared and the meal was finished, Evelia rose, gathering the dishes without a word. Haymitch did the same. They moved quietly through the kitchen, the stillness of the house enveloping them.

"I can wash them, if you want," she offered, setting a plate by the sink.

Haymitch shook his head, the faintest flicker of a smile touching his lips. "Nah. I've got it. But thanks."

The conversation stalled there, leaving only the hum of silence, thick with the things neither of them could bring themselves to say. The smell of leftovers lingered in the air yet beneath it something sharper was present, like an undercurrent of tension, the kind that settles in the bones and makes everything feel heavier than it should.

Evelia cast a glance at Haymitch. She wanted to ask about the warnings he had given her. The cryptic, half-formed phrases, like puzzles whose pieces didn't quite fit. But she wasn't a fool.

There were cameras in the house.

She was almost certain of it.

So she leaned against the counter instead, folding her arms, masking the turmoil in her mind with a carefully neutral expression. Without a word, Haymitch opened the fridge. His movements were slow but deliberate, as if he had done this a thousand times. He grabbed a half-finished bottle of wine, twisted off the cap, and took a long, measured gulp.

The tension in his posture seemed to melt away as he set the bottle down with a quiet thud. A sigh escaped him, heavy, resigned. As if the alcohol could ease something much deeper, something that no drink could ever truly touch.

"You know," Evelia said, breaking the silence, her voice light, "that's not exactly water."

Haymitch chuckled, the sound dry. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "And you're not exactly my mother."

"Tragic, really."

A flicker of a smirk appeared on his lips, but it was faint, barely there, like the ghost of something that had once held meaning. No amusement in it, just the dull edges of fatigue.

Evelia exhaled through her nose, pushing herself off the counter. She had made her decision. No digging tonight. No probing into the hidden places. Not with the cameras, not with the Capitol watching.

She gave him a half-shrug, her tone teasing, lighthearted in a way that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Alright then, Meat Cooker. I'm heading out."

"I'll walk you back to your house," he said, his voice firm.

Evelia raised an eyebrow, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Haymitch, it's the house next to yours."

He shrugged, a motion half-hearted and dismissive. "Better safe than sorry."

She nodded, stepping out of the kitchen, her boots soft against the floor as she moved. Mags had curled herself up on the couch, blanket draped over her like a figure carved from stone.

"I'm going to sleep, Mags," Evelia said, her voice low, careful. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Mags gave a slow nod, her eyes heavy.

"Goodnight, Evelia," she rasped, her voice brittle, fragile in a way Evelia had never heard before.

A chill slipped down Evelia's spine. Mags hadn't spoken since the Quarter Quell, her silence more unsettling than any words. It was as though the very act of speaking had become a rare commodity, not because Mags had nothing to say, but because to speak would cost too much.

"She's in a chatty mood tonight," Haymitch muttered, his voice tinged with dry amusement. "I'm walking mystery girl home, then coming right back."

Mags gave a slight nod in acknowledgment, her gaze distant, as if her mind had already drifted far beyond the room.

The door creaked open as they stepped into the night, the cold air biting at their skin. Snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, blanketing the world in a quiet, pristine coat of white. Evelia paused, staring at the delicate flakes as they swirled around her, settling on her hair, her shoulders, her coat.

She had never seen snow before. In District Four, rain was the only thing that fell from the sky, warm and familiar, like the ocean's saltwater. Snow, though... it felt different, almost unnatural in its stillness, as if the world had paused to catch its breath.

Haymitch moved beside her, his boots leaving deep prints in the fresh snow, breaking the silence. His breath puffed out in clouds, dissipating into the air before vanishing entirely.

"You're staring," he observed, his voice low and slightly amused. "Never seen snow before?"

Evelia shook her head, her eyes still fixed on the falling flakes. "Nope. It's summer all year where I'm from."

"Yeah, well," Haymitch said, his tone flat. "It's not all it's cracked up to be. It's cold. It's wet. And it sticks to everything. Takes forever to get out of your boots."

Evelia snorted as she reached her doorstep, turning to face him with a smirk.

"You're hating on the wrong snow, sweetheart," she teased, hiding her smile behind her hand.

For a moment, she thought he hadn't heard her, his face giving nothing away. But then, slowly, a real smile tugged at his lips. It was the first genuine smile she'd seen from him.

"You want me to make you visit Twelve tomorrow?" he asked, his tone suspicious. Subtility wasn't Haymitch Abernathy's strenght. But Evelia didn't mind, she even found it endearing in a way. So, she nodded, a smile creeping onto her own face.

"I'm in."

Haymitch nodded back, taking a step away.

"Good. Goodnight, Mystery Girl."

Evelia's smile softened, her voice a whisper.

"Good night, Meat Cooker."

Chapter Text

Evelia jolted awake at precisely eight o'clock, her eyes snapping open like a reflex, as though her body had been waiting for this moment long before her mind caught up. She threw off the blanket tangled around her legs and swung her feet to the floor.

Usually, mornings meant a long negotiation with herself. Her bed was a safe zone, a place where the weight of reality couldn't reach her. But today, her limbs were buzzing with an energy that felt foreign, almost electric. The kind of thrill one might feel before stepping into a storm. She didn't know why.

Maybe it was the air. The shift in light. Or maybe it was the first time in six months—no, a year?—that she felt the world pull her forward instead of weighing her down.

She'd long since lost count of time. It blurred into a single, endless thread of silent meals, restless nights, panic attacks and memories she didn't dare name. People talked about who they were before the Games like it meant something. But Evelia couldn't. Because before the arena, things had already been broken.

And she had already stopped hoping they could be fixed.

Evelia's life had always been made of ifs. Fragile, sharp-edged things, stacked like glass towers in her mind.

What if her father had lived?
What if she'd been wrong about her mother, what if there had been something good buried deep beneath all that silence and bitterness?
What if her name had never been called at the Reaping?
What if her plan hadn't crumbled to ash the second it touched the real world?

These questions weren't new. They'd haunted her long before the Games, long before blood stained her hands and nightmares stole her sleep. But this morning felt different. Not because the ghosts were gone, they never really left, but because, for once, she was going to get answers.

Not the big ones. Not the ones carved into the front of her thoughts. Those still hovered out of reach. Today, she'd settle for the quieter questions. The ones that crept in from the edges. The ones that jabbed at her skull like needles. Annoying and extremely persistent, but not enough to break her.

Just enough to remind her they were still there.

Evelia stepped into the shower, the water shockingly cold at first, but she didn't flinch, she even welcomed it. Let it wash away the clammy sweat that clung to her skin, evidence of another restless night. The kind filled with shadows and fractured images she couldn't quite hold onto, no matter how tightly she tried.

She didn't remember the nightmares, but their fingerprints were all over her. The tightness in her chest. The way her heartbeat had kicked like a trapped animal every time she jolted awake. Her breath had caught in her throat more than once, a silent gasp echoing in the dark, her sheets tangled around her legs like restraints.

She hated how familiar it all felt. How normal it had become to wake up shaking without knowing why.

Evelia stepped out of the shower, drying herself with slow movements, as though moving too quickly might shatter something fragile inside her.

On the sink sat a small kit, neatly placed as if it had been waiting for her. A soft shade of violet, embroidered with delicate golden flowers along the edges. A gift from her prep team's makeup artist, handed to her with a soft smile.

"In case you feel like you need a little touch-up," he'd said. "Not that you need one, of course, but you know how the brain works."

She hadn't known whether to thank him or laugh.

Now, she stared at the mirror, its surface fogged with steam, a dull blur of who she was (or who she was supposed to be.) She wiped it with her palm, leaving streaks across the glass, and braced herself as her reflection came into focus.

She looked awful, and not in the way people throw around the word. Her skin was ashen, lips colourless, eyes ringed with shadows deep enough to hold the night. She looked like someone who had crawled out of a grave and hadn't quite made peace with being back.

Maybe a little makeup would help.

Maybe if she painted herself differently, she could pass for someone less... haunted. Someone less likely to make a child from District Twelve flinch when they looked at her.

So she did what she could.

Evelia reached for the concealer first, dotting it beneath her eyes with the precision of someone patching cracks in armour. She dabbed and blended, trying to erase the exhaustion that clung to her like a second skin. The dark circles didn't vanish—of course they didn't—but they softened, just enough to pass as sleepless instead of haunted.

Next came bronzer, applied in gentle strokes across her forehead and cheekbones. She wasn't trying to look glamorous, just not dead.

A touch of blush followed, carefully pressed into the apples of her cheeks. A subtle flush, faint but present.

Then came her hair.

She dragged the brush through damp strands, slow and methodical. Each stroke snagged on tangles she hadn't even realised were there, but she didn't flinch.

The hair dryer hummed to life in her hand, a low, steady noise that filled the room and quieted her thoughts. Warm air lifted her hair, coaxing it back into some semblance of order.

They weren't the same colour anymore. Her hair had once been almost silver in the sunlight, that near-platinum shade people liked to comment on, as though it made her look ethereal. Special. But after months shut away from the sun, the brightness had dulled. Now, it was more of a muted gold, streaked with darker threads. Dirty blonde, some would call it.

But Evelia didn't mind. If anything, she liked it. It made her look less like the girl in Capitol photos and more like someone real. There were strands that caught the light just right, like little glints of gold hidden in the shadows.

She thought that was kind of cute. And it had been a long time since she'd let herself think anything about herself was.

Evelia dressed in a rush, her hands moving mechanically as she tugged on thick boots and a woollen jumper, pulling the heavy coat over her shoulders like a shield against the unforgiving District Twelve mornings. The air outside bit at her skin, the cold seeping through every layer with a sharp, breath-stealing force. God, she really wasn't used to it. And she didn't think she ever would be. She hated the cold.

Once from Four, always from Four. She was a beach girl, not a snow one. (Note the irony.)

She raised her hand to knock, then faltered.

Maybe he was still asleep. He hadn't told her when to come, or whether he'd come to get her himself. It was like he was giving her the choice, putting her on edge, forcing her to figure it out. Or maybe it was just indifference. Her fingers hovered just inches from the door, hesitation crawling down her spine.

And, as if it wasn't enough, she remembered she hadn't had coffee. In the chaos of leaving the house, all energy and avoidance, she'd skipped that one little habit—the tether to normalcy that kept her grounded. Now, she could feel the absence of it, and she started to feel annoyed. She was addicted to caffeine, and so what? Coffee was good.

Slowly, she lowered her hand, chewing on the inside of her cheek, the weight of the decision pressing down. Maybe it was too early. Maybe she should turn around, find coffee, and clear her head. Or maybe—

"Morning."

The door creaked open before Evelia could react. Haymitch was standing there, casually leaning against the frame like he hadn't just scared the life out of her. His hair was a wild mess, sticking up at odd angles, as if it were trying to escape him. He wore a wrinkled T-shirt and faded plaid trousers—definitely pyjamas, though they didn't look like they'd ever been bought for the purpose of sleep.

Evelia opened her mouth, but the words got stuck. "I didn't know when to come," she blurted, heat rushing to her cheeks as she instinctively took a step back. "I'm sorry—I can come back later—"

"Mystery girl, it's fine," Haymitch said as he ran a hand through his wild hair, only making it worse. "You're here now. Come in before you freeze your guilt off."

He stepped aside, the door swinging wider. The warmth of the house poured out, embracing her like a sigh.

Evelia glanced towards the kitchen, where she noticed the spotless counters—every dish from last night's dinner washed and put away. She couldn't help but remember his words to Mags, how he'd said he didn't feel like cleaning anymore. She guessed she had forced his hand.

"Take off your coat," Haymitch said, already moving past her. "Did you eat?"

Evelia shook her head, realising only too late that he couldn't see it. "No. But I don't eat in the mornings."

She draped her coat over the couch and joined him in the kitchen, where he was pouring himself something that smelled far too strong. He looked up at her, then nodded.

"Same."

"I do drink coffee though..." she added quickly.

Haymitch made a face, one that bordered on mock horror. "Coffee? Really?"

Evelia raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "Says the guy drinking alcohol at eight in the morning," she shot back.

"My house, my rules. I do whatever I want," he said with a wink.

Evelia chuckled. "You're weird."

"Coming from the girl who survives on nothing but caffeine and saltwater?"

She snorted, a grin tugging at her lips. "It's called standards."

He grinned back, taking a slow sip from his glass. "It's called denial."

Evelia couldn't hold back the giggle that escaped, and Haymitch laughed too; it was a nice sound, Haymitch's laugh. She hadn't realised she'd been hoping to hear.

Haymitch opened a cupboard, his gaze flicking across the shelves. "I believe I have some coffee... Burdock sent me some..."

"Burdock?" Evelia asked, tilting her head. "Who's that?"

Haymitch froze mid-motion, a faint shadow passing across his face.

"My best friend," he said quietly. "But we don't talk anymore."

Evelia stayed silent. She could see him avoiding her gaze, his attention now fixed too intensely on the shelves, as if the coffee beans had suddenly become the most important thing in the room. She didn't push. Everyone had their things they didn't want to talk about.

After a beat, Haymitch found what he was looking for—a half-empty bag of coffee beans—and held it up triumphantly. "They're still good! You do your coffee thing, though. I've forgotten how to do it."

Evelia took the bag of coffee beans from Haymitch with a smile, her fingers brushing against the rough fabric of the bag. She began measuring out the perfect amount, the familiar task grounding her in the moment. As the rhythmic sound of the grinder filled the kitchen, she focused entirely on the process, the warm, earthy scent of the beans filling the air. Haymitch, leaning back against the counter, watched her with an amused expression, his glass still in hand, the amber liquid swirling lazily inside as he sipped.

"You sure you don't want some?" Evelia asked as she prepared to boil the water.

"As sure as it comes," Haymitch muttered.

Evelia gave him a small grin, but she wasn't deterred. She decided she'd brew him some coffee anyway. Maybe, with a touch of milk and sugar, he'd find it more to his liking.

She moved with easy, practiced motions, measuring the water with care before setting the kettle on the stove to heat. She glanced over at Haymitch again—still leaning, still watching, a half-amused, half-curious look in his eyes. It was an odd thing to notice: how little he seemed to care about being seen, yet how intently he observed everything around him.

Turning back to the counter, Evelia grabbed the sugar and milk, getting to work on his cup. If she was going to brew him some coffee, she figured it might as well be something worth drinking.

"I said I didn't want coffee, mystery girl!" Haymitch protested, his voice tinged with annoyance from behind her.

"Ever had it with milk and sugar?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

"Don't see the point," he shrugged, his tone dismissive. "Good coffee doesn't need sugar. Not that there is such a thing as good coffee, though."

Evelia arched an eyebrow, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. "That's what people who can't make good coffee say."

Haymitch's chuckle came low and rich, the sound catching Evelia off guard, making her stomach do a little flip. He wasn't as detached as he pretended to be—not entirely, at least.

"Alright, barista," he smirked, leaning forward just slightly, clearly intrigued now. "You better not poison me."

Evelia finished stirring the coffee, adding just a touch more milk than usual, enough to make it smooth without drowning it in cream. She handed the cup to him with small smile.

Haymitch took the mug from her without a word, his fingers briefly grazing hers, but enough to make Evelia's breath catch. She focused on the floor for a second too long, pretending the moment hadn't happened, even as her pulse thudded traitorously in her throat.

He lifted the mug to his lips, face impassive, unreadable as stone. Evelia crossed her arms, leaning against the counter with practiced nonchalance, though her eyes didn't stray far from him. She wasn't desperate for approval, not really, but still, it was hard to ignore the flicker of tension curling in her chest.

Haymitch took a sip. Paused. Took another,  slightly longer this time, as if testing the taste against his better judgement.

Then, with the weight of a verdict, he gave a quiet grunt. "...Not horrible."

Evelia let out a laugh "Really?"

"I said not horrible," he said again, this time with exaggerated gravity. "Let's not pretend I handed you a medal."

"Oh, I'm well aware," she replied, lips twitching into a grin. "Medals are reserved for the truly exceptional. This—" she gestured to the mug, "—is barely above poison, I assume?"

He raised an eyebrow, taking another sip. "I've had worse."

"And that's the highest bar imaginable," she shot back.

Haymitch didn't argue. He just smirked, and took another sip.

Evelia sipped her coffee, the mug warm against her fingers as her gaze drifted to the window. Snow clung in delicate frost-laced webs across the glass, and the morning light, thin and silver, slipped across the kitchen floor in quiet slants. It felt like the kind of hush that belonged in libraries or graveyards. The kind of hush you didn't dare break.

Haymitch tilted his head, studying her with that unsettling stillness he did too well. "You always this stubborn?" he asked.

Without looking at him, Evelia lifted one shoulder. "Only when I'm right."

A soft scoff. "And modest. What a package."

She glanced at him, lips curving. "Says the guy who's been groaning like a grandpa since I walked in—and yet, miraculously, still sipping the coffee."

He raised the mug like a banner. "Tastes better than listening to you gloat."

That earned a laugh from her—quieter this time, more real—and she leaned back against the counter beside him. The space between them narrowed, just barely. Their arms didn't touch, but the warmth from him was suddenly tangible.

Then, his voice shifted. "You're different."

Evelia blinked. "Damn it Abernathy, I just made you coffee. You like it that much?"

"No," he said, shaking his head slowly. "I... I don't know. Doesn't matter."

The words shattered mid-air before he spun away as if scorched by the silence. The mug hit the counter with a sharp clink. Then his hands came up pressing hard into his eyes, like even the act of being awake was too much. Like breathing itself hurt.

Evelia stilled.

Something inside her twisted like she'd wandered into a memory that wasn't hers, a space not meant to be seen. It felt sacred in the worst way: not beautiful, but bare. She felt as if she wasn't supposed to be here.

What was going on? Was he okay?

Was her coffee that bad?

He inhaled again. Then again. Slower. Sharper. The air catching on invisible splinters.

She didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Didn't know how.

The silence thickened like snowfall.

"...Haymitch?" Her voice came out barely above a whisper, like anything louder might break the moment into pieces too sharp to mend.

He didn't answer.

His hands dropped from his face with a sluggish drag, as though gravity was heavier on him than it was on anyone else. His fingers traced lines in his skin—deep grooves from too many sleepless nights—and though his shoulders shifted subtly toward her, his eyes didn't follow.

They fixed on the cupboard behind her.

Like if he looked at her, he'd fall apart.

Evelia stepped forward. Her voice softened again, careful as a whisper through broken glass. "You okay?"

There was a pause. The kind that felt deliberate. Like it was buying time.

Then, flatly, "Yeah. Sorry. I get migraines. It's fine."

Evelia narrowed her eyes. He was lying. She could feel it in her bones.

But truths like that—you didn't pry them out. You waited. Or risked shattering something fragile and maybe important.

So she moved to the sink. Carefully, she filled a glass with water, then gently walked back to the boy.

"This helps sometimes," she murmured, offering it to him. "When I get panic attacks."

She didn't think that's what this was. Not exactly. It felt older. Heavier. Like something had reached through time and memory and touched a wound he hadn't noticed was still open. But she wasn't going to say that.

He looked at the glass. Just looked. One second too long. Enough for her to wonder if he'd heard her at all. Then his fingers brushed hers as he took it.

A spark.

Too soft to be accidental. Too quick to be sure.

He drank as if grounding himself one mouthful at a time. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor, like he expected it to answer something he hadn't asked out loud.

"Thanks," he said, voice scraped thin.

Just one word. But it thudded in the air like a dropped stone.

"You could've told me you hated coffee that much," she joked, eager to ease the tension.

Haymitch giggled. "I told you like, five times. You're just stubborn as hell."

He then cleared his throat. "You get those a lot?" he asked. "Panic attacks?"

She hesitated, her mouth tugging slightly, then gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Yup. Sometimes a few in a day. Usually when it gets... too quiet."

He let out a sound that wasn't quite a laugh and wasn't quite a sigh. Something in between. The kind of sound that said, Yeah. I get it.

He leaned back against the counter, both hands wrapped around the glass like it tethered him to the room. Or the moment.

"Funny," he said. "Everyone wants peace. But when it finally shows up... it makes everything else louder."

She nodded. Because he was right.

The silence was the hardest part. It carried the weight of every scream they couldn't forget. Every face. Every night. She spent all her time wrapped in it. Couldn't stand the stares. The questions. The noise of people pretending things were fine.

And Haymitch? From what she knew and what she'd seen, he was the same. The Games hadn't ended for either of them. They'd just changed shape.

For him, the edge dulled with alcohol.

For her, nicotine did the trick.

Neither fixed anything.

But at least it made the quiet bearable.

"Anyway," Haymitch muttered, pushing off the counter with a groan. "Think I'll go shower. Put on something vaguely presentable."

Evelia gave a small nod. "Right. Good idea."

He flashed her a grin. "I'm bursting with them."

She snorted weakly.

"Sure," she said. "Changing from one set of rumpled clothes to another so you can haunt the town square isn't exactly revolutionary."

Haymitch shrugged, already heading toward the stairs. "You say that now. Just wait till the Capitol names it fashion-forward."

Evelia's laughter bubbled out, a quiet shake of her head following it. But before she could settle into the silence, Haymitch did the unexpected. He turned back, footsteps heavy as he made his way down the stairs again.

She raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Forgot something?"

"Actually, yes."

He reached for his cup of coffee, taking a slow sip like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. Then, without a word and his cup in hand, he headed back to the stairs, his back already turned.

Evelia's lips curled into a smile, watching him from the kitchen.

"Don't say anything, mystery girl," he called back, not looking at her.

"I would never."








·✦·

The morning air of District Twelve bit through Evelia's skin as she and Haymitch walked down the deserted streets. The only sound came from the occasional creak of old wood, the wind stirring the scattered snowflakes across the jagged cobblestones. The buildings loomed around them, their grey walls bearing the weight of neglect. Some had shattered windows, others leaned dangerously against one another, like they might collapse at any moment under the burden of time. It was so far removed from District Four that Evelia couldn't bring herself to believe it was even the same country. Or planet.

The snow crunched underfoot, a harsh reminder of the cold that gnawed at their bones. But it wasn't the temperature that made Evelia's chest ache. No, it was something deeper, the stifling atmosphere of the place, the quiet weight of something lost, never to be found again.

She glanced sideways at Haymitch, who walked beside her with a steady but indifferent presence. His shoulders were hunched against the cold, hands buried deep in his pockets, strands of blond hair falling over his face. He moved slowly, with a sort of weary indifference that made it hard to tell if it was exhaustion or just the same apathy that coloured everything in his life. His eyes were fixed on the cracked pavement ahead as if his thoughts were somewhere else—perhaps in the past, or maybe just waiting for the next bottle to ease the ache. Evelia wasn't sure. But she could feel the absence of urgency in his steps, the way his movements seemed reluctant to go anywhere at all. The Hob wasn't a place he wanted to be, but it was a place he knew all too well.

Evelia, however, couldn't shake the unease that clung to her like a shadow, following her every step. The cracked concrete beneath her boots felt more like a prison with every stride, pulling her deeper into a world she didn't quite understand. She'd confessed to Haymitch her unease about visiting the Hob, how strange it felt for a District Four victor to walk into Twelve's black market. But he'd reassured her, saying it didn't matter what they thought. As long as you had money to buy, you were just another customer.

Haymitch led her through narrow alleys, the air growing colder with every turn, thick with the smell of wet wood and ash. She couldn't ignore the way his gaze darted over every nook and cranny, his eyes always searching, always alert. He was never truly at ease, even when he tried to hide it.

They finally reached the Hob, its door creaking open as they stepped inside. The air was thick with the murmur of low voices and the sharp sting of alcohol. Lanterns flickered weakly, casting strange, shifting shadows over the wooden tables where people hunched together, their faces barely visible through the haze of cigarette smoke. They all seemed to fade into the background, indistinguishable from the grime that clung to the walls.

Haymitch moved through the room with the ease of someone who belonged here, his steps confident. He nodded to the bartender, who immediately placed a bottle of something strong—something Evelia didn't have to ask about—on the counter. Haymitch's hand rested on it lightly, a claim without a word.

Evelia lingered off to the side, observing the exchange. To an outsider, it was obvious she didn't belong here, but Haymitch was right; no one cared.

The smoke in the air stung her eyes, and her thoughts drifted to a small display of cigarettes she'd seen earlier. She moved toward the counter, scanning the shelves with an absent air. Her fingers brushed over the items, her mind focused elsewhere. She didn't care about the other people in the room, their faces blurred into nothing more than background noise. It was the escape they provided that mattered.

She found the cigarettes, paid, and left the woman a generous tip before slipping away without waiting for thanks.

When she returned to Haymitch, he was already halfway through his first drink, the amber liquid catching the light in a way that made it look almost inviting—almost as if it could drown out the world, just for a moment. But Evelia knew better. No amount of alcohol could erase the sharp, biting truth of reality.

She stood beside him for a moment, watching the people around them, the weight of the silence pressing down on her once again. When they finally left the Hob, the bitter cold of the streets hit her all over again. She pulled a cigarette from her pocket, lit it, and inhaled deeply. The smoke filled her lungs, the world narrowing around the warmth of the flame.

"I want to take you somewhere, Evelia," Haymitch said at last.

Evelia turned, blonde hair catching the pale light, her brows knitting as she studied him. He wasn't looking at her. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, jaw tense, brows drawn low in a troubled knot. His nose scrunched in a way that made him look younger, somehow; a teenage boy again. She forgot he was her age. But there was something off in the air around him. That tight, coiled silence she'd felt back at his house—it was creeping in again.

She straightened a little. "Are you okay?" she asked carefully.

Haymitch gave a short nod, though it lacked conviction. His shoulders shifted as though the gesture cost him more than it should've. He still didn't look at her.

"Yeah. Just come."

He took off down the street, steps quicker than before, like whatever he was walking toward might vanish if he didn't reach it in time. Evelia followed without question, though something about the shift in his pace stirred unease in her chest. 

District Twelve unfolded around them in hushed tones. Broken buildings slumped against one another like tired old men. The streets were near-empty, painted in dull greys and browns, but Haymitch cut through them like he'd walked the route a hundred times in his sleep.

They reached a bridge—thin and creaking beneath their weight—and crossed it in silence. On the other side, a long stretch of snow-dusted earth led to a rusting fence that loomed in front of the forest like a warning line. The trees beyond stood tall and still, frosted branches like skeletal fingers against the sky.

Evelia frowned and pointed to a worn sign bolted to the metal.
DANGER: HIGH VOLTAGE. FENCE UNDER ELECTRICAL TENSION.

"It's under tension," she said warily.

Haymitch gave a dry laugh that sounded more like a scoff. "It's not."

She raised a brow. "How do you know, genius?"

"Listen," he said simply. "Can you hear the electricity?"

Evelia hesitated, then stepped closer. The wind stirred her hair, sending a chill across her neck as she leaned in. She waited—ears straining, heart thudding. But there was no buzz. No hum. No telltale crackle of current running through metal.

Nothing.

He was right.

Her breath clouded the air in front of her. "It's off," she whispered.

Haymitch didn't answer. He was already reaching for a loose segment of the wire. His fingers moved with practised ease, brushing snow off a small section of the fence where the wires sagged, bent out of shape from years of neglect. He crouched, tugged once—twice—and found the opening. It gave with a soft metallic groan, just enough space for someone thin to slip through.

He glanced back at her. "Come on."

Evelia hesitated only a second before ducking under the wire he held up. The cold grass brushed against her coat as she slipped through, boots crunching against the frost-laced earth. On the other side, the forest waited. It was beautiful, she had to admit it.

Haymitch followed after her, letting the fence drop behind them with a dull thud. Then, without a word, he started forward, weaving between the trees.

Evelia trailed after him, her breath forming clouds in the air, her heart pounding for reasons she couldn't quite name. The forest was dense at first—tall evergreens dusted in snow, branches reaching low, occasionally brushing her shoulders. The silence was thick, the kind that made every step feel loud, every snapped twig like a gunshot.

But Haymitch moved like he belonged there. Like this was muscle memory. Like he'd been coming here for years.

"How do you know this place?" she asked quietly, her voice nearly swallowed by the snow.

He didn't look back. "I used to come here. Before."

Before. The word lingered.

After several long minutes, the trees began to thin. Evelia felt the change before she saw it—the shift in light, the openness ahead. And then they stepped through the last line of trees... and there it was.

A wide, frozen plain stretched out before them, blanketed in snow so white it almost glowed under the pale sky. The silence here was deeper, softer. Untouched. Peaceful in a way District Twelve never was.

And scattered across the field were the remains of old buildings—just a few, broken and hollow, their wooden frames warped by time and weather. A small handful of structures, barely clinging to what they once were. Forgotten pieces of Twelve that hadn't been swallowed by the mines or buried under ash.

Evelia let the silence stretch for a moment, taking in the broken cottages, the skeletal outlines of a past that had been buried beneath soot and silence. The wind whispered low through the field, stirring flakes of snow that sparkled like shards of glass.

Then she turned to him. "Why'd you bring me here?"

Haymitch didn't answer right away. He shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat, boots shifting slightly in the snow as if the question carried more weight than he'd expected. His eyes were on the horizon, where the ruins met the tree line.

"Because no one watches this place," he said finally. "No cameras. No Peacekeepers. No Capitol bugs buried under rocks. It's... off the grid."

He looked at her then and for a moment the usual sarcasm in his expression dropped away, replaced with something quieter. Steadier.

"I thought if we were going to talk, it should be somewhere we could actually breathe."

Talk.

Evelia wanted to talk to Haymitch. There was so much to say, so much that had been left unsaid, until this moment. And from the way the shadows clung to his eyes, the tension that held his mouth tight, she could tell he did too.

The wind stirred around them,. It wasn't the bite of winter, it was the kind that made you shiver without warning. The silence between them didn't feel empty anymore. It felt like a thread, thin and fragile, ready to snap under the weight of words.

She glanced at him, half-daring him to speak first. "Who should start?"

Haymitch's breath escaped in a dry puff, a near-laugh, but there was no humour in it. "Go ahead. I've got a feeling your questions are tied to what I'm already planning to say."

Evelia raised an eyebrow, challenging him. "You think you know what I'm going to ask?"

He didn't answer, but the corner of his mouth quirked, as if he wanted to smile, but couldn't quite make the gesture fit.

She crossed her arms, her breath escaping in a quick, controlled exhale. "Alright then." Her voice dipped, heavy with something unspoken. "What were you warning me about... at the Capitol?"

Her words fell like stones between them, and for a breathless moment, the forest around them seemed to hold its own. Even the wind paused, waiting.

Haymitch didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted to the snow-covered earth below, then out toward the broken ruins in the distance, the ghosts of a past neither of them could escape. He turned away slightly, one hand rising to his neck as if the weight of the question was pressing too hard.

"Do you know who Yohan Fairbairn is?" His voice was low, almost distant.

Evelia blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. "Yeah. She won the Forty-Third Games. District Two, right?"

He nodded, his eyes narrowing against the icy wind. "I met her last summer, during your Games. She's a mentor too."

His voice caught, just for a second; barely noticeable, but there. A roughness crept in around the edges, as if the memory stung too much. He cleared his throat quickly, like he was trying to shake the words loose, but they kept getting caught on something heavy inside him.

Both his tributes had died quickly. The girl's death had been brutal—bloody and violent, the kind of thing that left scars on everyone who saw it.

She looked down at the snow, unsure what to do. Should she comfort him? Say something? He didn't seem to want pity, but the urge to offer it burned low in her chest.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Haymitch shook his head, dismissing the words as though they were little more than dust. "It's fine. That's not what I meant."

He exhaled, rubbing his jaw as his breath formed clouds that vanished in an instant. The silence stretched, pulling between them like a taut rope.

"Anyway," he continued, his voice growing rougher, "when there were five of you left in the arena, Yohan came to talk to me."

Evelia's eyes snapped back to him, startled. "Why?"

Haymitch hesitated, lips pressed tight, his eyes far off, as though the past were a place he couldn't quite leave. The wind picked up again, carrying with it the soft whispers of snowflakes.

"She... she needed help," he started, his voice quieter now, as though the words weren't easy to let out. "Yohan... she wasn't just playing the Games. She was caught up in something worse than that."

"After the Games, she went back to the Capitol. You know the drill. They don't just send you home when you survive. They parade you around like a trophy," he continued, his fingers tightening around the bottle in his hand. "But Yohan? She didn't go home. Not the way they promised. She got pulled into them. Some people in the Capitol, they own the tributes. They profit from them, keep them in line with promises of fame, luxury, everything they could want."

Evelia's stomach churned, and the warmth from her cigarette seemed to vanish with the weight of his words. She'd heard the whispers, the rumours about the darker dealings in the Capitol, but hearing it from Haymitch made it all too real. All too close.

"Yohan came to me for help," he said. "She knew how things worked. She wanted out. The Capitol's grip... it was choking her. But I couldn't just—" He stopped, the words stuck in his throat like they didn't want to be freed.

Evelia shifted, not wanting to crowd him but unwilling to let the silence fall too heavily between them. There was more, she knew it, but he was slow to pull it out, like a man digging through old wounds, reluctant to revisit them.

"Anyway," Haymitch continued, his voice ragged now, "she tried to make it sound like she was just asking for help with the Games, but it wasn't just that. She was part of something darker. An underground network. They trafficked tributes for more than the Capitol's sick entertainment. They used her, and when I tried helping her, I found out that they started watching you too."

Evelia froze, the words hitting her like a blow. Her heart stuttered in her chest, the world spinning a moment too fast, like she might fall off the edge of it.

"What?" she whispered, her voice a jagged breath. Her stomach twisted.

"Yeah," Haymitch said, quieter now, resigned. "They were already watching you. Because you're pretty. Because you have the face of an angel. At least, according to them," he quickly added.

"Oh God..." she whispered, the words barely escaping her lips.

"Evelia, you're safe," Haymitch said, his grip tightening around her arm as if grounding her to the present. "Listen, I've seen the footage of you in the arena."

"What footage?" Her voice was sharp with disbelief, struggling to find any sense in his words.

"Your rebellion."

The pieces fell into place in an instant, the weight of his words settling into her chest like a stone. She hadn't understood before. But now, it was as if a door had been opened.

"Sing them the song you sang under that tree. And they'll let you choose," Haymitch had told her by the poolside, his voice urgent and full of quiet certainty. How could she have missed it? How had she been blind to what was happening?

"I thought I'd been censored," she muttered, her voice low, the confusion still a fog in her mind.

"You have been," Haymitch replied, his tone softer now, as though explaining something far too complicated to fit into simple words. "But... there's this guy at the Capitol. Plutarch. He's on our side. He showed me the footage before they were deleted. He wanted me to see it, to show me that I wasn't alone."

Evelia's gaze locked with his, her heart suddenly painfully aware of the weight of his words.

"Alone?" she repeated, the word tumbling out of her mouth.

Haymitch bit his lower lip, his chest rising and falling with a deep breath as he locked eyes with Evelia. The rawness in his gaze made her heart thud against her ribs, but she didn't look away.

"I rebelled myself in my arena too."

"...You what now?" Evelia's voice cracked, the words barely more than a whisper, shock freezing her in place.

Haymitch let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe he was about to say it out loud. His hands moved without thinking, drawing shapes in the snow with his fingers, now red because of the cold.

"Yeah. I tried breaking the arena's brain by drowning it. I somewhat succeeded, but it started working again seconds later." He paused, the ghost of a bitter smile crossing his face before it disappeared into the cold air. "I... I lost a precious ally doing it. And then, obviously, the forcefield episode with the axe. That one really pissed Snow off. Made him and the Gamemakers look like fools."

Evelia said nothing, her breath coming slow as she absorbed his words, her mind racing. She didn't know what to say to something so raw, so broken.

"A lot's happened," he continued, his voice lower now, almost reluctant. "And I... I don't really feel like talking about it. Thing is, the footage of my Games, it's been heavily edited. Almost everything about it is inaccurate. Snow blamed me for everything. When I came home after the Games, after being in the Capitol for two weeks..."

His voice faltered. His hand dropped in the snow, giving up on the silly drawings, and for a long moment, he didn't move. Evelia felt something shift in the air, a heavy weight pressing down around them as Haymitch's eyes glazed over.

Tears started streaming down his face, tracing silent paths through the dirt on his skin. Evelia's chest tightened as she watched him break open, a boy who had buried everything under sarcasm and bitter words, now crumbling before her.

"He killed my Ma and my baby brother. In a fire. He burnt my house and my family. It's all my fault, Evelia. All my fault." His voice cracked, the words slipping out like a confession too heavy to bear. "I was supposed to bring water to Ma the day of the Reaping, but it was my birthday, so I just wanted to make some money, spend time with Burdock... If I'd listened to her... She and Sid would still be alive."

The words hung in the air, each one sharp, each one cutting deeper than the last. Evelia stood frozen, the world around her narrowing until it was just the sound of her own breath and the weight of Haymitch's pain pressing down on her. She felt it, all of it, as if it was her own, every word he spoke a familiar echo in her chest. She understood him, she really understood him. She had been through similar things. The loneliness, the guilt, the desperate longing for something that could have been different.

There was a selfish relief in knowing she wasn't alone. That in this world of cruelty, someone else had lived through the same horrors. But that relief was quickly suffocated by the gut-wrenching truth of it: Haymitch was in the same pain, and that knowledge made her feel smaller somehow, as though the weight of it all had doubled.

"It's not your fault, Haymitch. I mean it." Her voice was soft, and she stepped closer, her eyes never leaving his. She could see the flicker of disbelief in his gaze, the self-blame still heavy in the set of his jaw. She didn't care if he didn't believe her yet. She wouldn't back down.

When he gave her that look (the one that seemed to say he couldn't quite accept her words) she stood her ground, her heart beating faster as she reached out, her hand just inches from his. "It's not. You didn't burn down your house. You didn't kill them. You were a victim, too. You didn't ask to be a tribute. You stood up for what was right, and you payed a price you should've never have paid."

She meant every word. Because deep down, she knew. The Capitol had a way of twisting everything, making survival feel like a crime, making them feel responsible for everything they had lost. But it wasn't Haymitch's fault.

"Snow killed my dad too, you know," she said, her voice steady but edged with the ghosts of memories long buried. "My dad, he trafficked our District's urns when I was four, you see. All the papers had Snow's name on it. Somebody saw him and ratted him out to a Peacekeeper. They took him away a week after. For years, I didn't know where he was, if he was even still alive. It was haunting me, I kept thinking of where he could be, what Snow was doing to him... I felt so guilty staying in Four, acting as if everything was fine when my dad was going through hell. But the night before my Games, Snow wanted to see me. And he told me he killed him."

Haymitch's grey eyes softened, sorrow seeping into his expression. He didn't speak immediately, his silence more telling than words ever could be.

"I did help him, you know. My dad," Evelia continued, her voice quieter now, the past creeping in. "Helped him distribute flyers against Snow and the Capitol. If I hadn't, maybe he wouldn't have trafficked the urns. Maybe he'd still be alive. I s'pose I have a part of responsability in his death."

Haymitch's gaze never wavered. "You were a kid, Evelia," he said quickly. "It's not your fault."

Evelia paused, her chest tightening as her own words cut through the air like a blade. "So were you, Haymitch," she shot back softly. "You were just a kid too."

Their eyes met, and for a fleeting moment, there was no need for words. They both knew. They both carried the same scars. They were, in so many ways, the same.

And they weren't alone anymore.

Chapter Text

"I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd banish us – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one's name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!"

-Emily Dickinson

 

·✦·

 

 

 

 

 

Seven days.

That's how long the Capitol's glittering, all-powerful Rails system had been out of order. How long Evelia and her unit had been marooned in District Twelve.

Not that she minded.

There was something about Twelve that curled around her ribs and made her chest rise easier. The air was thinner, but somehow lighter. The mountains loomed like quiet sentinels, the forest breathed in sync with her, and the whole district offered a kind of silence she hadn't realised she needed.

She couldn't name what calmed her. Perhaps it was the smell of pine sap. Perhaps the wind threading through the ruined fences. Perhaps it was the way people here looked you in the eye, even when they flinched doing it.

Whatever it was, it made her feel less like a grenade with the pin halfway pulled.

In the past week, she'd only had five panic attacks. Only five. And three nights (three whole nights!) she'd managed to sleep straight through without the weight of a nightmare dragging her under like chains in a river.

That counted as healing, didn't it?

Or maybe it was just a lull in the storm.

Don't get her wrong. Evelia loved her home. She loved Four with its sun-bleached docks and crashing waves, the way the salt clung to your skin like a second layer, the rhythm of life marked by tides and gull cries.

The sea was in her bones. The scent of brine, the cut of wind off the harbour. Home.

But ever since she'd come back from the Games, something had shifted. Not in Four. In her.

It was like trying to return to a house that still looked the same, but someone had rearranged all the furniture while you were gone. Familiar, but wrong in all the ways that mattered.

She used to walk those streets invisible. Just another girl hauling nets, elbows grazed, hair windswept.

Now? Eyes followed her. Whispered her name like it was sacred. Or cursed.

She had gone from nobody to somebody, and not by choice. Their glances weren't admiration. They were filled with the kind of fear you give to things that have survived something they shouldn't have. The kind of attention that made your skin itch and your chest tighten.

And somehow, the sun didn't feel as warm. The ocean no longer sounded like freedom.

It sounded like everything she'd lost.

She hated the Capitol for that.

Hated Snow.

Not just for the Games. Not just for the deaths. But for the quiet, cruel theft of things no one ever thought to grieve, like the sound of waves against the pier, or the way her father used to hum when gutting fish, or how the sea used to smell like hope.

President Snow had taken all of it from her. The ocean. Her home. Herself.

And he hadn't needed to lift a single finger to do it.

Now, no matter where she went, it all felt foreign. Four had become a backdrop, a place that looked the same but no longer recognised her. Like even the salt in the air recoiled from her skin.

She'd locked herself in the new house the Capitol gifted her. A "Victor's Home," they called it, as if that title was something noble. As if victory hadn't come at the cost of every soft and sacred part of her.

But the walls stayed cold. The ache stayed.

She wasn't sure when it started, but she stopped calling it "home."

And yet... here. In Twelve. Among cracked streets and coal dust, forests full of ghosts and rebellion, she could breathe.

Maybe it wasn't home either.

But it felt like the first place that didn't expect her to pretend.

Evelia had spent more time with Haymitch than she ever expected to.

Looking back, it was strange, how easily their paths had twisted together. Haymitch Abernathy, the boy who hid behind silence and liquor, who kept everyone at arm's length with a glare or a bitter laugh, had let her in. 

She hadn't pushed. And he hadn't run.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he saw the same fracture in her that lived inside himself. A life cracked down the middle by President Snow's touch. Maybe pain recognised pain.

Evelia liked to think he'd let her stay because, in some quiet way, it helped. Knowing he wasn't alone. Knowing she wasn't. That someone else understood the sharp, echoing emptiness, the anger that sometimes burned too hot to hold.

She didn't need him to say it.

But in his silence, in the spaces where most people would have left... Haymitch didn't. And that, somehow, said enough.

Evelia didn't like how much he drank.

It gnawed at her, this helpless ache that surfaced every time she saw the bottle in his hand, or heard the way his voice slurred at the edges when the day wore thin.

She was worried. Deeply. Desperately. Not because she thought she could fix him—she wasn't naïve—but because she cared. And that made it worse.

So she tried.

She knew addiction didn't vanish like smoke. It clung. Dug its claws in. But Evelia also knew change never started with grand gestures. It started small.

She began by hiding the bottles with the strongest burn. Swapped his wine glass for water without saying a word. Sat with him through the long, silent hours when the weight of the air felt denser than the hangover pressing behind his eyes.

And then, on the third day, she pushed harder.

She made him leave the house.

The irony wasn't lost on her. Evelia Crimson Vane (who had spent months locked inside her own home in Four, barely crossing the threshold, afraid of the way the world kept moving when she no longer could) was dragging someone else outside. She wasn't used to the sky anymore. To air that didn't taste like stillness.

But this wasn't about comfort. Not hers, and not his.

They were heading to the woods beyond the District's barriers, the place where rules thinned and truth had room to breathe.

It was where they talked. Really talked. About the things Snow had done. About the ways he'd broken them, slowly, deliberately. Like a sculptor chipping away until nothing soft remained.

Evelia liked the woods. There were none like them in Four. The silence there was different; clean, not suffocating. She liked the crunch of snow beneath her boots, the quiet flutter of birds darting between branches, the way the cold bit at her cheeks but left her lungs feeling clearer.

She talked a lot out there.

Endlessly, sometimes. About anything. Everything.

And Haymitch listened.

Not always with words. Most times, he just walked beside her, eyes narrowed against the wind, jaw tight. But he heard her. She could tell.

Because every so often, he'd say something that looped back to something she'd thought he'd ignored. Or he'd do something small; hand her a scarf when she hadn't mentioned the cold, shift the path they were walking to follow the prints of a fox she'd admired the day before.

He didn't say he cared.

He didn't have to.

She could feel it in the way he stayed.

Haymitch still hated coffee, though.

No matter how many times she brewed it—strong, sweet, black as the sky before dawn—he grimaced like it was poison. Evelia hadn't managed to fix that particular flaw in his taste yet.

But she was working on it. One day, he'd understand what how good coffee was, Evelia would make sure of it. Because only morons hated coffee.

And when Evelia wasn't with Haymitch, she found herself with Mags.

Over the past week, they had grown closer. Much closer than she'd ever expected. Mags, the mentor who had once been a distant figure in Evelia's life, had become something like a quiet anchor. Evelia had poured out everything to her: her father, her mother taking the tesserae that had bound her daughter's fate, and the Capitol's twisted plans to add her to their traffic.

Mags had listened. She didn't need to speak to make Evelia feel safe.

Her presence alone was enough. There was a maternal warmth about her, a silent strength that reached deep, settling Evelia's restless heart.

In her company, Evelia's shoulders could finally relax. There was no need for words. Mags had already said everything with a touch, a look, a shared silence.

"Evelia, darling, rise and shine!"

No. Not today.

The bubbling and saccharine voice poured through the walls like syrup, far too sweet for the hour.

Evelia groaned, reaching out with a half-conscious arm to grab the pillow beside her and drag it over her face, as if fabric alone could guard against the whirlwind that was about to descend.

Zephyria.

Of course it was Zephyria.

Even her name sounded like champagne fizz and confetti, something glamorous and insufferable.

What does she want now?

Zephyria rarely left the crystal-encrusted suite the Capitol had assigned her, probably out of fear of encountering anything as common as reality. Which could only mean one thing: she'd been building up energy like a storm behind glass, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Evelia didn't move. She let the pillow smother the morning, hoping, absurdly, that stillness might make her invisible.

But Zephyria was not the type to be deterred by silence. The door burst open with a theatrical flourish, and a gust of artificial citrus perfume came with her. She threw the curtains wide, and morning light exploded into the room like a firework display.

"I have marvellous news!" she chimed.

Evelia sat up with the slow horror of someone rising into a nightmare.

"The rails are fixed," Zephyria announced.

Evelia choked. "What?"

Zephyria clasped her hands, positively gleaming with delight. Her teeth looked too white, too perfect. Too Capitol.

"Yes! The train's ready. Your Victory Tour begins tonight, darling. Isn't that just thrilling?"

The Victory Tour.

Evelia had forgotten all about it.

Utterly. Entirely.

In the haze of quiet mornings with Mags and long walks through the snow with Haymitch, the real reason she was even in District Twelve had slipped from her mind like smoke through fingers. It should've been impossible to forget something so heavy, so suffocating. But somehow, between the silences and the half-smiles, she had.

But the tour was waiting.

Evelia's first thought was of Haymitch.

Did he know she and Mags were leaving tonight? Would anyone bother to tell him, or would he find out when Evelia wouldn't visit him today?

Her stomach twisted.

He'd be alone again. Not that he'd say it out loud. He'd probably wave her off with one of those half-hearted shrugs, pretend it didn't matter. But it did. She knew it did.

And he'd probably relapse.

All the effort she'd poured into helping him, all the mental strength it took him to drink less than he used to...

Gone.

"So we're just... leaving?" Evelia asked, her voice flatter than she intended. "Just like that?"

Zephyria beamed, entirely unaffected by the weight pressing on Evelia's chest. "Well, not just like that, darling. You still have to give your speech, of course." She clapped her hands together.

"But yes," she continued, all saccharine smiles and Capitol shine. "The moment you finish, we're off to Eleven."

Evelia bit her lip and nodded.

So that was it.

The brief pause Twelve had given her was over. Snatched away just as quietly as it had arrived. She should've known better. She did know better. Letting herself breathe, letting herself feel... that was dangerous in Panem. Always had been.

Victor or not, no one was safe from the Capitol's clockwork.

And now the gears were turning again.

Evelia swallowed down the gnawing sadness clawing at her chest as her prep team flitted around her like delicate, determined birds.

They braided her hair into two clean plaits, soft and even. A sweep of minimalist makeup followed; a bit of concealer and mascara. Her makeup artist had explained there was no need for blush, as her cheeks would naturally turn red because of the cold.

They dressed her in simple, sturdy clothes: black trousers, a fitted coal-dark coat that hugged her frame against the wind, worn brown boots, and a white scarf wrapped snugly around her neck. Evelia asked for gloves. Firmly.

The second time she'd gone into the woods with Haymitch, she hadn't worn any.

And he'd told her casually that he'd once known a guy who lost a finger to the cold. Just like that, he'd said, snapping his fingers.

To say it traumatised her would've been an understatement.

She hadn't gone outside without gloves since.

Once she was ready, Evelia and her prep team stepped into the brittle morning light, boots crunching against frost-laced pavement as they made their way to the Justice Building. The wind was sharp enough to sting her eyes.

At the top of the steps, Zephyria turned to her with a gleaming smile and handed over a folded piece of paper. "Mags and I wrote it," she chirped.

Evelia's eyes flicked to Mags.

The older woman gave the barest shrug, her expression unreadable, but Evelia could tell. She hadn't written a word of it.

Evelia unfolded the speech with stiff fingers. Her stomach tightened with each line she read. It was everything she'd expected and dreaded: a Capitol-crafted monologue, dripping with rehearsed gratitude and hollow condolences. Thank the Capitol for their endless generosity. Praise the mercy they had extended. Offer sympathy to the families of the fallen, as though any words could stitch over wounds that deep.

A line at the end mentioned little Flint. Just a few sentences, just enough to prove the Capitol cared.

Flint, who had helped her gather water, who had watched the sky with her for a night and then eating poisoned berries.

The idea of speaking about him in front of his family—offering some polished, government-approved version of grief—made her stomach churn.

They didn't want her words.

They wanted their son back.

They wanted to grieve him without cameras watching.

Evelia looked away from the page, pressing her lips together to keep the nausea down.

Once they stepped through the tall doors of the Justice Building, a Peacekeeper silently gestured for them to follow. Evelia trailed behind Mags and her prep team, boots echoing against the cold marble floor as they wound through sterile corridors until reaching a room tucked away near the back.

It was larger than she expected, and lined wall to wall with shelves; an old library, long forgotten and heavy with dust. Evelia blinked at the sight of the books, slowing to a halt. Her breath caught in her throat.

She hadn't seen this many books in one place since... since before.

She stepped closer, fingers brushing the faded spines. There was something sacred about it. Something she hadn't let herself miss until this exact moment. Reading. Escaping.

God, she missed it.

Not that there was much to read anymore. Every book now twisted into Capitol-approved tales, each rewritten to serve the same narrative: loyalty, obedience, gratitude. History scrubbed clean. Heroes replaced with puppets. Happy endings brought to you by Snow.

But Evelia had always found ways to twist them back. In her mind, she rewrote the rewrites; stories where children didn't die, where rebels weren't monsters, where kindness didn't end in fire. She imagined a world untouched by the Capitol's poison.

A world without Snow.

A normal world.

"The hell you staring at?"

Evelia flinched, her heart skipping before her mind caught up. She spun around, pulse still uneven, only to find Haymitch leaning in the doorway like he hadn't just scared the soul out of her.

He looked... different.

He was wearing a crisp shirt (buttoned, ironed, an actual collar) and brown trousers that didn't look like they'd been slept in. His usually unruly hair was combed back, and someone had done his makeup, just lightly. Enough to make him look less like a ghost and more like someone the Capitol wouldn't be embarrassed to call a Victor.

The change was jarring.

He caught her staring and gave a small, almost imperceptible glance at her hair—at the two braids trailing over her shoulders. His gaze lingered a second too long, and when he looked back at her face, something flickered across his expression. Amusement, maybe. Affection, maybe. He masked it quickly.

"Books, Abernathy," she said, crossing her arms. "They're called books. Revolutionary concept, I know."

He smiled.

"Fuck you."

There wasn't much venom behind the words. Just a threadbare kind of fondness, the kind that slips through the cracks before either of them can catch it.

Evelia lifted an eyebrow. "Thank."

Haymitch shook his head, muttering something under his breath just as the door creaked open. Mayor Allister swept into the room like she had all the time in the world and none of the weight.

"Mr Abernathy," she said warmly, stopping a few paces from them. "It's good to see you. How are you?"

Haymitch gave a shrug, the kind that could've meant anything—or nothing.

"I'm fine."

He didn't elaborate. The silence that followed was so sharp it might've sliced through steel. It stretched on awkwardly, as if no one quite knew what to say or how to pretend anything was normal.

Evelia had to clamp her teeth together to stop a nervous laugh from escaping. She felt it rising in her chest like pressure from too much altitude.

Mayor Allister turned to Evelia instead.

"And you, Miss Vane. Welcome. I suppose, given the... circumstances, you've come to know District Twelve in more than one way."

Her tone was kind, but Evelia caught the flicker of calculation behind her eyes. She nodded, smoothing down the white scarf around her neck. "I guess you could say that," she said, her voice even. "District Twelve's full of surprises."

Haymitch scoffed before clearing his throat with exaggerated precision. Evelia swiftly kicked him in the ankle.

"Sorry," he said, lips twitching. "Allergies."

Mayor Allister blinked. Her brow furrowed, the expression soft but sceptical.

"In February?"

"Yeah," he replied, then corrected himself with mock formality. "I mean—yes. Ma'am."

"Right..." Mayor Allister paused, clearly unsure whether to press the matter further. She shifted her attention back to Evelia, the smile returning, a little more measured this time. "Anyway, I'm happy to see you and our victor get along so well. I hope you enjoyed Twelve. I know it's... a bit different from Four, but—"

Evelia didn't let her finish. She interrupted smoothly, the words coming out quicker than she intended but with sincerity she couldn't quite hide.

"It's lovely, Mayor Allister," she said, offering a polite smile. "Really."

The Mayor's eyes flickered for a brief moment, like she had expected more resistance, but she nodded and took a small step back, her smile softening.

"Well," she said, "I'll leave you two to speak."

And with that, Mayor Allister turned, heading toward Evelia's prep team. Haymitch, however, stayed where he was, his presence pulling Evelia's attention back to him. He stepped closer, a smirk playing on his lips, but there was something in his grey eyes that caught her off guard—a flicker of something... sad? Evelia couldn't quite place it, but it made her frown.

"So, you're leaving, huh?" Haymitch said, his tone teasing, though there was an edge to it. "Don't like coal?"

Evelia let out a short, sad laugh, bringing her finger to her lips, as though hiding the raw truth behind a mask.

"I fucking hate it."

Haymitch's smirk widened, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I knew you were a hypocrite."

Evelia raised an eyebrow, playing along. "I'm such a good actor, aren't I? I'm sure you really believed I enjoyed this place."

"I did. Snow would be proud."

The mention of Snow hit Evelia like a slap, and the air around them thickened instantly. The playful banter vanished, leaving only the chilling weight of his name hanging between them.

Silence settled.

"Nervous?" Haymitch asked. "For the speech."

Evelia nodded, once. The movement was small, but the storm behind it was anything but.
Terror coiled in her stomach, a slow, creeping thing that made it hard to breathe.
She didn't want to play President Snow's game. Didn't want to recite his carefully crafted lies with a smile plastered on her face. But the thought of defying him—of what might happen if she did—was worse.

Much worse.

She'd seen what he was capable of. And she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that his cruelty didn't come with limits.

"Thought so," he murmured, folding his arms and leaning. "My Ma had this trick she used on my brother. He'd get worked up every morning before school."

Evelia frowned, the question escaping before she could stop it. "Why?"

Haymitch shrugged, the motion uneven. "Never told me. He kept acting like everything was fine to not worry me or our mother." His voice caught, barely noticeable, but Evelia saw the flicker in his eyes, the way he blinked too fast, too suddenly. A flash of something he buried quick.

"Anyway," he said, clearing his throat, voice rougher now. "Could help. If you're willing to try it."

Evelia looked at him, really looked at him, and for a moment, she forgot how to speak.

It wasn't just the offer. It was the why behind it. The way Haymitch, who kept his past locked away like something too dangerous to touch, was willing to reach into those shadows and offer her a piece of it. A fragment of a memory that, by the tremble in his voice, probably still cut deeper than he let on.

Since the day he'd confessed the truth—about what really happened to his mum and brother—he hadn't spoken of them again. Not once. Not a name. Not a memory.

Because he was grieving. And grief wasn't a thing that passed. Not really. Not if you loved someone the way Haymitch had clearly loved his brother.

Evelia believed (no, she knew) that grief never vanished. It wasn't a phase or a wound that scabbed over. It was all the love you didn't get to give. All the words unsaid. The hugs unshared. The futures that had been stolen.

So you didn't heal from grief.

You carried it.

You learned to breathe with it pressing on your lungs. Learned to laugh with the ache still curled in your chest.

And that was why Haymitch's gesture hit so hard. Why it made her throat burn and her hands twitch with the urge to do something, anything, to show him what it meant. To hug him so tightly he'd feel how much she appreciated it.

But she didn't move.

Because Haymitch... he didn't do touch. Not easily. Not often. Not like her. Evelia loved physical touch. Haymitch, not so much.

"Yeah, sure," she said. "How do we do it?"

Something in Haymitch's expression softened. He reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair from her face.

It was nothing. A tiny gesture. Over in a second. But her breath snagged in her throat like a thread pulled too tight, and her cheeks flared hot with colour.

So did his. Not that he let her see. His hand dropped away like it had been burned, and his gaze darted to the far wall, as if maybe pretending it hadn't happened would erase it from the air between them.

"Right," he muttered, clearing his throat. "So, you want to close your eyes."

Evelia blinked. "Close my eyes?"

"Yeah."

She stared at him like he'd asked her to jump into a pit of mutts. "I don't want to close my eyes."

"Vane, just do it."

"You'll slap me the second I do!"

"Don't tempt me."

Evelia groaned dramatically, the sound halfway between frustration and reluctant surrender, and let her eyes flutter shut.

"Now?" she asked, already regretting agreeing to this.

"Now..." Haymitch said, his tone taking on a mock-serious quality, "visualise a door. What does it look like?"

She frowned behind her closed lids. "Like a door."

A beat.

"Oh God, Mystery Girl," Haymitch muttered. "Are you naturally this dense, or is it just a special talent of yours?"

"I'm messing with you," Evelia replied, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Relax."

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "not in this lifetime," but let it slide.

Evelia let her mind settle. Let the teasing fade into the background. She pictured a door.

It formed slowly at first, like memory knitting itself together.

She was standing in a house. Dust in the air, the kind that only shows up in sunlight. The door was a few metres in front of her. White, with a golden lock that looked more decorative than useful. The paint was flaking at the edges, peeled back like old bark on a tree. It had clearly been there a long time.

She described it to Haymitch, voice low and almost reverent, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the image.

"Alright," he said.. "Now... imagine the house you're in—every wall, every floorboard—is filled with your fear. Your anxiety. Whatever's clawing at your throat and sitting heavy in your gut."

Evelia swallowed.

"The second you open that door and cross through," Haymitch continued, "you leave all of it behind. It stays there. It doesn't get to follow."

"And what's waiting behind the door?" Evelia asked.

Haymitch took a moment, thoughtful. "Hm..." He frowned for a few seconds, clearly weighing the answer. "Peacefulness," he said slowly. "Imagine it like a shape, or a form. Something calm and colourful. What's your favourite colour?"

Evelia nearly laughed. She held it back, though, her lips twitching as she played along.

"Is it cliché if I tell you it's blue?"

She could hear the sharp intake of breath before he let out a small, amused sound. Then came the unmistakable, dry chuckle.

"Of course it is! The mermaid from District Four, the district of fishing, whose favourite colour is blue! You're such a cliché."

Evelia couldn't hold back any longer. She grinned, the smile spreading slowly across her face. "Fuck off. I'm sure yours is black, like the coal."

"Black is a shade, Vane."

"Right. My bad, genius." Evelia said.

Before she could say more, she felt a gentle tap at her ankle—Haymitch had kicked her, not too hard, but just enough to make her lose her train of thought.

She scowled, but it was more out of reflex than real irritation. "Ow. What the hell?"

"Focus," he said, his tone not unkind but firm, the way he would talk to someone when trying to get them to stop overthinking for a second.

With a deep breath, Evelia shook off the annoyance and turned her attention back to the mental image. She started her way toward the door, slow but steady, and placed her hand on the cool surface of the white door. She hesitated for a moment, then turned the handle and pushed it open.

But when she stepped through, she didn't quite see what Haymitch had described. Instead of some vague, colourful form, she conjured something far more concrete; a landscape.

The world she found herself in was the exact opposite of chaos. It was quiet. A wide, empty beach stretched out before her, the sand white and untouched by footprints. The water was so clear it seemed almost unreal, like it belonged to a painting. Small seashells dotted the shore, the quiet rhythm of the waves lapping against the sand like a soothing lullaby.

There was a gentle breeze, cool and refreshing against the heat that lingered in the air, lifting the ends of her hair. For a moment, the noise of her mind settled, quieting to match the peacefulness of the scene.

She walked slowly, taking in the view, until she turned back to look at the house. It was big, two stories, painted in a vibrant turquoise that somehow made it look even more inviting. It stood at the edge of the beach, like a quiet sentinel watching over the water.

She felt her shoulders relax, and for once, she didn't feel like she was running from anything. Her house. Her place by the sea. It was peaceful.

She didn't want to leave. To return to the weight of reality. But there was no choice in the matter, was there?

When Evelia opened her eyes, the familiar ache of anxiety still gripped her chest, but it wasn't as harsh as it had been before. It had receded, like the tide pulling back from the shore, leaving behind only a quiet undercurrent. The fear still gnawed at her insides, but it wasn't all-consuming anymore. It was... more bearable.

She could feel Haymitch watching her, a smile curling at his lips. His hands were buried in the pockets of his worn jacket. "Well?" His voice carried an edge of curiosity. "Did it work?"

"Yeah," she replied at last, her voice quiet but resolute. "Yeah, it worked."

Haymitch nodded once, his smile remaining, though it was small. Genuine, even. A rare thing.

"I'm glad."

Evelia shifted slightly, her thoughts turning inward, and she spoke again. "Your mum... she really seemed like a clever woman."

The words felt like an offering, as if she were reaching for something that had never been spoken aloud. When she met Haymitch's eyes, there was something more in her gaze, something that went beyond the surface, like she saw the layers of him most people missed.

For a moment, Haymitch's breath hitched, his face a mask of quiet surprise. Then, slowly, his eyes softened. There was a flicker of something (something human, something raw) that passed through him like a brief crack in stone. His posture, usually so stiff and guarded, relaxed ever so slightly, as if her words had eased a weight he hadn't even realised he carried.

He held her gaze longer than he usually would, his eyes lingering with an intensity that made her wonder if she'd said more than she intended. There was something in that look—something vulnerable—like he hadn't expected to be seen, and yet, for a fleeting second, he had been.

"She was," Haymitch murmured after a moment. "She... she knew how to handle things. People, mostly. Had a way of making you think you could actually do something, even when everything felt like it was falling apart."

There was a tremour in his voice. He looked down, blinking rapidly, as though the brief crack in his wall had left him exposed. When he met her eyes again, they were quieter, softer, a glimpse of something like gratitude in the shadows.

"You two would've gotten along," he said, his words thick with emotion, though he masked it quickly. Still, there was a brief, fragile flicker of something real. Something that spoke volumes without saying another word.

"Miss Vane, it's time!" Mayor Allister's called.

Evelia's heart skipped a beat, and her gaze flickered desperately to Haymitch, a silent plea for something, anything, that would make this easier. Haymitch saw it, the quiet panic in her eyes, and for a moment, he hesitated. Then, without a word, he stepped forward, crossing the distance between them with a swift stride.

He wrapped his arms around her, his embrace unexpected yet comforting. Evelia froze, stunned by the suddenness of it, unable to react immediately. But then, as the warmth of his arms enveloped her, a surge of relief washed over her, and she found herself leaning into him, her body sinking into the solace his presence offered.

His embrace was steady—exactly what she needed in that moment. She let her chin rest on his shoulder, closing her eyes to shut out the world, if only for a moment.

"Don't let Snow get to you again, Evelia," Haymitch whispered. "Please."

Evelia nodded slowly, her breath steadying as she gathered the courage to face what was coming. "I promise," she whispered back.

Haymitch held her for a few more seconds, his arms tightening just slightly before he slowly let go. His expression shifted—not dramatically, but enough for Evelia to notice something close to reluctance, as if part of him didn't want the moment to end.

She told herself she was imagining it. Hallucinating, maybe. Why would Haymitch Abernathy—sarcastic, closed-off, impossible Haymitch—hesitate to let her go?

Still, she offered him a small smile, one that held more emotion than she dared put into words, and turned to follow Mayor Allister.

Just before she stepped through the door, a hand reached out and caught hers. Mags. The older woman's grip was firm despite its tremble, her wrinkled fingers squeezing Evelia's in a quiet show of strength.

Evelia smiled again and let go.

And then she walked through the door.

Once Evelia stepped behind the stage, the weight of it all slammed into her. Her heartbeat thudded against her ribs like a warning drum, loud and uneven. Her palms were damp, her throat tight.

She couldn't do this.
She couldn't walk out there and lie straight to the faces of the people frim Twelve. She wasn't that kind of person. She had never been.

But she'd tried before, tried to speak the truth in the arena, to slip it between the cracks of the Capitol's narrative. Every time, they'd cut her off. Silenced her. Replaced her voice with static or a clean edit.

So what now?

District Twelve would hear her words today, sure. But what difference would it make? They already knew the truth, or at least enough of it to see through the gloss. But knowing wasn't the same as doing. They couldn't risk it.

They had families. Futures. Fragile lives built on quiet compliance.

They didn't want to become another Thirteen.

And neither did she. But wasn't she already halfway there?

Wasn't her family gone? Her father burnt out like the last dying embers of a fire no one had tried to save? Wasn't her life already in ruins, hollowed out by loss and lies and too many games played by people who never bled?

The only constant in the chaos was Mollie.

Sweet, stubborn, wide-eyed Mollie—her tether to what was left of the world. Panem might know Evelia's name now. Might brand her a symbol, a threat, a rebel. But Mollie? She was still just a girl. A secret the Capitol didn't fully own. And Evelia would protect her. From Snow. From the cameras. From the consequences.

She could hide her.

So when Evelia stepped onto the stage, heart a stone in her chest and the cold wind biting at her skin, she wasn't afraid anymore. Not in the way she'd been seconds ago.

Because she knew what to say.

As Evelia stepped onto the stage, silence slammed into her like a gale-force wind , sharp and cold and so heavy it nearly knocked the breath out of her lungs.

The square was crowded, but the hush made it feel... empty. Hollow. A graveyard with its eyes open.

Not a single cheer. No warm welcome. Just a sea of faces drained of colour, wrapped in threadbare coats, mouths set in lines carved by too many winters and too few meals. Old miners whose skin still carried soot like a second skin. Mothers shielding children with arms that shook from exhaustion. Teenagers with eyes dulled by truths they'd learned far too young. No anger. No curiosity. Just a bone-deep stillness. The kind that comes from people who have stopped expecting anything better.

The Peacekeepers flanked the crowd like statues, their polished white armour glaringly clean against the smoke-stained browns and greys of District Twelve. And behind Evelia, the Capitol's cameras hummed, ever-watchful, drinking in every breath, every flicker of emotion, like vultures waiting for a twitch.

She took the sheet of paper and unfolded it with hands that didn't quite stop shaking.

"Hi," she said, the word tumbling out awkwardly.

Silence answered.

She glanced toward the curtain where Zephyria stood just out of sight, arms crossed and expression sharp as a razor. That look said everything: Stick. To. The. Script.

"Right," Evelia muttered, clearing her throat. "Citizens of District Twelve. I stand before you today with a heavy heart and deep gratitude."

Her gaze swept the crowd again, searching for some flicker — recognition, reaction, anything. Nothing. Not even a blink.

"The Capitol has shown great generosity in honouring the victors of the Games," she continued, voice flat, automatic. "I... I've received more than I ever imagined. Food. Shelter. Safety. Things I know many of us still long for."

Us. That was laughable. She wasn't from here. She was from District Four; saltwater and sunlight and full plates. Not coal dust and broken dreams.

The words in her mouth tasted like ash.

Her prep team had insisted this would make her relatable. Empathetic. Human. It made her feel like a fraud.

"But today isn't about victory," she said, pushing past the bile rising in her throat. "Not really. It's about remembrance. We gather to honour the fallen, those who fought with strength, courage, and dignity."

Her voice softened.

"Your girl tribute, Birdie Wellgrove... she was murdered by the girl from Six. Brutally. Her eyes had been... poked out."

"I spoke with her during training," she went on. "She helped me. I was hopeless with an axe. She... she had this way of showing you without making you feel stupid."

A faint chuckle broke through the crowd. Evelia let the moment sit. Let it breathe.

"But Flint Cartwright," she said. Her voice wavered. "He—he was different. He told me about his little sister. How he knew he wouldn't make it. How all he wanted was for her never to be reaped."

She stopped, swallowing hard.

"He was just a boy. He shouldn't have been in that arena. None of them should. He should've been here, in this square, with his family. Laughing. Living."

Her voice dropped.

"But life in Panem isn't fair."

Silence again.

Then, something cracked in her. Something hot and jagged and sharp.

"No," she said. "Actually... life in the districts isn't fair. The Capitol's safe. Comfortable. Deluded. They don't see us. Not really. They watch us die on screens and call it entertainment. They feed us words like 'honour' and 'sacrifice' and expect us to smile while we starve."

Gasps rippled through the crowd — tiny, startled sounds. The cameras whirred louder.

Too late to stop now.

"They say I'm a victor," Evelia said. "But that arena doesn't make you a winner. It makes you a witness. And I'm done pretending I didn't see what I saw."

Zephyria quickly ran on stage and grabbed Evelia by the shoulders, forcing her to back away from the microphone.

"Right, I think we're good. Thank you for your time, my dears."

"But I'm not—" Evelia protested.

"You've done enough, Evelia," Zephyria hissed. "Come on."

She dragged her off the stage. As they exited the Justice Building through the back door, Evelia met Haymitch's gaze. His eyes looked watery, but he smiled at her—a big, genuine smile—as he gave her a thumbs-up. And that was enough for Evelia.

Haymitch Abernathy agreed with her. And as she walked to the train station, she realised she'd miss him.

She had someone to miss now.

And she wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

Chapter Text

July Fourth. Reaping Day.

Evelia had dreaded this day from the moment her train had pulled into the station after the Victory Tour, her face still stiff from forced smiles, her hands still trembling from memories she couldn't bury.

Now she was a mentor.

She would stand in that cold, sterile room with two terrified teenagers and promise them hope she wasn't sure existed. She would shape them, guide them, train them, send them to die. Probably. Almost certainly.

The weight of it pressed down on her chest. She wasn't ready at all.

She was still reeling from her allies' deaths; their laughter still echoed in her skull, their faces flickering behind her eyelids when she closed her eyes. And now, she had to do it again. Watch more lives unravel. Watch more dreams be crushed. Watch more blood soak into the ground of yet another arena.

And this time, she'd be sitting in a velvet chair, watching it all happen on a screen. As if distance could ever dull the horror.

Mags had tried to reassure her, her voice raspy.
"It won't be your fault, honey. Especially not your first time."
But Evelia wasn't sure she believed that.

Just because she'd survived the Games didn't mean she knew how to beat them. She hadn't killed any human being. Not directly anyway. She'd injured some people, fought mutts, stabbed a Megalodon to death.

(She still couldn't believe she did that. Stabbed a twenty metres shark to death? How did she even manage to get out of that blasted lake almost uninjured?)

She had survived by inches and instinct, but she hadn't emerged drenched in blood and glory.

And that wasn't how the Games worked anyway. Every year the board changed. New arena. New weapons. New horrors. No mentor had a map. Not even the oldest victors. Not even the Gamemakers themselves. The only tools were instinct, gut feelings, and a whisper of luck.

And the odds.
Always the odds.

But today, they wouldn't be in anyone's favour. Because today, two new names would be called. And Evelia would watch them walk up to the stage with wide, shaking eyes, and know (Know!) they wouldn't come back.

Her breath caught as the ceiling started to spin.

She flung herself out of bed before the panic could bloom, as if movement might silence her thoughts and running from them could make them stop chasing her.

The only flicker of comfort in Evelia's storm-wracked heart was the thought of seeing Haymitch again.

It curled inside her like a fragile flame, small but warm enough to coax a smile from her lips as she stepped into the stream of morning light filtering through the curtains. That smile stayed as she padded towards the bathroom, the cold floor grounding her with every step.

She missed him, way more than she wanted to admit.

There was a part of her that hoped he was doing alright. That maybe he hadn't slipped back into old habits. She wouldn't blame him if he had; the Games had a way of gutting a person and leaving the hollow space to be filled with whatever numbed the ache. For Haymitch, that had been alcohol.

But a piece of her still clung to the memory of that week in District Twelve. The week she'd spent pulling him out of his stupor, coaxing laughter out of the silence, replacing glass bottles with cups of bitter tea and something like friendship. Maybe he'd kept one or two of those habits. Maybe he still drank tea at night instead of drowning himself before noon.

And if he didn't?

Well. Who was she to judge? Grief wore different faces for everyone.

But what gnawed at her persistently wasn't the thought of his drinking.

It was the fear that he'd forgotten her.

That she'd step off the train in the Capitol, spot him in the crowd of victors and stylists and sponsors, rush up to him, her heart thudding with relief and eyes filled with tears of happiness, and find nothing in his eyes but polite confusion. What if he looked at her like she was a stranger?

That thought hurt more than it should've.

She turned the tap in the shower, letting the water steam up the mirror and erase her reflection. Somehow, that felt fitting.

Evelia fought to steady her racing thoughts. Rationality. That was what she needed. There was no reason Haymitch wouldn't recognise her, no reason at all. They had shared too many deep, honest conversations (too many moments of vulnerability and understanding) for him to simply forget her. Those were the kinds of memories that stuck, embedded into your bones.

But then again... alcohol had a cruel way of warping the mind, of turning even the most profound moments into hazy blurs. Evelia clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She wasn't sure if it was the thought of him slipping back into his old ways, or the terror of being forgotten, that bothered her most.

Evelia stepped out of the shower, the cool air wrapping around her. She reached for a towel, the rough fabric absorbing the water as she wrapped it around herself. Her eyes flickered to the mirror, the fog still clinging to the glass in lazy wisps, blurring her reflection into a soft, formless shape.

And then, something shifted.

Evelia's breath caught. Her reflection... it wasn't hers.

Her heart lurched in her chest, and before she could process the vision, she felt her knees lock, her body rigid with the shock of recognition... Or was it terror?

She jumped, her pulse hammering against her ribs as her breath hitched.

"It's just me. Relax."

Evelia spun around, her body trembling so violently she feared her legs would give out. Standing in the doorway, framed by the dim light, was Delta. 

Well, more like her ghost. Delta was dead, after all. Had been for almost a year now.

Evelia hadn't seen Delta in three months. Not since the worst of the nightmares had finally loosened their grip and the stupid hallucinations had stopped creeping in through the corners of her vision. She'd actually been doing better. Not healed, she wasn't naïve enough to believe in that kind of miracle, but better.

Coming back from the Victory Tour had done something to her. She'd seen other districts. Other victors. Other broken lives. And she'd realised she wasn't alone.

She wasn't the only one whose world had been shattered by Snow's cruelty. The Games didn't just take, they devoured. And somehow, knowing that gave her strength, gave her something to hold on to.

It gave her anger and purpose, which was enough to slowly bring her spark back to life. 

Maybe even a reason to get better. To stand tall, teeth bared, and look the president in the eye one day. She didn't know how. She didn't even have a plan (She never did, anyway. She sucked at plans, she kept drowning herself into meaningless details and always forgot to look at the bigger picture.)

That flaw had nearly gotten her killed more times than she could count inside the arena. And it would have, if not for Delta.

Delta, who had always been the steady hand, the voice of reason. Who pulled Evelia and Haldin back from the edge again and again, because Hardin (silly, endearing Haldin!) was even worse than Evelia was. More reckless, more stubborn, more likely to throw himself into danger if he thought it might save someone else.

And now Delta was here again. A ghost at the doorway.

Like she'd never died. Like she still had one more lesson to teach.

"Hi," Evelia whispered, the sound barely more than a breath, swallowed by the low whirr of the bathroom fan.

The word wasn't really meant for Delta. It was for the shadows in her mind. The guilt curled like smoke in her lungs. The grief she never fully unpacked from the arena. The girl she left behind, or maybe carried still in pieces.

She'd tried silence. Slamming doors, clenching teeth, pretending Delta wasn't watching from the edges of mirrors or breathing through the cracks in her nightmares.

But ghosts don't go quiet when ignored. They just scream louder.

So now she faced them. Even when it splintered her, thread by thread.

Delta stood by the doorframe, arms folded loosely across her chest, wearing that infuriatingly serene expression like she had in the arena, when Evelia was barely holding it together and Haldin had already vanished into the trees.

"You still don't sleep," Delta said, head tilting just enough to seem real. "You look like crap."

A laugh caught in Evelia's throat.

"Damn, thanks. I'll let you know I almost don't have any nightmares anymore. But nice to see you too."

Delta's smile flickered, gentler this time. Almost alive. "You're spiralling again, Eve."

"I'm fine."

One brow arched. Delta stepped closer, quiet as breath. She looked so real, Evelia took a step back without noticing. Her brain knew it wasn't real. But her heart? Her heart kept forgetting.

"You shouldn't have to do this," Delta murmured. "Mentoring. Watching it happen again."

Evelia bit the inside of her cheek until the metallic tang of blood cut through her thoughts. "That's not how this works. I won, so I mentor. That's the rule."

"Yeah, well," Delta shrugged, "rules don't make it right."

Evelia spun away, feet bare against freezing tile as she walked into her room. "Your death wasn't right either," she said. "But it happened. Because Snow decides who lives."

Delta followed.

"You think you're ready to watch them die like I did?"

Evelia's back stiffened. Her chest hollowed.

"Maybe they won't die."

"They will. At least one of them. That's the point. Only one walks out."

The words cracked like a whip.

Evelia staggered back as if struck. She didn't need the reminder. The Games were still stitched into her skin, loudest in the quiet moments. She carried it in the tremble of her hands. In the nightmares that clawed through her sleep, in the guilt that never left.

She sat on the bed's edge, towel damp against her shoulders, wet hair dripping cold down her spine. "I know how the Games work, Delta."

"Do you?" Delta crossed the room, her voice low like a secret. "Or are you still clinging to the version where everyone makes it out?"

Evelia's jaw clenched. "I'm not pretending, I'm hoping. There's a difference."

Delta knelt in front of her. Their eyes met; one pair full of ghosts, the other full of grief.

"Hope didn't save me."

"No," Evelia whispered. "But you saved me. You were the one who never gave up. You were full of determination and hope. I have to hold onto that. Hold onto you!"

Delta's lips curve, not into a smile exactly, but something close. Something hollow.

A ghost of what once was.

"You need to let me go, Evelia," she said gently. "I'm dead."

The words hit with all the subtlety of a cannon blast. It made her live Delta's death all over again. The arrow in her head. The blood on Evelia's hand. The pain. So much pain.

But Evelia shook her head like even that small act of denial might rewind time.

"I know," she said, though she didn't. "I know, but I don't know how."

Delta reached out, not quite touching her, not really. Her hand hovered, a memory of warmth where none existed.

"You forgive yourself, Eve," Delta said softly. "It will take time, but once you do, I won't be here anymore. Your guilt is the only thing keeping me in here."

Evelia swallowed, throat tight. Her eyes burned, blinking too fast, like that could hold back the tide. "It's just... hard. Without you."

"Then make my death worth it."

The words struck like iron dropped into her chest.

Evelia nodded slowly, shakily, pressing the frayed edge of the towel to her damp cheeks. "Yeah. Okay."

She blinked again.

And Delta was gone.

The room stood empty now.

No whispers.

No ghosts.

Just Evelia.





·✦·

"Wait until Mayor Marlowe calls for you. He won't until the speech is done."

"I know that," Evelia snapped, the edge in her voice sharper than she meant it to be. "This is my seventh Reaping. I know how it works."

The Peacekeeper's silence stretched.

"Your first as a mentor," he said at last.

"Does that really change anything?"

He didn't react, but something in his gaze shifted, like he was measuring the fault lines inside her, waiting for the next crack. Evelia didn't look away. Her jaw clenched so hard it felt like it might shatter. She wanted to punch him.

Only when he turned and his boots faded down the hallway did she finally let her spine fall against the wall, breath escaping like a deflated balloon.

The door clicked shut. But sound had no respect for boundaries. It slipped through the seams like ghosts. Beyond the walls of the holding room, walls more memory than structure now, Four exhaled its grief. The crowd hummed with artificial cheer, punctured by brittle giggles, whispers with teeth, and a single sob someone tried to choke down.

And underneath it all, Evelia heard it, the fragile courage of teenagers not yet old enough to know that desperation wears the same face as bravery when you're staring down your own death.

She leaned her head back, letting it thud softly against the wall. Cold seeped through her shirt. Stone, untouched by sunlight. But the shiver that ran through her wasn't from the temperature. It was those awful thoughts that scraped and twisted inside her like shards of broken glass.

She shouldn't have spat at the Peacekeeper's face. First of all because she wasn't Mollie, and that was something only Mollie could do (Evelia sticked to flipping them off, you see.) Second of all, because she realised there weren't real ennemies. They were the Capitol's puppets, and attacking puppets might be effective for a few days, but they'd eventually come back ten times stronger.

But guilt was a quiet thing, easy to ignore when dread was roaring in your chest.

And dread was everywhere. It pulsed beneath her skin, coiled around her ribs like roots that had grown too deep to cut away cleanly.

She didn't pray for herself anymore.

(She didn't know if she really was praying, as she had no idea how prayers worked, how she was supposed to word her hopes. Religious was forbidden in Panem, as the President was considered as 'enough'. Why put your faith in a God when you could put it in Coriolanus Snow?)

But her prayers were for the young names waiting in the urns.

There was always one. A child. All elbows and knees, in a jacket two sizes too big. Eyes blinking against the sun like they'd just been yanked out of sleep. They stood there, stunned, while the crowd leaned in, waiting for a name to become a symbol, a tribute, then a target.

When it happened (when that name was spoken) it wasn't just a life stolen.

It was something deeper, the kind of loss that didn't get buried or burned. It just... stayed.

Another fracture in a country already crumbling.

Every Reaping stole something no one could name.

And Evelia knew, with that heavy, bitter weight that sat behind her lungs like smoke—

Panem didn't have much humanity left to lose.

Evelia's fingers twitched as she adjusted the delicate floral dress, smoothing out the creases as if that might somehow calm the storm inside her. The fabric was light, almost ethereal, like it had been painted in soft strokes of watercolour—pinks, peaches, and gentle splashes of yellow, swirling together in a delicate dance like the first rays of a summer sunrise. The spaghetti straps rested lightly on her shoulders, too thin to offer any kind of protection. Ruffles traced the neckline and skirt, soft and fluttering with every step, as if the dress itself was trying to escape the weight of the world pressing down on her.

It was a beautiful dress. One that could have been worn for something... better. For something full of hope, not this twisted mockery of an event.

For Haymitch, maybe.

Her hands tightened into fists, nails digging into the soft fabric.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Evelia muttered under her breath, frustration snapping in her chest.

This was all Mollie's fault. Ever since Evelia had mentioned the week she spent in District Twelve—the one where she'd spent hours with the victor, the infamous Haymitch Abernathy—Mollie had never stopped teasing her.

It was a kind of teasing that never let up, always lingering just beneath the surface, poking at the nerves Evelia had worked so hard to keep buried.

"He's cute," Mollie had said once, her voice casual, as if she hadn't just thrown a bomb into Evelia's already fragile thoughts. "Abernathy. He's ripped."

Evelia had stiffened, heart hammering, her voice dropping to a near whisper as she glanced around, making sure no one could hear.

"You think he's cute? Aren't you ain't girls?"

Homosexuality hadn't been allowed in Panem. Not officially. Not in the rulebooks or the speeches or the tight-lipped stares of Capitol officials. It was the kind of thing people only whispered about when the doors were locked and the windows shut. But Mollie hadn't cared.

Mollie had never cared about rules, or danger, or what other people thought. Which had always meant Evelia was the one left watching her back, scanning crowds, lowering voices, carrying the weight of caution for them both.

"I am," Mollie had said with a casual shrug. "But I can't deny he looks cute. Doesn't mean I'm attracted, though."

Evelia had frozen mid-step, caught somewhere between disbelief and a spike of something far worse. Mollie had tilted her head, eyes glinting with amusement.

"Do you think he's cute?" she'd asked, a little too softly, like she already knew the answer and just wanted to watch Evelia squirm.

And squirm she had.

Evelia's face had burned, and she'd looked away, as if the peeling wallpaper or the cracked tile might offer an escape hatch.

"No! I—I don't think he's cute," she'd blurted, far too loudly, the words stumbling over each other in a frantic tumble. "Why the hell would I think he's cute? He's not cute. Not to me anyway. I don't know, he's not my type."

Mollie had arched a brow, her grin sharpening.

"Uh-huh. Totally not your type. So, you don't want to run your fingers through that messy hair of his? Or appreciate those arms... What do they call it? Farmer-strong? Even under that sad excuse for a shirt? He's hot Eve, face it."

Evelia had let out a strangled sound and buried her face in her hands, wishing the floor would open up beneath her.

"What is wrong with you, Mollie?"

"Nothing," Mollie had said innocently, raising both hands like she was under arrest. "Just making conversation. I mean, you've been... lighter lately. You've been having fewer panic attacks. You've started leaving your house again, so, you know, I was wondering if it had something to do with Haymitch."

Truth be told, Evelia had known it was because of him. Somehow, in a way she couldn't fully untangle, he had given her a reason to try. To push forward. To be better, not just for herself, but because somewhere in her mind, he'd seen her as someone capable of better. And that had been terrifying.

She hadn't known why it was him. Why his insufferable smirk or his grey eyes that had seen too much could still make something flicker in her chest like a match struck in the dark. She hadn't wanted to pull that thread too hard. It had felt fragile and so dangerous, like unravelling it might reveal something she wasn't ready to face.

Because boys hadn't liked Evelia. That had been made perfectly clear. No one had ever asked her out. No notes passed in class. No lingering stares. No stupid Capitol-made romantic clichés. Nothing. So eventually, she'd stopped wondering if, and started wondering why.

Maybe she'd been too tall. Maybe her thighs were too big, her voice too loud. Maybe if she'd been quieter, softer, less... herself, someone might've noticed her. Wanted her. She'd talked too much. She always had. And never about the right things. Just random thoughts that spilled out and tangled into awkward silences. People hadn't known how to respond. Or maybe they just hadn't wanted to.

And honestly? Evelia hadn't blamed them. She hadn't found herself interesting, either. And the Reaping had only made everything worse.

It had stripped her down to her bones, peeled away whatever scraps of confidence she might've been pretending to wear.

That was why Evelia had refused to confront her feelings for Haymitch.

Because if she had (if she had dared to peel back the layers and face it, acknowledging that maybe it was something more, a crush, a longing, a quiet ache that had lodged deep in her chest) then she would have had to accept the truth. A truth darker than any shadow that had clung to her soul.

That it would never, ever be returned.

Not in that world. Not in that broken, bloodstained world they both limped through. Too many scars, too much trauma. The Games had twisted them both into something unrecognisable. She had known his pain, just as he had known hers. They had seen the same horrors, felt the same coldness. And somewhere in that darkness, the idea of them ever being anything more than two broken souls crossing paths had been a fantasy, a cruel one at that.

If she had allowed herself to feel it, even for a moment, it would have shattered her.

Desire was a dangerous thing. Want was a poison. And Evelia had learned long ago that to want was to court agony. To want had meant you'd eventually be left with nothing but the remnants of broken dreams and scarred hopes.

So she had buried it.

Wrapped it in layers of sharp-edged sarcasm, tucked it into the corners of her heart like some buried relic, and pretended it wasn't there. It had become just another shadow, flickering behind the walls she had built. And if, sometimes, when the room had been quiet, when the darkness had been thick enough to drown out the noise of the world, she had found herself remembering the way his voice had dropped when he had said her name, or how his gaze had lingered on her—just once, as if she had been more than just another face in the crowd—well, that had been her secret. Hers alone.

"No, he did help me," Evelia had said at last, her voice steady, though it had carried the weight of too many unsaid things. "But that's all."

She shook her head, as if to swat away the thoughts like an insect buzzing too close, going back to present. She hated Mollie so much.

(That was a lie, obviously. She could never hate Mollie. But she really needed to leave Evelia alone with her disgusting comments about Abernathy.)

Zephyria swept into the room, her entrance demanding attention with the same subtlety as a firework show at midnight. Her dress, a curious confection of lavender silk and organza, puffed dramatically at the knees, catching the light in a way that made it seem almost alive. Tiny white flowers crawled up the hem, each one too perfect to be real, yet crafted with such precision they looked like they'd bloomed there by stubborn will. Her makeup shimmered in harmony, pale violets and pearly whites blending seamlessly.

And then there were the boots. Knee-high, polished to a blinding white, they gleamed like freshly fallen snow in a world that had forgotten purity. The room exhaled.

"Evelia, darling!" Zephyria sang out, her voice effervescent. She floated across the floor, all swirls and satin, and wrapped Evelia in a thing that might have resembled a hug if it hadn't felt so... clinical. Their bodies touched like strangers brushing shoulders on a crowded street. Zephyria's arms hovered awkwardly, avoiding contact the way one avoids wrinkling expensive fabric or smudging perfection.

Evelia stood still, uncertain whether to return the gesture or simply survive it.

Was that how she hugged her friends in the Capitol? Her partner? Her parents? It felt less like affection and more like choreography.

"You look divine, my sweet!" Zephyria beamed, stepping back with the exaggerated grace of someone used to being watched. Her eyes flicked over Evelia like a stylist critiquing a mannequin. "You're practically glowing! So much less... corpse, so much more charmingly alive! A real teenage girl."

Evelia squinted. "...Thanks?"

The compliment sat awkwardly between a backhand and a jab, but Zephyria didn't flinch. She was too busy orbiting, her manicured fingers fluttering midair as she surveyed Evelia from every angle.

"I mean, your skin has finally lost that dreadful funeral-pallor. Not that it has colour now, per se, but it's less... ghostly. And your hair! It's behaving! That conditioner I sent must've worked miracles."

Evelia made a sound that didn't quite qualify as a response. She hadn't touched the damn conditioner, but she didn't bother correcting her.

"Anyway," Zephyria chirped, clasping her hands with theatrical delight, "I can't wait to see this year's tributes. Though none will be as devastatingly radiant as you, my fallen angel."

Evelia groaned. "Stop calling me that. I hate it."

Zephyria shrugged. "Fair enough. You're not really 'fallen' anymore, are you? Your wings have grown back."

Evelia looked at her, quiet for a beat too long. "Have they, though?"

Zephyria didn't have time to reply.

Mayor Marlowe's voice swept in over the speakers, as polished and practised as a Capitol smile.

"And now, let's welcome our newest victor and mentor, Evelia Vane."

The words struck like a match. Evelia straightened, forcing a polite smile in Zephyria's direction. Her hand found the door handle and clenched it as though it might bite. Maybe she hoped it would.

The hinges groaned as the door opened, spilling harsh sunlight into the room. Evelia blinked against it, then stepped forward into the glare.

The platform felt taller this year.

Maybe it actually was. Or maybe the change was in her; after all, she wasn't a tribute anymore. She was a mentor now.

Her heels struck the wood with every step, each click echoing like a countdown. She moved deliberately, her head high, her braid whipping behind her. The sun caught the edge of her dress, casting fractured light across the platform. She didn't flinch.

The crowd below spread out in that familiar, sickening Four formation. Children divided neatly by age and gender, like produce in a market. The youngest were packed tight, little fists gripping sleeves and trembling fingers seeking each other in silent desperation. The older ones tried to stand tall, but fear betrayed them; visible in the clenched jaws, the darting eyes. Parents stood like broken pillars, some whispering frantic prayers to whatever gods hadn't already abandoned them.

District Four had always prided itself on strength. On resilience. On surviving storms.

But right now, they were drowning in silence—the same hollow, heavy hush that blanketed every reaping. The kind of silence that wasn't empty, but waiting. A quiet held just before a scream.

Evelia's eyes moved over the crowd like a net cast wide. No smiles. No waves. Just dread, thick as fog.

Then—at the very back—she saw her.

Her mother.

Blonde hair now cut to her shoulders, as though lopping it off might erase what had happened. But the rest of her was the same. That same carefully composed face, as if grief could be managed like a budget.

Evelia didn't change expression. Didn't blink. But her gaze sharpened like a knife. If looks could scream, hers would have torn through the square and echoed off the ocean.

Mayor Marlowe gave her a crisp nod as she reached the centre of the stage, but his eyes were empty and his voice marched on.

"Evelia Crimson Vane, ladies and gentlemen. Victor of the Fifty-First Hunger Games."

The words hung in the air like smoke from a cannon blast. No applause followed, just that same brittle silence, taut as a wire. There was no cheering for a girl who'd returned from the arena hollow-eyed and fractured. No celebration for surviving something designed to be un-survivable.

Marlowe's smile faltered. He shifted behind the podium, fiddling with his notes like they might rescue him from the awkward quiet.

"Right," he said, voice catching on the word. "Let's begin, then. Please welcome Zephyria Bloom, the Capitol's escort for District Four!"

And then she was there.

Zephyria swept onto the stage in a whirl of sequins and pastel tulle, waving with the blind enthusiasm of someone who still believed she was adored. She moved like a pageant queen, every step choreographed, every smile over-rehearsed. Her heels clicked across the platform like punctuation marks on a speech no one wanted to hear.

Evelia didn't roll her eyes—but barely. Instead, she let her gaze drift sideways, toward the group of eighteen-year-olds. Toward Mollie.

The girl's expression was unreadable at first, but when their eyes locked, Evelia gave her a small, amused smile. The kind that said "can you believe this woman?"

Mollie returned it without hesitation, her smirk the perfect mix of sarcasm and scorn.

If there was a crown for Zephyria Bloom's number-one hater, Mollie wore it proudly.

And Evelia? She'd polish it for her.

"Welcome, everyone!" Zephyria's falsely light voice trilled through the air. "Happy Hunger Games!" She paused, allowing the words to settle. "May this day of remembrance remind us of the sacrifices that uphold the strength, order, and, of course, the splendour of our beloved Panem."

Evelia's teeth clenched, the sharp pressure of it a warning to herself.

She wasn't a violent person. She never had been. But in that moment, as Zephyria continued to smile, as if this were some celebration instead of a bloody ritual, Evelia felt the impulse, the flicker of rage that threatened to snap.

Zephyria beamed, a smile so wide it almost looked like it hurt. She made it look as though she were about to announce a wedding, not a massacre. This charade, this farce, was about to ruin lives. Not that Zephyria seemed to notice.

"Let's not drag this out!" Zephyria's voice trilled like a bird that had no care for the storm on the horizon. "May the odds be ever in your favour!"

With an exaggerated flourish, she turned toward the first urn, her fingers dancing through the air.

"Ladies first."

Her hand dove into the bowl of names, each slip of paper shifting like whispers in the wind. Evelia's breath caught, her chest tightening with a familiar, impossible dread. Time, once so solid, felt malleable, stretching like taffy. Her heart thundered against her ribs.

Her name was gone from the bowl. She was safe now. She was outside this nightmare, outside the glass of the Reaping. But her body, betrayed by instinct, refused to believe it. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, frantic, anxious, electric.

Terror didn't forget.

The wind was sharp, biting against her skin, and the sun overhead seemed to mock her with its brightness. Zephyria, as ever, smiled, oblivious to the storm breaking inside Evelia and District Four.

Then, Zephyria's fingers closed around a slip of paper.

Evelia didn't dare to breathe.

The Capitol's puppet, all too pleased with her part in the show, unfolded the slip as though it were a love letter. The soft rustle of paper against the deafening silence was the only sound. Zephyria's lips curled into a smile, a pleased crescent, as she read.

It was a smile that made Evelia's stomach churn. She felt the name before she heard it. That drop, like a stone falling from a great height. It was as though her body had already read the name, already understood the weight of it.

Who could possibly make Zephyria smile like that?

The name came, a jolt to the senses.

"Mollie Corsair!"

The words shattered everything.

Evelia's world froze in place, the ground slipping out from beneath her. The name rang in her chest. It didn't make sense. Her knees buckled, and she had to fight not to collapse, to keep standing, to keep her breath steady. Her hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palms, grounding her.

Her best friend. Her Mollie. The one person who had been her anchor in this chaos. And now, she was going to the Games.

This wasn't chance. This wasn't fate.

This was calculated. A twist of Capitol intent, written in neat handwriting and laced with perfume. This was President Snow's message.

He hadn't managed to take Evelia in the arena. So instead, he was taking everything else. Her courage. Her voice. Her defiance. Because she had spoken out. Because she had dared to stand up to him.

Zephyria clapped, her hands ringing with the sound of hollow celebration, a grin still plastered on her face, as if she were part of something grand.

But inside, Evelia burned. A fire that no applause could ever quench.

Chapter Text

Thirteen and fifteen.

That's how old his tributes were this year. Just skin stretched over bones, ghosts from the Seam, with hollow cheeks and eyes too old for their fragile faces.

Haymitch saw them sometimes, on the days he could stomach the walk back to the Seam, to where his house used to stand. There was nothing left, of course. Nothing but scorched earth and the faint outline of a life that had been erased. After Snow had it burned, the mayor had ordered the ashes left untouched. No rebuilding. No pretending it had never happened. And for that, Haymitch was quietly, desperately grateful.

When the weight inside him got too heavy, he'd sit there. Right there in the dirt and ruins, a bottle in his hand, offering silent toasts to memories that still clung to him like burrs. His ma, with her soft hands and stern eyes. Sid, with that laugh that was too big for his body. They would've hated this. The way he drank himself hollow. Ma would've been scared, she would've pointed at Sid and whispered fierce warnings about setting a bad example, about Sid trying to copy his big brother, the hero.

Some days he stayed there for hours, nursing the ache until it threatened to tear him apart. And then, just when the guilt became unbearable, he'd see them. Burdock, coming down the muddy path, Asterid skipping close behind.

He remembered the rocks. The way he'd hurled them, desperate to drive them away, desperate to keep them from getting too close to the ruin he'd become. He remembered the sickening sound when one found Asterid's forehead, the sharp gasp, the way she stumbled back clutching at the blood.

He remembered, and he hated himself for it. Hated himself more than he ever thought possible.

He would never forgive himself.

"Haymitch."

He barely turned his head at the sound, swallowing a sigh before it could slip out. Effie Trinket had stepped into the bar carriage of the train bound for the Capitol, clutching something absurdly delicate in her hands.

A cake.

Of course.

Haymitch had counted on this hour, the dead of night, when even the stars seemed too tired to shine, to drink himself into numbness without interruption. Clearly, he'd miscalculated.

Effie set the cake down with an almost reverent carefulness. It was brown, dusted in cocoa powder, with strawberries arranged like tiny, blood-red jewels on top. Eighteen candles crowded the surface, their little wax bodies pressed shoulder-to-shoulder like soldiers marching to their deaths.

Haymitch didn't need to count them.

He knew.

Because today he had turned eighteen.

And if he'd had it his way, there wouldn't have been a cake. There wouldn't have been candles. There wouldn't have been anything at all.

But the truth was that Effie's gesture still reached some quiet, broken part of him. Because Haymitch didn't have anyone left who remembered his birthday anymore.

Burdock had left a note pinned crookedly to his door that morning, the words scrawled in a heavy, careful hand: Hope it's a decent one, Haymitch. No mention of "happy"— they both knew better than to wish for that. Alongside it, a basket brimming with bright red apples, shining like they'd been polished by hand. The kind of apples they loved looking for beyond the district's barriers when they were kids.

Haymitch had fought like hell not to cry.

But that was it. No one else had thought of him.
Not a soul.

And somehow, that small, sad fact stung more than all the battles he'd fought and lost.

Somewhere, in the heavy, aching silence, he caught himself wondering about her. Mystery girl. If she lived in Twelve, would she have remembered? Would she have cared?

Of course she would have. If there was one thing about Evelia Vane, it was her kindness.

She was kind. So kind.

Even with that constant armour she wore, forged from grief, anger, and sarcasm, her kindness remained. No matter how much she tried to hide it, it was there, quiet, persistent, like a whisper beneath the storm.

A kind soul couldn't be erased.

He could almost see it, like a memory from a life he'd never had:

She would've barged into his house without knocking, golden hair flying wild around her flushed face, scolding him for not telling her it was today. She would've made him a cup of tea and brewed herself one of those awful, burnt-tasting coffees she stubbornly loved.

Then she'd have grabbed his hand without asking, dragging him outside into the pale morning light, the air still heavy with the dread of Reaping Day.

It's your birthday, she would have said, standing there with her hands on her hips, her nose slightly crinkled in that way she never noticed, but he never missed.What do you want to do? Name it, Abernathy. It's your day.

Haymitch smiled without meaning to, the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth. He could almost hear her laugh, her sweet laugh.

"I hope you like chocolate," Effie chimed, tugging Haymitch back to the grim weight of reality. She placed the cake more firmly in front of him, smoothing down her skirt as she spoke. "I wasn't sure what flavour you preferred, so I chose a classic."

Haymitch mustered a smile and dropped into the nearest chair.

The cake smelled rich and sweet, like a memory he didn't trust. He dragged it closer, feeling the gentle heat of the candles flicker against his skin, and shut his eyes.

"Make a wish, Haymitch," Effie said, softer now. "A happy one."

A happy wish.

Haymitch almost laughed. The bitter kind. The one that hurt coming up.

Because wasn't wishing itself proof you weren't happy? If you had to send a hope out into the world, it meant something was broken. Something was missing.

Wishes were desperate things. They were pebbles tossed into a bottomless lake, a blind prayer that maybe the odds would show mercy and toss something back.

Haymitch kept his eyes shut a second longer. Then he exhaled and blew out the candles.

"You ain't had to do this, Effie," Haymitch said at last, voice rough from too many words he didn't know how to say. "My birthday... it kind of sucks. There's no need to make a damn fuss over it." His accent thickened, the Appalachian drawl returning with the alcohol. He'd gotten rid of it over the years, but the drink always brought it back.

"But we're not just celebrating your birthday," Effie shot back, already cutting two neat slices of cake. "We're celebrating you. And you deserve to be celebrated."

Haymitch watched her for a long moment, the knife glinting under the soft yellow light, the sugary scent of chocolate hanging heavily in the air.

Effie wasn't like the other residents of the Capitol.

It was strange, really. Unsettling in a way he hadn't expected. Haymitch had spent years convinced that everyone from the Capitol was cut from the same cloth: shallow, oblivious, wrapped up in their silks and parties, too drunk on Snow's lies to see the world burning around them.

And maybe Effie wasn't so different. She didn't really understand how dangerous everything had become. How broken the world truly was.

Or maybe, a darker part of Haymitch whispered, she did understand. Maybe she was just too scared to admit it, even to herself.

Haymitch dragged the side of his fork through the soft frosting, carving out a clumsy bite of cake. He stared at it for a moment, half-expecting it to vanish if he blinked too hard, like everything else good had.

He swallowed the tightness coiled in his throat and shoved the bite into his mouth.

It tasted way too sweet, like something trying desperately to be happiness... and missing by a mile.

"We're celebrating you," Effie had said.

Haymitch nearly laughed. A sharp sound that would've cracked whatever fragile peace Effie was trying so hard to hold together.

Celebrate what, exactly?

The boy who outsmarted the Games, only to spend all his time since poisoning himself just to forget it?

The boy who pushed everyone he ever cared about away because it was safer, only to lose them anyway?

The so-called mentor who trained tributes just well enough to march them into graves with their eyes wide open?

There was nothing worth celebrating.

There was just him. A graveyard in a boy's body, filled with names nobody remembered how to mourn.

The fork slipped from his fingers and clattered against the plate, the sound too loud in the heavy silence.

Haymitch blinked up, and found Effie still watching him, her carefully polished smile trembling at the edges. Like maybe she was starting to realise that all her ribbons and rules couldn't fix what was broken here.

"Thanks," he muttered. He shoved another forkful of cake between his teeth, just to have an excuse not to say anything more.

If Haymitch was being honest, he should've ended things a long time ago. His life hung by a thread. A thin, stupid, stubborn thing he imagined sometimes as blue, fraying at the edges, stitched out of a single promise. A silly one, really.

"Abernathy?" Evelia had mumbled one night back in February, sitting slumped beside him, pale and hollow-eyed, a bucket balanced between her knees and a glass of water waiting on the table.

"Mmmm?" Haymitch had grunted back, too far gone to form real words.

"I know this is childish," she'd said thickly, "but... promise me I'll see you at the Capitol in July."

He'd blinked at her through the headache pounding against his skull, lifting his head just enough to catch her face in the dim light. Blurry. But still soft. Still impossibly beautiful. In that moment, Haymitch had thought she was the prettiest thing the world had left.

"Course you'll see me," he'd rasped. "I'm a mentor, ain't I?"

"Promise me," Evelia insisted.

He had smiled. Weakly, because every inch of him hurt, but it was a smile all the same. "I promise."

Without a word, Evelia had held out her pinky finger. Haymitch had almost laughed.

"What're we, toddlers?" he'd muttered, wincing at how wrecked his voice sounded.

But she didn't flinch. Just sat there waiting, like the whole world might fall apart if he didn't take her seriously.

So, after a few stubborn seconds, Haymitch forced his right hand up and crooked his little finger around hers.

A pinky swear.
Childish but sacred.

And somehow, it became the thread he clung to when everything else was gone.

"Are you all right, Haymitch?" Effie's voice was soft. "You've been awfully quiet."

He shrugged, the movement stiff. "Maybe I ain't got nothing to say."

"Maybe," she said. "But is that true?"

He didn't answer. Just stared past her, his jaw twitching.

"You seemed... eager to get on that train this morning," she added. "I assumed it was for the drinks. But then you locked yourself in your compartment."

Haymitch's mouth curled into something that tried to be a smirk, but it never made it past his lips. Sarcasm hovered like smoke on his tongue, but when he opened his mouth, the words withered before they formed.

Because she wasn't wrong.

He wasn't drunk. Just that dull, fizzy feeling that skated under his skin, like a whisper of forgetting that hadn't taken hold. The room wasn't tilting, the glass in front of him was only half-empty.

(Or half-full, depending on how cruel he was feeling.)

He should've been on his fourth drink by now. Fifth, if he was being honest.

So why hadn't he? Why had he been so damn desperate to get on that train this morning?

It hit him slowly, that tightening in his chest. The way his legs had moved faster than his brain, pushing him forward like the world might vanish if he didn't board that train immediately.

And now—what? He sat there, barely drinking, barely speaking, like a ghost who hadn't figured out how to haunt anything properly.

He rubbed his hand across his face, as if he could scrub away the truth. His stubble scratched against his palm. Everything felt raw.

Effie was right, and that made him want to scream.

"...I don't know," he muttered eventually. "Guess I just needed to get outta there."

He didn't explain. Didn't say her name. Didn't say Evelia.

But her name echoed anyway, threading through his thoughts.

What was wrong with him?

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. The faint rattle of the train tracks beneath him matched the rhythm of his spiralling thoughts. Was he seriously getting attached? Him? Haymitch Abernathy?

He let out a breath through his nose.

He shouldn't. Couldn't. Attachment was a weakness, even a liability. He knew that better than anyone. And still... his chest twisted every time he thought about her laugh. Her stubborn scowl. Her soft smile.

And what if Snow found out?

The thought struck like a blade. President Snow didn't need much (a glance or a few echanged words were enough to him), so if he caught wind that Evelia meant someting to him—

Haymitch dragged a trembling hand through his hair, fingers curling tightly in the strands, anchoring himself to the present. 

She'd already been shattered before the arena ever touched her. The Games only ground the pieces finer. The Capitol's cameras had feasted on her pain like vultures, and now she was trying to reassemble herself from the rubble while a nation sat in silence.

And if it was him who pushed her over the edge?

His chest constricted. He closed his eyes and swallowed against the rising burn in his throat.

No.

He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't. He'd already buried too many ghosts—his mother, Sid Maysilee, Louella, Lou Lou, Wyatt. Names etched into the hollows of his bones, names that never stopped whispering.

He wouldn't add Evelia to that list.

The air turned razor-thin. Each breath scraped down his lungs like shards of ice and his heart pounded, a violent rhythm thudding against his ribs, like it was trying to claw its way out.

Effie's muffled voice broke through, as though she were speaking from the bottom of a rough sea. Perhaps she'd said his name. Perhaps asked if he was okay. But her words didn't reach him, as if they were sinking.

Or perhaps he was the one drowning.

He shot upright too fast. The sudden movement spun the world on its axis, white blooming behind his eyes. His knees barely held.

"Haymitch—?"

He turned and stormed down the corridor, his shoulder smacking the wall hard enough to bruise. The hallway blurred around the edges. His legs moved faster than his thoughts, like if he just kept running, he could leave his mind behind.

By the time he reached his compartment, his hands were shaking. He slammed the door and locked it. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

His clothes felt like they were suffocating him. He tore them off one by one: jacket, shirt, anything that touched skin. It didn't matter where they landed, he just needed them off his skin.

The bathroom tiles were cold beneath his feet as he stumbled forward. He twisted the knob and turned the water on full blast. 

The first strike of icy water was a punch to the chest. He gasped. Choked. Let it hit him again. And again.

His palms pressed flat against the slick tile, forehead bowed. The water pounded against the back of his neck as steamless mist curled around him. His breath came in short, fractured bursts. But at least now they had shape. Substance.

The panic didn't disappear. But the edges frayed. Fractured. Slowly dulled.

He stayed like that for what felt like hours. Letting the freezing stream numb the ache in his muscles and steady the tremor in his hands. Letting the image behind his eyelids—Evelia, battered, broken, because of him—lose its grip.

When he could finally move again, he didn't. 

He stayed hunched beneath the water, spine curled like a bowstring, lips parting just enough to release a bitter whisper.

A curse.

At himself. At the Capitol. At everything.

He should've known better.

He did know better.

And still... He'd let himself care.

Damn him.

·✦·

Jebediah Crane had already polished off three mugs of hot chocolate, cradling the third like it was a lifeline, steam still curling from its rim. His small hands, flushed red from the heat, trembled just slightly, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Careful," Rueven Alden murmured. "You'll burn your tongue drinking like that."

At thirteen, Jebediah didn't often listen when people warned him. He was young, and reckless, like most teenage boys. But this time, the boy paused.

He set the mug down reluctantly, like he was parting with the only thing in the world that made sense. Then, as if to make up for the loss, he dragged his tongue across his top lip, licking the last of the chocolate off with visible satisfaction. He reached for a thick slice of white bread and the peach jam beside it, golden and glistening like sunlight trapped in glass.

The knife slipped as he smeared it on. Once, then twice.

Haymitch leaned in the doorway with his arms folded loosely, watching. The corner of his mouth lifted.

"You're gonna make yourself sick if you keep inhaling it like that," he said.

Jebediah froze mid-bite then shrugged, sheepish. "It's good."

Haymitch nodded once. "Yeah. It is." He stepped into the bar carriage, ruffling the boy's mop of hair on his way to the table. "You deserve good things."

Rueven looked up. "Do you think we have a chance?" she asked, her voice clearer than before, but not by much.

Haymitch didn't answer right away.

Instead, he crouched beside the table. He rested his forearms on it, gaze flicking between them.

"You two already listen better than I ever did," he said. "You're smart and scared, which means you understand what you're walking into. That already makes you better than half the kids who get sent in. Even careers."

Rueven's throat bobbed once. She blinked hard, but didn't speak. Jebediah looked down at his half-eaten bread like it might offer an answer.

"I'm going to do everything I can," Haymitch added. "I won't let the Capitol chew you up without a fight."

Jebediah spoke next, and what he said landed like a stone dropped into a deep well.

"Your last tributes didn't make it."

Haymitch's entire body stilled.

The boy's voice was quiet, his fingers still sticky with jam, but his eyes (his small blue eyes!) didn't waver.

"No," Haymitch said. "They didn't."

"The boy," Jebediah pressed. "He was my age."

Rueven turned toward him, alarm flitting across her face. But Haymitch didn't look away.

"Yeah," he said. "He was."

The silence that followed filled the room like smoke. 

"I couldn't save them," Haymitch said. "But I learned. Every mistake I made, I carry. I won't make them again."

Jebediah nodded once, eyes still locked on the table.

"So we still might die," he said. "But not the same way."

Haymitch exhaled a breath through his nose, sat back on his heels. "The odds for District Twelve are bad. Always have been. But bad doesn't mean impossible. Flint Cartwright died with dignity because he had a good ally, one who kept him alive long enough to be remembered, and who took care of him. That's why first impressions matter. That's why sponsors matter. And your chances start the second we step off that train."

Rueven tilted her head, thoughtful. "That's... not exactly comforting. You're more focused on how we'll die than how we'll win."

"I'm calculating everything," Haymitch said. "That's different. I need to be ready for the worst. So do you."

He paused to let the truth settle.

"You need to understand something. Both of you. You'll probably die in the arena."

Rueven's eyes narrowed. A sharp and extremely precise narrowing, like someone shifting puzzle pieces in her mind. Not for the sake of solving the picture, but for the sake of making it survivable.

"So," she said after a beat, "you're saying we're just statistics."

Haymitch's expression didn't shift. "I'm saying the Capitol wants you to think you are."

Jebediah's fingers tightened around his half-eaten bread, knuckles whitening, jam staining his fingertips.

"But you think we're more than that?" he asked, his voice so small it made Haymitch flinch.

"I think you can be," Haymitch said at last. "A... a friend once showed me that. During my Games. But it takes work and luck. And pretending harder than you've ever pretended in your lives. You've gotta make them believe you belong up there. That you're worth keeping alive."

"And if we're not?"

Haymitch's jaw clenched.

"Then you die. Fast if you're lucky, badly if you're not."

The words landed with weight but Rueven didn't flinch and Jebediah leaned forward, eyes sharper than they should've been.

"What do we do first?"

That made Haymitch pause. Not long, but long enough to blink, then he pushed to his feet, dragging a hand through his hair.

"You get ready for the parade," he said, voice steadying. "Let the stylists take care of you. Then we defrief during dinner, and you go to sleep. And tomorrow, the training starts. You'll learn how to master weapon, survival technics, stuff like that."

"And how to pretend," Rueven said. 

Haymitch gave a short nod. "Especially that."

Jebediah wiped his sticky hands on his trousers, eyes darting between them. "I can lie. My pa says I'm good at it."

A humourless smile tugged at Haymitch's mouth. "That's gonna be your best weapon, then."

Rueven stood slowly, stretching like someone testing the limits of her own bones. Like she was trying to figure out whether they'd hold her through this.

"What about after we win?" she asked.

Haymitch, already halfway to the liquor cabinet, stopped cold.

He didn't turn around, didn't let them see the expression that flickered across his face like a ghost slipping through his features.

"You start thinking that far ahead," he said quietly, "and you'll miss what's right in front of you."

A pause.

"First rule of survival? Don't get distracted by a future that might never come."

A soft knock tapped at the compartment door, and after a moment, Effie slid inside.

She was dressed in a dress the colour of turquoise—a vibrant, almost surreal shade. Haymitch couldn't help but think how much he liked that colour. It was serene, something that almost felt out of place in a world like this.

"We'll be arriving in twenty minutes, darlings," she called.

Haymitch didn't answer. He reached for the bottle on the shelf, fingers brushing the glass, but then hesitated. His hand lingered for a moment, just long enough for his mind to catch up. He dropped it.

He didn't want to be wasted when he saw Evelia again.

His eyes drifted back to the kids.

Rueven's expression was unreadable. There was something cold about her, but not the usual kind of coldness. It was like she'd wrapped herself up in a layer of indifference, thin and hastily formed, but effective. Like a shield.

Jebediah, on the other hand, looked like he'd swallowed rocks. His jaw was tight, and the pink of chocolate still lingered at the corner of his mouth, an awkward contrast to the storm swirling inside him.

They were so small.

"Alright kiddos," Haymitch said, breaking the silence. "You heard her. Capitol time."

Jebediah stood first, his movements stiff. "Do we have to wear the stupid gloves too? It's, like, forty degrees out here. I'm melting."

Haymitch fixed him with a look. "Kid, you're gonna wear whatever makes those stylists clap their freakish hands together. You want sponsors? You play nice."

Rueven, her lips curling slightly at the edges, said dryly, "Yes, dad. Whatever you say, dad."

Haymitch gave her a tired glance, but a small smile tugged at his mouth. It was almost impossible not to.

Twenty minutes later, the train's brakes began to groan, the subtle vibrations humming through the compartment as the sleek train slowly decelerated. A faint whistle cut through the air, signalling its imminent stop.

The train eased into the Capitol station, its gleaming metallic structure looming outside the windows, towering over the city like a predator stalking its prey. The air seemed thick with extravagant colours, impossible architecture, and posters that screamed propaganda in garish hues. Haymitch couldn't help but feel a wave of nausea as he took in the sight. Everything about this place felt wrong, suffocating in its perfection.

Effie was already standing by the door, practically bouncing in excitement. Her voice rang out, high-pitched and cheerful. "We've arrived! Time to dazzle, darlings!"

Haymitch turned his gaze to the kids, who were both on their feet now. Jebediah was adjusting his black trousers, dirt still clinging to the fabric, his hands fidgeting with the edges like he was trying to shake off the discomfort. Rueven's face, as usual, was a mask; she was bracing for something inevitable. In her composure, Haymitch could almost see Maysilee, the same quiet strength that made her dangerous in the Games.

He cleared his throat. "Alright," he muttered, eyeing the pair. "You're going to look ridiculous, but it won't be worse than usual, so... it's fine. You'll be fine."

Rueven shot him a look, the slightest glimmer of wry humour crossing her features. "Thanks. That's... nice."

"Yeah, kid," he replied dryly. "I'm a nice man."

The compartment door slid open, releasing a gust of cool, artificial Capitol air. The sound of high heels clacking against the polished floor echoed as bodies moved in a rush of frantic energy. The Capitol felt less alive and more... orchestrated, like an elaborate puppet show. Everything about it screamed manufactured, from the pristine buildings to the hollow faces of its citizens.

Effie led the way off the train, practically prancing, followed by Haymitch, Rueven, and Jebediah. The moment they set foot on the platform, a barrage of cameras flashed, blinding in their intensity. The roar of the crowd reached them in waves, their cheers echoing through the space, fuelled by the Capitol's insatiable need for spectacle. It was overwhelming.

"Smile, kiddos," Haymitch muttered. It wasn't a suggestion—it was a demand. They didn't have a choice. The Capitol would tear them apart for the smallest sign of weakness.

Jebediah's fists clenched at his sides, but he squared his small shoulders and held his chin high, doing his best to present himself with confidence. Rueven's gaze, however, calmly flicked across the crowd. But Haymitch noticed the way she studied the platform, the careful assessment in her eyes, like a strategist, already calculating her next move. 

Effie was still beaming, waving energetically as Capitol stylists and handlers swarmed around them, ushering them forward. "Come along, dears," she chirped. "Let's get you ready for your grand entrance."

They didn't even get a second to breathe.

The moment the train screeched to a halt, Capitol handlers descended like a swarm. Smiles too wide, clipboards snapping shut with military precision. The tributes were ushered straight into sleek black vehicles gleaming like beetles under the sun. Effie was already chattering, her voice a polished hum of rehearsed enthusiasm.

"Today's a full schedule—cleaning, styling sessions, fittings, oh! And don't forget the chariot rehearsal, darlings!"

Jebediah and Rueven were to be separated now, pulled into different wings of the Training Centre for prep. Hours of transformation ahead. Hair yanked, clothes sewn onto them, skin polished like marble statues.

Haymitch barely listened. He knew the drill and he hated it. He hated the chariot parade so much. He often had nightmares about it.

Only his second year mentoring, and already his stomach twisted at the Capitol's rot. The lavish buildings, the fluorescent teeth, the way they paraded children like finely bred animals.

Haymitch had long since stopped trying to hide his scowl.

Sometimes he wondered how long it would take until someone else from District Twelve won, someone he could dump this cursed responsibility on. But luck wasn't coming. Not to Twelve.

And not to Rueven or Jebediah, as far as he could tell.

They were too small. And the Capitol had already chosen its favourites. Polished Careers bred for this kind of slaughter. He could sense it like static in the air. That didn't mean he'd give up. But it did mean he was bracing for the worst.

The car jolted to a stop.

The Capitol's skyline towered over them, buildings like spires of glass and chrome slicing into the clouds. The streets shimmered with polish, the air thick with perfume and artificial warmth. Haymitch looked at the kids. So young. So breakable.

Like his sweetheart had been.

He shoved the thought away before it could bite.

Effie's voice cut cleanly through the noise. "Alright, time to dazzle them, darlings!" She practically sang it, heels clacking like a ticking clock.

Haymitch hesitated before stepping out. The crowd's roar was already swelling. Cameras whirred. Somewhere, distant music played a song too cheerful for what this was.

Jebediah flinched as a hovercam buzzed near.

Handlers swooped in, smiles sharpened to perfection. "Tributes this way, please! Mentors, your escort is waiting!"

And just like that, they were gone. Torn away.

Haymitch stayed still for a second too long, jaw clenched. Light struck the marble hard enough to blind. The air tasted like fake citrus and something metal underneath.

He didn't say goodbye. There hadn't been time. 

Effie looped her arm through his, sugar-sweet. "I'll check on the apartment arrangements. You go enjoy the banquets, I hear the chefs really pulled out all the stops this year!"

He gave a grunt in reply and stepped into the lift. The doors began to close softly.

"Wait! Hold it, please!"

Haymitch stuck out an arm without thinking, and the doors slid open again. A young man slid inside, a little out of breath, adjusting a worn satchel on his shoulder.

"Thanks," he muttered, flashing an apologetic grin. "Almost missed it."

Haymitch recognised him at once. Niko Resnik .District Three, victor of the 47th Hunger Games.

Twenty-one now, though he moved like someone older. His hair was cropped into a tight, rounded afro, and his brown skin looked almost golden beneath the Capitol lighting. But his eyes didn't match the rest. They scanned the lift's corners like he expected something to lurch out and bite him.

Haymitch remembered that year's arena; faulty tech, deadly malfunctions... A girl electrocuted by a drinking fountain. A boy swallowed by collapsing terrain. Niko hadn't killed many; he hadn't needed to, after all. He'd just understood the arena better than the Gamemakers did.

He'd stayed calm. Built gadgets out of wires and panic. Avoided every death trap like he'd read the blueprints. And at the end, he'd tried to save someone. The Capitol had said no.

He hadn't smiled once during his Victory Tour.

Now, he stood beside Haymitch, hands shoved in his pockets. "So," he asked softly, "how are your tributes?"

Haymitch snorted. "Awfully young."

Niko's mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile. "I'll ask mine to an eye on them in training. If they need someone to pair up with, just let me know."

The offer caught Haymitch off guard.

It wasn't said with smugness. It wasn't performative. It was real. Quiet kindness from someone who should've been just as jaded.

The lift dinged.

Niko adjusted his satchel again and nodded. "Good luck, Haymitch. I'll see you around."

Then he vanished into the polished corridors of the Capitol, already swept up by the machine.

Haymitch stood still, watching the doors close again. Alone with the hum of electricity and something else, something sharp and sick in his throat.

Niko Resnik. A mind like lightning. And a heart the Capitol hadn't quite managed to break.

Haymitch stepped into the mentor's lounge. The door sighed shut behind him, sealing out the corridor's chill with a near-silent hiss.

The air was heavier here infused with the cloying scent of roasted meat and expensive wine, the kind only the Capitol could afford to waste on people like them. Laughter rang from distant corners, sharp and artificial, clinking glasses punctuating every joke. Mentors loitered in sleek little packs, all silk and false smiles, their eyes flicking like blades as they assessed each other. Everyone looked polished. Everyone looked calm. But beneath it, they were soaked, marinated, in blood.

Haymitch didn't flinch. But his heart beat faster.

Not out of fear, it was something less simple. Something more splintered.

He scanned the room out of instinct. Familiar faces. Some sneering. Some glassy-eyed. Some cracked right down the middle. The usual Capitol circus.

But then, his eyes spotted her. Slouched in a shadowed armchair, tucked past the ostentatious banquet table, sat Evelia.

(He'd always end up finding her, even in a crowded room.)

She didn't move. Her back was rigid, her fingers tangled so tightly in her lap he wondered if she'd drawn blood. Her braid draped over her shoulder like a lifeline, fraying at the edges. She was watching the room, not just observing, but studying, like a soldier mapping out a battlefield. Her expression was furious. And underneath that fury was something far more fragile.

Grief. It clung to her like smoke.

Haymitch felt something twist behind his ribs. A sharp ache, like a bone remembering where it had once been broken.

He hadn't seen her since February. And now here she was, wearing the same Capitol-issued mentor's badge he wore, sitting in the same glass room of horror and opulence.

Her first year mentoring. Her first year knowing exactly how the Games ended. No illusions or hope.

Of course she looked like she wanted to scream.

He hesitated, halfway between impulse and restraint. Should he go to her? Say something? Or leave her in peace, let her hold herself together?

Then—

Her head lifted.

Their eyes met.

And the Capitol vanished.

The laughter, the music, the hum of hovercams, it all fell away like ash in the wind. All that remained was the silence between them, brittle and aching, like the pause before an earthquake.

She didn't smile or blink. Just looked at him. Straight through him. Like she always had.

And then her mouth trembled.

Haymitch didn't think. His body moved first. He crossed the room in three strides, took her hand gently, so gently, and tugged her out of the chair, down the hallway, away from the noise. Her cheeks were wet now. The tears had already come.

"Mystery Girl," he said softly. "What happened?"

He was afraid of the answer.

"Haymitch..." Her voice cracked around his name. She squeezed her eyes shut like it might hold everything in, but it didn't. The tears kept coming.

"Talk to me, Evelia. Please." His voice had lost its edge. It was desperate.

She looked at him, and what he saw made his stomach turn.

"He took Mollie," she whispered, and then the dam broke.

"Snow took her. He made her get reaped. Haymitch, she's in the Games. She's a tribute. She's gonna die, and it's my fault—"

Haymitch's lungs locked. For a second, he couldn't breathe. The weight of her words slammed into him like a physical blow.

No. No, no, no.

Before he knew it, his arms were around her, like maybe he could keep her from falling apart if he just held on hard enough. 

She clung to him like she was drowning, her body racked with sobs so fierce they tore out of her throat. Her tears soaked into his shirt, burning hot. Her pain was wild, unfiltered, and it broke something open in him too.

"She's my responsibility," Evelia gasped. "Mollie—she's my best friend. She's my family. And I can't— I can't save her, Haymitch. I can't do anything. I'm failing her before I even get the chance to try."

Haymitch closed his eyes, jaw clenched. He wanted to lie to her, tell her they'd fix it, tell her Mollie would be okay.

But this was the Capitol. And the Capitol didn't deal in mercy.

So he said nothing. Just held her tighter.

And hoped she didn't shatter.

He didn't know what to say to make it better, but he said something anyway.

"We'll keep her alive," he whispered into her hair. "You're not going to do this alone. We'll figure it out. I swear to you, Vane, we'll do everything we can."

He meant it. Every word. Not just because Mollie deserved a chance. Not just because the system was cruel.

But because she mattered.

Evelia didn't lift her head. She just nodded, a small, aching movement that barely counted. Her shoulders shook harder. She was still crying, still falling apart in his arms.

And all Haymitch could think was how much he hated seeing her like this. How wrong it felt that someone as sharp and fierce and good as Evelia Vane could look this shattered. And how, despite everything, despite where they were and what this place did to people, he didn't want to let go of her.

Her tears soaked his shirt. Her fingers curled into the fabric like she was holding on for dear life. And something in him (something he hadn't let himself feel ever since he won his Games)shifted.

It was nothing, really. Just a little flicker. 

But it was there.

And it scared him more than the Games ever could.

He didn't say another word. Just kept holding her, as the lights buzzed overhead and the world kept spinning and her sobs faded into soft, breathless tremors.

She was breaking.

And he was starting to care far more than he should.

Chapter Text

Mollie couldn't be herself here. That much Evelia knew. The Capitol was a stage, and authenticity had no place in its carefully curated script.

Evelia had spent the entire train ride curled by the window, eyes tracing the dark blur of passing trees, mind whirring like a broken compass. How could she show the world Mollie, not the one who lit matches just to watch them burn, but the one worth betting on?

Even if the idea tasted bitter, Evelia knew it wasn't just about honour or friendship anymore. It was about selling something, a version of Mollie the Capitol could digest. Something fierce but not threatening. Wild but containable.

Because dousing her friend's fire? That was impossible. Mollie burned too bright. It was in the way she moved, the way she looked at people, as if they were all fools and cowards. She was made of sparks and kindling and too much wind. Evelia had tried once to rein her in, and the result had been a shouting match, three broken plates, and a promise that if she tried again, Mollie would make sure the whole district watched her punch her.

No, you didn't snuff out fire like that. You shaped it, gave it form. Directed it.

Back in District Four, Evelia could manage it. Mollie's recklessness was almost legendary, her mouth quicker than her temper, her fists not far behind. Evelia had long stopped keeping track of how many nights Mollie had spent behind bars, caught by Peacekeepers for saying things that weren't allowed to be said or doing things that weren't allowed to be done.

But Evelia always got her out. The Vane name had power in Four: generations of fishermen, the finest seafood in Panem, a restaurant so good even Peacekeepers looked the other way if it meant a discounted plate of garlic-spiced crab. She had leverage and favour. Fear, even.

Here, though? In the Capitol? Evelia was just another mentor. Another victor with a half-forgotten crown. Twenty-three others stood exactly where she did. And none of them could protect anyone.

So, she would adapt. Shift the gameboard. If she couldn't shield Mollie, she'd have to sell her.

So, what role could Mollie play in the Capitol's favourite kind of horror film? The kind directed by Coriolanus Snow?

Evelia had once been the angel who fell too fast and too hard—an orphaned martyr with pretty eyes and a tragic silence. Haymitch had leaned into the rakish drunk, quick with a smirk and quicker with a knife. They'd both sold versions of themselves—palatable, marketable fictions born from necessity.

Mollie had to be something in between. Something sharp and bright and survivable.

Evelia tapped her nails against the armrest, slow and deliberate, the rhythmic click the only sound threading through the thick velvet hush of the train car. Her mind felt like the sea during a storm; ideas rising, crashing, vanishing before she could catch them.

Too quiet, and Mollie would disappear behind Capitol glitz. Too loud, and she'd be crushed beneath it.

The truth wouldn't work here.

The truth was that Mollie laughed when Peacekeepers threatened her, spat curses in ancient sailor slang, and once carved DOWN WITH TYRANTS into a patrol vehicle with the sharp edge of a fish scaler.

But the Capitol didn't want truth, they wanted entertainment. A story they could watch from a safe distance. Rebellion wrapped in rhinestones. Risk they could admire without fearing it.

So... what if Mollie wasn't a rebel?

What if she was a daredevil?

Not seditious, but daring. Not angry, but alive. The Capitol had always loved its reckless heroes—the skydivers, the flame-dancers, the boys who raced hoverbikes into lightning storms. Evelia could see it: the Capitol citizens leaning in, wide-eyed and breathless. Not to stop Mollie, not to silence her. But to watch her.

She sat up, a pulse of purpose racing through her chest.

Yes.

That was it.

Dress her in cracked leather, tousle her brown hair like she'd just stepped off a boat that had battled a storm and won, and let her wear that crooked smirk. The one that made people feel like they were already five steps behind her. Not a threat but thrill, a live wire sparking just behind the glass.

The Capitol would devour her, yes. Teeth bared and napkins folded.

But only if they believed she was the dessert.

And Evelia would make sure they never saw the knife under the table.

So, Evelia had been confident, maybe even foolishly so, when she stepped off the train. Her chin had been high, her stride steady, a carefully stitched mask of poise hiding the chaos underneath.

But the moment she walked into the mentors' room, that confidence cracked.

Twenty-three others turned to look at her. Twenty-three victors. Twenty-three survivors. Each one a killer with a crown.

The room reeked of polish and power, but Evelia saw through it. The haunted eyes, the fidgeting hands, the lingering scent of death masked by Capitol perfume. They weren't just mentors. They were weapons honed by years of violence, made sharper by grief and guilt.

Some of them had tributes barely thirteen years old this year. Children with soft hands and shaking voices. Evelia had heard the whispers when she was walking down the streets of the Capitol, the bets already being placed, the odds being calculated before the Games had even begun.

She wasn't prepared for this.

And even if she won, even if Mollie somehow made it through alive, Evelia would be no better than Snow. No cleaner than the Capitol.

Because someone else's tribute would die for her victory.

And that wasn't strategy.

It was a slaughterhouse.

So when her eyes met Haymitch's across the room, it was too much. Too real. Because it wasn't just strangers she'd be sacrificing.

It was his tributes, too.

And she couldn't do that to him. Not Haymitch. Not the only one in that room who understood the weight she was carrying without her having to say a word.

But she couldn't let Mollie die either.

Mollie, who had been reaped because of her. Mollie, whose name was called as a message from Snow. A punishment dressed as coincidence. A reminder that love was a liability in Panem.

So when Haymitch caught her eye and frowned and dragged her from the room without a word, she didn't resist.

And when he asked her what was wrong, she broke.

Collapsed into his arms like her spine had given out, like her bones were hollow.

She sobbed so hard her whole body convulsed, shaking with the kind of grief that starts deep in the gut and claws its way out. Shaking so violently she thought she might come apart completely, shatter right there in the hallway.

But Haymitch didn't flinch; his arm slid around her shoulders, like the way someone might hold a person on the edge of splintering. Like he knew she was breaking, and he was determined to keep the pieces from falling.

He said nothing at first.

Just stood there, chin resting lightly on top of her head, the faint scent of smoke and cold metal lingering on his coat. His hand pressed between her shoulder blades.

When her sobs quieted to shuddered breaths, he finally spoke. His voice rasped from his throat like it had to claw its way out. "We'll keep her alive. You're not going to do this alone. We'll figure it out. I swear to you, Vane, we'll do everything we can."

But Evelia stiffened. The tension was instant, a tightening of every muscle like a string yanked taut.

"No."

Haymitch didn't move, his hand still at her back.

She pulled away, not far, just enough to meet his eyes. Hers were red-rimmed, lashes clumped, but something colder had settled behind them. Something sharpened. Hardened.

"You don't get to promise that," she said, each syllable deliberate. 

Haymitch blinked, brows knitting. "You think I'm doing this out of pity?"

"I think," she said, her voice trembling with restraint, "you've already given enough to a country that never deserved you. You survived the arena. You lost your mum and your brother. You mentored two tributes into coffins last year. You're already bleeding, Haymitch, and now you want to open another wound for this?"

There was something flickering behind his eyes. Pain, maybe. Or memory. But it passed before it could take shape.

"I'm not glass, Evelia," he muttered. "Neither are you. We don't get to shatter just because we're tired."

"I'm not asking to shatter," she shot back. "I'm asking you not to throw yourself in front of the next bullet."

The silence that followed wasn't empty; it pulsed with tension, the distant whine of the Capitol's underground rails humming through the walls. Footsteps echoed somewhere far away.

Then Haymitch exhaled. His mouth barely curled.

"Too late," he murmured. "Besides, this is bigger than you or me. If we get Mollie out of that arena, it proves Snow's not untouchable."

Evelia's jaw clenched. That old dread was still coiled in her chest. But something else sparked beneath it.

"He'll come for us."

Haymitch gave a short, humourless snort. "He already is."

She looked at him, breath catching like it had hit something cold.

"Then what do we do?"

"We melt Snow with Mollie's fire."

"You what?"

The voice sliced through the air like a blade of silk, which made Evelia jumped.

A girl stood just beyond Haymitch's shoulder, her arms crossed and head slightly tilted. Her tone was all curiosity, edged with a glimmer of mischief, as if she'd wandered into a secret she wasn't supposed to hear but was already making herself comfortable in it.

She was small (birdlike, almost) but every line of her posture radiated precision. Her dress was a soft, shimmering green, the kind that looked like it had been spun from the mist of spring mornings. Tiny flowers were stitched across the bodice, catching the dim light like stars.

Her features were too symmetrical to be accidental: heart-shaped face, delicate chin, and brown eyes so wide they took everything at once. They flicked from Haymitch to Evelia, taking in every detail like they were pieces in a puzzle she had already half-solved.

Her dark blonde curls softly framed her face.

And she was undeniably beautiful. Evelia blinked, adrenaline still threading cold through her veins. Her heartbeat was still playing catch-up. But the girl didn't flinch under the weight of her stare. If anything, she looked entertained by it.

"Who the hell are you?" Haymitch's voice sliced through the dim corridor like a blade and just daring her to be a threat.

The girl stepped into view, her smile blooming with theatrical precision.

"Oh, come on now. I'm wounded." Her tone was airy, but there was something barbed underneath. "Don't tell me you've forgotten me already. Mentor from District Eight?" She twirled a golden curl around her finger, bangles chiming with every flick of her wrist. "Relax, blondie. I wasn't eavesdropping. Just looking for the water closet, and then, well. I heard voices and schemes, so I had to stop." She stirred the air with her fingerss. "What girl wouldn't pause at the sound of someone plotting to melt President Snow?"

Her heels struck the floor with deliberate rhythm as she stepped into the corridor fully.

"And by the way?" she added, flashing a grin at both Evelia and Haymitch. "Loving the aesthetic. Very doomed romance meets quiet rebellion. Makes you wonder who's going to betray whom first."

Evelia didn't move. Her mind spun too fast to allow her body to catch up. Was this girl fucking around?

"Are you actually serious right now?"

"Deadly. Snow's a cockroach. Burn him and maybe he squeals."

Haymitch raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but not entirely uninterested. "Got a name, firestarter?"

She bowed. "Tessa Damara. And you two?" Her eyes gleamed. "Plotting a coup, or awkwardly trying to flirt?"

Evelia's jaw tightened. A ripple of fury passed through her shoulders as she stepped forward, not far, but just enough to show she wasn't going to be baited.

"We're trying to keep a girl alive."

Tessa tilted her head like a cat eyeing a twitching string. "Aren't we all?" Her voice skated the edge between mockery and something too real to laugh off. "But tell me... who's the girl worth putting you two in the same room without knives drawn?"

Silence folded over them like a thick curtain.

Tessa sighed. "Wait. You said 'Mollie,' didn't you? From District Four? I thought the name sounded familiar." She tapped her temple, one ring catching the light. "My prep team's obsessed, and the Capitol's already calling her the Wild Tide. Apparently she told her stylist to walk off the roof."

Haymitch snorted.

Evelia didn't.

"Nothing funny about a teenage girl being treated like an attraction," Evelia said flatly. 

Tessa's grin thinned. "No, you're right. She's turning into a bait." Her voice dropped, quieter now. "Like all of them. Which is why you need someone who speaks Capitol, someone who can sell the fire without letting them touch the flame. Someone like me, if you don't understand."

That struck a nerve. Evelia bareuly faltered but Tessa saw it. Of course she saw it.

She took a step closer. This time, her heels made no sound. She was a shadow in silk and bangles.

"You're playing against a man who rewrites the rules every time he loses," Tessa said. "And you want to beat him with love? With hope?" Her smile flickered. "We all know it won't work. You need a strategy."

Haymitch folded his arms. "And you're offering one."

"I'm offering a choice." She laced her fingers together. "Tell me your plan and I'll translate it. Refine it, make it palatable, so Mollie gets the sponsors she needs. So she lives long enough to matter."

Evelia looked at her, doubt flickering in her eyes like candlelight. "You'd do that? Why?"

And then the glitter fell away for a second. The mask dropped to her expensive heels.

"Because I've done this six times," she said. "Six Games? Six sets of kids who died anyway. If I can change one thing, I will."

Evelia opened her mouth, then closed it again. Words sat heavy in her throat.

"What makes you think saving Mollie would even matter?" she asked.

"Because you wouldn't be trying this hard if it didn't."

"She's my best friend," Evelia snapped, the truth bursting out like it had claws.

Tessa turned. Her smile didn't shift, but her eyes sharpened. "I wasn't talking to you." Her gaze locked onto Haymitch like a trap sprung shut.

He didn't flinch, but he shifted, barely. Then he moved in front of Evelia. 

"That's none of your business," he muttered.

Tessa didn't back off. Her expression twisted into amusement. Like watching someone play checkers on a chessboard.

"Touchy," she said. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But don't mistake caution for intelligence. I'm not here to gut you. I'm here to make sure your girl doesn't burn out before the first cannon fires."

"What the fuck is wrong with you—"

"Haymitch," Evelia said quietly.

He didn't move, but he let her speak.

Tessa's smile returned. "See? Good looking and smart! This alliance might actually work."

"Enough," Evelia snapped. She was too tired for games, too full of fury to filter. "You want to make a difference, Tessa? Start with your own tributes. Eight needs a victor more than anyone."

Tessa's face shifted. "You saying we don't matter?"

"Not to the Capitol."

That landed harder than Evelia meant it to. She saw it in the way Tessa's shoulders stiffened.

"I'm sorry," Evelia instantly said. "That was—"

"True," Tessa cut in. Her voice was empty now, not angry. Just worn. "Don't apologise for the truth. My district's been broken since before I was born. And we're not even the poorest."

Her gaze slid to Haymitch, whose jaw clenched like he was biting down on memory.

"We used to have artists, designers, dreamers. Now we've got factories and the sound of bones breaking in machines." Her voice was quiet now, barely a thread. "District Eight's soul got stripped away years ago and the Capitol didn't even notice."

But even as the silence stretched, Evelia couldn't silence the thought unraveling inside her.

Why?

Why her tribute?

Why Mollie?

Tessa had claimed it was curiosity, that strange flicker of interest when two mentors from opposing districts aligned so quickly, so fiercely, over a single girl.

But Evelia didn't buy it.

Tessa was too sharp, too composed. Her eyes missed nothing. She carried herself like someone who weighed every word before speaking and never gave anything for free. Strategic? Without a doubt. Vengeful? Absolutely. But altruistic? No. Evelia had seen enough of the Capitol's cruelty to know that kind of selflessness got people killed. Or worse.

"You're too willing to help," Evelia said. The hum of the ventilation overhead nearly swallowed her words. "Why? What do you get out of this?"

Tessa's head turned slowly, deliberately, like she'd been waiting for that question to surface. Like she always knew it would.

"I told you already," she said. "I've been watching kids bleed for sport for six years. I'm tired of counting graves. If there's even the slightest chance I can shift the odds—tip the board, like I said—then maybe one of them makes it home."

Her gaze didn't waver. But Evelia wasn't finished.

"Then why mine?" she asked, sharper now. "Why not your own tribute? Why risk helping me?"

Tessa didn't answer.

Not right away.

Instead, she turned toward the wall, her fingers brushing the plaster where the Capitol's insignia had been etched so lightly it was nearly invisible. Her reflection shimmered against the tile—distorted by the sheen, as if the Capitol itself was erasing her a little at a time.

For a moment, she just stared at it. As though she were searching for something beneath the surface. A memory. A ghost. A name already carved in stone.

"Mollie's a Career," Tessa said at last. "She's got better odds. If one of my tributes wins, the Capitol will celebrate for a week, and then they'll forget. Nothing shifts. But if she wins... that sends a different message."

She paused, then added, almost too casually, "Besides, I heard you say she was reaped because of you. What made you think that?"

The words sliced straight through Evelia.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her skin until pain flared and bloomed like wildfire across her palms. It grounded her. Barely. Enough to pull her thoughts from the frantic spiral in her chest to the sting in her hands. Her breath came easier. Slower. But not calmer.

Tessa had heard everything. Or enough, at least. Enough to unravel her whole plan if she chose to.

Evelia didn't answer right away. She couldn't. Not with her heart trying to pound its way out of her ribs, and her mind spitting question after question like venom.

What now?

She didn't want to tell the truth. 

Because she was scared.

But of what?

Tessa wasn't the type to go whispering to Peacekeepers, or cozying up to Gamemakers. Evelia could feel it deep in her bones, the same way you feel when someone catches you just before you fall. Tessa was on her side. Maybe not fully. Maybe not always. But now? In this?

She wasn't the threat.

Snow was.

If he found out (about her guilt, her plan, her alliance with Haymitc) it wouldn't just be Evelia who paid the price. Haymitch would follow. Mollie too. And Tessa, for helping. He'd make it public, turn it into spectacle, or a lesson carved in blood and screams. Probably a hanging on the main square.

And suddenly, she remembered that interview. Tessa, standing under the Capitol's blinding lights, trying to sound strong through the cracks in her voice.

She had to win, she had to get home. Her mother was sick.

But by the time the cannon sounded that final time, her mother was already gone.

If Tessa died now, Evelia realised with an ache that surprised her... there'd be more than a district who mourned. There'd be a father waiting for news that would never come. Maybe siblings, too—faces Evelia had never seen, but suddenly felt the weight of.

And that made this more than a game, more than a rebellion.

It made it personal.

But weren't rebellions always personal?

That's how they began, wasn't it? Not with banners or speeches or grand explosions. But with one unbearable loss, one injustice too cruel to ignore, one name too precious to carve in stone. That's what made people snap. Not strategy or politics, but pain.

Evelia had tried to tell herself this was just about survival. About protecting Mollie. About doing what she could while pretending she had a choice. But somewhere between the first lie and the second sleepless night, it had stopped being about one tribute.

It had become a war she didn't remember choosing. But couldn't walk away from.

Because if rebellion was personal... then so was vengeance. And fear. And hope.

"Yes," Evelia whispered, the word tasting like blood in her mouth. "I did things in the arena Snow didn't like. I pushed too far and said too much, so he punished me. He had my best friend reaped."

Tessa's expression didn't flicker, but something in her eyes shifted. She nodded once. 

"Then her win," she said softly, "wouldn't just be poetic. It would be personal. That kind of victory doesn't just rattle the board. It slaps the pieces out of Snow's hand. Wouldn't mean a lot to Panem, but it would to our president."

She turned to face Evelia fully now, voice hardening like a blade being drawn.

"But that won't come easy. If you're right, if he handpicked her for punishment, then she's going to be broken down. Bit by bit and day by day. He'll make her suffer until she forgets her own name."

She stepped closer, eyes locked on Evelia's.

"So ask yourself this: can your friend handle that? Can she crawl through fire and shadow and still find the strength to stand? Because if she can't..."

Tessa's voice dropped to a whisper.

"Then letting her die might be the kinder choice. Safer than dragging her out half-alive, just to live with memories that'll rot her from the inside out."

Evelia felt her breath catch like her lungs had forgotten how to work.

Her gaze dropped to her hands, fists still clenched, pale crescents of blood where her nails had dug in too deep. They were trembling now. She didn't try to stop it.

Instead, she looked up.

Met Tessa's eyes.

"She can handle it," she said, her voice quiet, cracked at the edges. "She has to."

Tessa didn't nod or offer a smile or a comforting lie. She just watched, as if Evelia were a dam holding back more than just words. Waiting to see what would finally break her.

"She's strong," Evelia said again, the words tumbling out faster now. "Stronger than me. She's not fearless, but she fights anyway. Even when it terrifies her. Even when—"

She stopped.

Even when it breaks her.

Even when it kills her.

The words weren't said. But they hung there anyway.

Tessa exhaled slowly, not in disagreement, but in something deeper. Recognition. Perhaps regret.

"You believe in her," she said. "Good. She'll need that."

Evelia nodded but it felt empty, even mechanical. Like her body was trying to agree with something her heart hadn't caught up to.

Because belief was a promise. But it wasn't armour.

And no amount of faith could shield Mollie from the knives waiting inside that arena.

Evelia felt her chest tighten again, a scream swelling in her throat that she didn't dare let out. A part of her wanted to cry. To run. To do something, anything, to shatter the glass cage they were all trapped in.

But none of that would help.

Still...

In the quiet that followed, another voice stirred inside her. Softer than doubt. Sharper than pain.

What if you're wrong?

What if belief wasn't enough?

What if this time, hope was just another weapon Snow had tricked them into wielding against themselves?

·✦·

"Ladies and gentlemen," Caesar Flickerman's voice rang out, "before the parade begin, please join me in welcoming our most recent victor. From District Four, Evelia Vane!"

A roaring wave of applause and cheers washed over the stage as Evelia stepped forward, the spotlight catching her every movement. She moved with the fluid grace of the ocean itself, her presence as commanding as the tides. Beside her, Caesar Flickerman gave her a warm, almost fatherly hug before handing her the microphone.

"My sweet Evelia," Caesar beamed, his smile wide and glittering with genuine admiration. "Welcome back, my dear. You look absolutely divine! Your stylists have as always outdone themselves."

Evelia let out a light laugh, her fingers brushing her gown as she spun slowly, showcasing the delicate fabric that clung to her with the gentleness of a summer breeze. The dress was pure, soft white, as though woven from moonlight itself, its quiet glow settling over her skin as she moved. It billowed around her, the hem sparkling faintly with the touch of pale gold, catching each shift of her steps with a controlled, flawless grace. The bodice, intricately detailed with silver embroidery, shimmered with patterns of feathers and wings that seemed to breathe along the fabric, tracing a trail of celestial beauty across her form. Her figure was accentuated by the silver sash that cinched her waist, and the thin straps of the gown, barely visible, seemed to float around her shoulders with an effortless lightness. Diamond-like crystals, catching the light, lined the neckline, their subtle glint strengthening the quiet radiance she carried. Evelia looked as if she had stepped out of a dream, a figure of ethereal elegance, untouchable and yet so deeply compelling.

"You truly are Panem's angel, my dear!" Caesar exclaimed. "Tell me, how are you feeling tonight? You're about to begin your role as a mentor to the tributes. How does it feel to have that responsibility?"

Evelia's smile was soft but tinged with nerves. "I'm a bit nervous, to be honest," she admitted. "But I'm truly honoured to serve the President in the Games. I'll do everything I can to help my tributes. They deserve my best, and I intend to give it to them."

Caesar nodded. "Speaking of your tributes, tell us about them. Mollie Corsair and Mason Montgomery, right? Eighteen years old. You've got the oldest tributes in this year's Games. How do you feel about that?"

Evelia's mind stalled like a ship caught in a dead current.

What was she supposed to say?

For a moment, the lights, the cheers, the presence of Caesar Flickerman, none of it registered. It all blurred as her lungs ached with the pressure of it, and her heartbeat thundered in her ears like crashing waves. 

She couldn't let her anxiety win. She needed to detach. Slice clean through the tangle of nerves, silence the voice screaming in the back of her mind. Fear, anxiety, pressure... These were luxuries she couldn't afford under the spotlight.

Think, Evelia. Think.

One misstep, one too-honest sentence, and the illusion would shatter. She'd give away too much. The mystery surrounding her tributes would unravel, leaving nothing for the Capitol to hunger after. Sponsors wanted stories, not statistics. Alluring fragments, not full truths. If she revealed everything now, she'd rob her team of their greatest weapon: intrigue.

And worse, every mentor watching would be cataloguing her words like weapons. They'd use her own insights against her, shaping them into strategies for their own tributes.

No. She had to be clever. Controlled. Just enough to spark curiosity. Just enough to make the Capitol lean forward in their velvet seats.

But not a drop more.

"They're very well rated in our training academy back in Four," Evelia said. "The best of the best."

"Ah, I could tell!" Caesar's voice sparkled with showmanship. "I mean, Mason volunteered for a reason, didn't he?"

That he did.

And Evelia still couldn't understand it.

She'd tried. Heaven, had she tried. She'd sifted through every explanation tossed her way, like she was combing through sea glass hoping to find a diamond. Turned every answer over in her mind, examined them from every angle until they lost all shape and sense. But no matter how many times she tried to fit the pieces together, the puzzle refused to make sense.

Why would anyone willingly step forward for the Hunger Games?

Because in the end, volunteering was death sentence signed in broad daylight. It was stepping into an arena designed to kill, where twenty-three names became body counts, and one was left to walk away. And for what? Applause? Gold-drenched gifts from strangers in ivory towers? A mansion, yes. But one built atop the bones of children who hadn't made it.

She'd seen past the shimmer. Past the rehearsed smiles and the champagne flutes and the glittering Capitol lights. Past all of it.

The Games were not glory.

They were grief, paraded as entertainment. A punishment with confetti thrown on top.

So why volunteer?

Was it courage? Madness, perhaps? Desperation that wrapped itself in the illusion of control?

She didn't know. She couldn't know. And maybe she didn't want to.

But that was the thing about the Capitol, wasn't it?

You didn't have to understand the rules. You just had to obey them. No questions. No resistance. Just blind, smiling compliance.

"I'll let him explain it all to you himself," Evelia said, adding a playful wink. "Better to hear it straight from the man himself, right?"

Caesar chuckled. Evelia matched his energy with a tight smile, silently praying that meant she'd dodged the trap. 

"That's fair enough, my dear," he said, tilting his head. "Just one last question before I release you from this terribly annoying interview of mine."

"Your interviews are anything but annoying, Caesar," Evelia lied smoothly. Her voice was honeyed, easy. Capitol-approved, she hoped.

Tessa's words echoed in her mind—Appear gracious. Strong. Charming. If they like you, they'll like your tributes. It didn't matter if it felt like manipulation. In Panem, likeability was strategy. Applause meant supplies. Smiles meant survival.

"Oh, stop it," Caesar waved her off, pretending to blush. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

Then his tone shifted, light still, but edged with interest. "Now, I've been wondering... You're close to Mollie Corsair, aren't you?"

Evelia stiffened.

There it was. The pivot. The sudden shift from light to lethal.

She didn't know where he was going with this, but the ground beneath her felt like sand—unstable, deceptive. One wrong step, and she'd sink. Fast.

"We went to the same high school," she said carefully. "Shared a few fishing classes."

That was true. Every word.

But also nothing more than what she was willing to give.

She hadn't confirmed they were close. She hadn't denied it either.

Let them wonder. Let the Capitol fill in the blanks with whatever story entertained them most. That was safer than truth. And far more useful.

Because admitting closeness meant exposure. Vulnerability. And lies—well, lies were even worse. The Capitol detested dishonesty, especially when it wasn't their own. They liked their victors poised and sincere, even if they were dying inside.

So Evelia did what she'd been trained to do.

She gracefully dodged.

"I see," Caesar said slowly. "See, darling, I've been pondering... do you think you might prioritise Mollie over Mason? Since you know her better, you see."

Evelia's heart lurched.

She smiled but her fingers tensed around the microphone, her knuckles paling under the stage lights.

Because the truth was simple.

And terrible.

She was going to prioritise Mollie.

She'd known it the moment Mollie's name was called and the world tilted on its axis. It hadn't exactl been a decision. More like a reflex. An instinct older than victory and louder than guilt. A silent vow that had taken root in her bones before she'd even realised it was there.

Of course, she'd agreed to the mentoring arrangement. Two others would help guide Mollie, Haymitch and Tessa.

But it didn't change the truth.

Mason would be fine. He looked like a victor: trained, confident, camera-friendly. Built like someone sponsors adored, with a tactical mind and the kind of intensity that made interviewers lean forward. He didn't need Evelia's hand-holding. 

And maybe that was the real problem.

Because Evelia couldn't protect both of them fairly.

And standing there, beneath the glow of artificial stars and Capitol expectation, something cold whispered up her spine.

Shame.

Not the burning kind. Not the kind that screamed and clawed at your throat.

This shame was quiet. It crept in like frost under your skin and stayed there, hollowing you from the inside out.

Because the choice had already been made long ago.

And in that moment, Evelia saw herself as the Capitol saw her. Not an angel.

But something else.

A victor carved from compromise.

A mentor forged from sacrifice.

A monster in a white dress.

She had become what the Capitol made of all their favourites eventually. Something beautiful and broken, revered and resented in the same breath.

She was just like Snow.

And maybe that was why Panem had turned. Why the whispers started curling through the districts like smoke. Why the posters stopped calling her their darling and began calling her dangerous. She hadn't killed anyone during her Games. She had slipped through the cracks. And that had scared everyone. She knew it had.

The shift hadn't come because they saw the truth.

It had come because she did.

"No," Evelia said at last.

She kept her smile stitched in place when she lied. Were all winners liars? That was most likely.

"I care about both of them equally," she added, each syllable placed like chess pieces. "It wouldn't be fair otherwise. Their odds need to be equal. And if they aren't... it's my job to make them."

The crowd clapped, charmed by the neatness of her diplomacy. Caesar beamed like he'd personally trained her for this moment and the cameras drank it all.

"All right, everyone, let's give our dear Evelia a moment to appreciate the parade in peace!" Caesar's voice boomed across the stage, his smile widening. "Thank you for your time, Evelia."

"Thank you for the interview, Caesar."

The moment the cameras cut off, and the Capitol's endless chatter shifted its focus to the next spectacle, Evelia moved with a quiet elegance. The velvet curtain swished shut behind her, and she was gone, away from the bright lights, the noise, the eyes of Panem.

Guided by Capitol escorts who didn't speak, Evelia was led through twisting corridors. It wasn't long before she arrived at the Mentors' Room, an imposing space perched high above the Avenue of the Tributes. The glass and marble chamber was as cold and distant as the Capitol itself, a throne over the chaos below.

Inside, the room hummed with a quiet energy, the only sound the soft clicking of monitors lining one wall. Through the wide bay windows, the city stretched beneath them, veins of light flickering as the chariots began to assemble below.

Evelia moved through the room, as the mentors already present barely spared her a glance, just polite nods, fleeting acknowledgments that were as cold as the room itself. Tessa was sitting near the window, her posture stiff, arms crossed.

Haymitch stood nearby. Across from him, a young boy with dark skin responded calmly to a question Haymitch had asked, his smile warm and kind.

"I'm proud of you, Miss Vane," Tessa's voice broke the silence. She stood suddenly, her gaze fixed on Evelia with an air of quiet challenge, as though daring her to question the words.

Evelia blinked, a brief flicker of surprise. "Why?"

Tessa let out a short laugh, one without humour. "Because you didn't make a fool of yourself, that's why. You dodged Flickerman's tricks like a pro. I'd call that a win."

A wisp of a smile tugged at the corner of Evelia's mouth, but it was more of an exhale than genuine amusement. "It was mostly lies."

Tessa's eyebrow quirked, unimpressed. "Welcome to Capitol life. You think the truth gets you sponsors? Think again. No one cares who you really are, they only care about how well you sell the version of yourself they want to see. How well you cover the cracks."

Her voice dropped a touch, but her words were still sharp. "You played the game and you didn't choke. That's rare."

Evelia turned her gaze toward the window, her jaw tight. "It didn't feel right."

Tessa shrugged. "It's not supposed to. If it did, I'd start to wonder if you were becoming one of them."

Evelia's eyes didn't move from the scene outside, but the words stung more than she cared to admit. She watched Haymitch, still talking to the boy, his face an unreadable mask.

"Who's that?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Niko Resnik. 47th Games victor." Tessa's voice was more detached now, her gaze sliding sideways. "He and your man were chatting up a storm before your interview. Just took a break to watch you on screen."

Evelia's frown deepened. "Haymitch isn't my man."

Tessa raised an eyebrow. "Oh, is that so?"

Evelia shot her a glare, but it lacked the heat it might've had an hour ago. Tessa's smile was all teeth.

"Relax, Vane. I'm not saying you're scribbling hearts in the margins of your notes. But he's clearly got under your skin, and I'm not talking about the usual stabby way."

Evelia turned away, her gaze firmly fixed on the procession below. The carriages were starting to line up. The parade would begin any minute now.

"He's annoying," she muttered.

Tessa chuckled softly. "Aren't all men?"

But Evelia didn't respond. Her gaze went back to Haymitch, still deep in conversation with Niko, that gentle, maddening smile still in place.

"Don't get sentimental, because that's how you lose. Both out there and in here."

"I'm not sentimental," Evelia replied.

"Good." Tessa straightened, her arms uncrossing. "Keep it that way."

The distant sound of a trumpet echoed through the room. The parade had started.

With a firm pat on Evelia's shoulder—more of a thump, really—Tessa turned toward her seat. "Come on, Angel. Time to watch the circus."

Evelia eased into the seat beside Tessa. Outside, the Capitol's lights shifted in fast, restless patterns, glinting against the glass with a sharp brightness that made the entire avenue feel alive. The crowd's roar swelled, growing louder with every passing second as the first chariot rolled into view. It was golden, gleaming under the artificial lights with a polished intensity.

District One, of course.

Their tributes glittered beneath the spotlights, draped in metallic threads that shimmered with a cold, deliberate brilliance. The girl's chin lifted with trained arrogance, every inch shaped into the Capitol's preferred image. The boy smirked with practiced charm, his posture loose and confident in a way that suggested long preparation. They both seemed to be not older than fifteen years old.

"Peacocks," Tessa muttered under her breath.

District Two followed, and with them came a sharper energy. Their armour was so polished it sent bright slivers of light across the air. Evelia could almost feel the metallic weight of it. The tributes didn't wave, focused on a point ahead, refusing to acknowledge the crowd.

That definitely was a strategy.

Then, Evelia heard footsteps approaching from behind her. A second later, Haymitch dropped into the seat beside her with the graceless ease of someone who had never quite learned how to sit properly. A soft grunt escaped him as he leaned back, one arm slung over the top of the bench, his knee brushing lightly against hers.

Niko slid in next, folding himself neatly into the seat beside Haymitch. He offered Evelia and Tessa a small, polite nod.

Evelia didn't glance at Haymitch, but she could feel his gaze moving over her.

"Nice dress," he said at last. The corner of his mouth lifted.

She kept her eyes fixed on the parade, her gaze steady. "Thanks," Evelia replied. "Nice shoes."

"You like my feet?"

"So much."

Haymitch snorted loudly, and the mentors seated in front of him turned on their chairs to ask him to lower his voice.

"Oh my..." He leaned forward slightly, as if savouring the moment. "Vane, are you a fetishist?"

Evelia didn't flinch, her gaze still locked on the chariots rolling past. But her lips pressed together, fighting the tug of a smile. "I am. Please don't spill my secret, or I'll have to kill you."

Haymitch tilted his head, his grin widening. "Guess I'll take that secret to the grave, then."

Evelia didn't respond. She was watching the parade with sharp focus, not letting his words distract her. District Three was coming up. Niko's tributes, she guessed.

The boy straightened ever so slightly in his seat. Subtle, but Evelia caught the shift. His expression remained impassive, but the briefest flicker of something passed across his face—pride, perhaps. Or nerves wrapped tightly in control.

His tributes appeared, sleek and striking in silver and midnight blue, their suits etched with glowing lines of circuitry that traced over their bodies. The Capitol valued that kind of technological precision. The boy raised his hand to wave at the crowd, while the girl inclined her head in a precise, measured bow, every movement controlled and deliberate. The crowd responded instantly—cheers, clapping, camera flashes bursting in sharp, blinding light.

"They look good," Evelia admitted. She wasn't speaking to anyone in particular, but it was true. 

"They do," Niko agreed quietly, his voice almost wistful as he watched them pass. His gaze followed them with an intensity that Evelia didn't miss. A brief flicker of something—fondness? Pride?—danced in his brown eyes before he glanced at her. His smile was gentle, warm in a way that cut through the cold, manufactured reality of their surroundings.

For a moment, Evelia felt the weight of that warmth, something raw and human in a place that had long since abandoned both. She wasn't sure why, but it affected her. It wasn't romantic, yet in that brief, fleeting instant, it made her think about the ways Snow's oppression and the Capitol's politics had stripped any trace of humanity from the people who lived under their rule.

Even after everything, even after the Games, Niko had kept that kindness and warmth. It hadn't been stamped out by the Capitol's endless thirst for control.

Then District Four's chariot rolled into view, and Evelia held her breath, her gaze locking onto Mollie.

Before the interview, she had pulled Mollie aside, away from the glittering chaos. "Listen, I know you're a risk-taker. But this isn't the time for throwing yourself into danger just to prove something."

Mollie had tilted her head, a challenge flashing in her eyes, but Evelia held her ground. "Be bold, but not reckless. Keep them guessing. Play smart. If you push too far, you won't make it out. Your own flames will burn you."

Mollie had nodded, but Evelia could see the stubborn set of her jaw, the fire that wouldn't be snuffed out. "And Mason?"

At that moment, Mason had approached, his dark hair catching the light. Evelia had turned to face him, locking eyes with him.

"I trust you, Mason," she had said. "You're smart. You know how to behave. I'll need you to look after Mollie."

Mollie had opened her mouth to protest, but Evelia had silenced her with a raised hand, her gaze cutting through the moment.

"No room for argument," she had said. "Mason, can you do this? Keep her from overstepping?"

The boy had smiled, confidence in his gaze, and nodded. "Of course."

"Good." Evelia had placed a hand on Mollie's shoulder and turned her gaze to Mason, offering him a small smile. "Just don't forget you're both better together."

The chariot for District Four rolled into view, gleaming like a jewel under the Capitol's harsh lights. Its design was sleek, a reflection of the sea itself, blue and silver swirls that mimicked the undulating waves. The shape was a blend of strength and grace, evoking both the calm and the danger of water. The horses pulling it were equally striking—large, powerful creatures with gleaming white coats and eyes that glittered with a predatory sharpness.

Mollie was the first to rise, her gaze sweeping over the crowd as if daring them to look away. She wore a deep azure dress that clung to her figure like the ocean to the shore, the fabric shimmering with the light, as if the gown itself was alive. Silver accents traced down her sides like waves crashing against rocks, and her brown hair, as untamed as ever, hung loose around her shoulders.

Her bold eyes met the crowd's gaze as if she were challenging them to see her not just as a tribute, but as something more. She waved, her chin tilted high, daring anyone to think they could look away. Her presence was a proclamation that she would not be ignored, and the excitement that blazed in her eyes spoke volumes—unfiltered, raw energy that lit up her face like fireworks ready to detonate. 

Beside her, Mason stood tall and composed, his posture impeccable, hands clasped loosely in front of him. His suit was a deep sea green, a sharp contrast to Mollie's bold hues, and it was tailoured to perfection. His dark hair was neatly groomed, but there was a careless ease to him. It came naturally, like a second skin.

Yet, despite the composed exterior, his gaze was constantly on Mollie. His eyes followed her every move, and the smile he wore was confident, but there was something else in his expression. Something calculating. He wasn't just looking after he. He was intrigued by her, this force of nature that was as unpredictable as she was reckless.

Little did he know she wasn't into boys.

The crowd erupted in wild cheers. Mollie's bravado only stoked the fire, and Mason's calm, collected demeanor added an element of mystery to their partnership. But the tension that crackled beneath the surface was palpable. A tension that was as much a part of their dynamic as the night sky was of the ocean.

Haymitch leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied the pair on the screen.

"Not bad," he muttered, barely above a whisper. "Mollie's got the right attitude, Mystery Girl. The odds are in her favour."

Evelia felt a surge of pride, but with it came an undercurrent of anxiety. Mollie's daring was exactly what the Games required, but there were lines, so many lines, and she wasn't sure how far Mollie would go before crossing one. The thought gnawed at her, but Haymitch's words still provided a small comfort.

Beside her, Tessa's gaze hadn't moved from the screen. Her eyes were fixed, almost too intent, lingering long after District Four's chariot had passed. Evelia couldn't help but notice the unusual focus in her eyes. There was something there, something she couldn't quite place.

"Tessa?" Evelia ventured softly. "Everything alright?"

Tessa blinked, her trance broken by the sound of her name. She flushed just slightly, a quick wave of pink tinting her cheeks as she looked away. "Oh, yeah. Fine. Totally fine," she answered, perhaps too quickly. Then, as if to shrug off the tension, she smirked. "Just admiring your chariot, that's all."

Evelia raised an eyebrow. "Admiring? Fair enough. Mollie's got guts."

Tessa flicked her gaze back to the screen, her smile widening. There was something more to it now, something Evelia couldn't define. "Guts?" She repeated. "No, Vane, it's more than that. It's... raw. She doesn't care about any of this." Tessa waved a hand vaguely at the Capitol's grandeur, dismissing it. "It's refreshing, you know?"

Evelia's brow furrowed in confusion, unsure how to interpret her words. "Refreshing?" she echoed, her eyebrow quirking up. "That's... one way of putting it."

"It is," Tessa replied smoothly. She stood up suddenly, the moment shifting, and clapped her hands together. "Anyway, I'm going to get a glass of water. Yes."

"Okay..." Evelia watched her go, her steps brisk, moving toward the back of the mentors' room where the buffet was. The abruptness of Tessa's departure left Evelia slightly unsettled. But then again, everything felt a bit off right now.

Shaking her head, Evelia decided not to overthink it. She turned her focus back to the parade, her eyes tracking the remaining chariots as they rolled down the avenue, the Capitol's lights flashing, the crowd's cheers swelling.

Suddenly, Haymitch's voice was low beside her, and she felt his hand gently tap her shoulder.

"I think it would be interesting to include Niko in our plan," he murmured, leaning in just enough to make sure only she could hear.

Evelia frowned, her eyes flicking to his. "Why?"

"Because he's clever, Eve. Really clever. He's exactly what we need. The fourth wheel of the carriage."

Evelia couldn't help herself. She glanced at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "That's very poetic, Haymitch."

"I know," he replied, completely unbothered by her sarcasm. He leaned back slightly, searching her face for any sign of hesitation.

"I asked him if he wanted to meet tonight," he continued, his voice low. "So we can get to know each other. You and Tessa should come. I know a place without any mics or cameras, we can go there so we can talk in peace."

Evelia hesitated. Including Niko was risky. She didn't want to drag him into their dangerous plans. He seemed too kind, too good-hearted, and the thought of putting him in harm's way made her stomach churn. But Haymitch was right. They needed a brain, someone who could strategize beyond the surface level. And besides, he hadn't asked Niko yet. After explaining everything, the risks, the dangers, perhaps Niko would refuse.

Or perhaps he wouldn't.

Evelia didn't know. And she would never if she never asked him. After exposing him everything, it would be up to him to accept or refuse. It was worth a shot.

"I'll ask Tessa after the parade," Evelia said after a long pause.

Haymitch's smile was so warm, Evelia felt her breath hitch in her throat. "We'll get your girl out of this arena alive, Eve. I swear it to you."

Chapter Text

Evelia sat, rigid in her chair, the velvet cushion pressing against her back as she gripped her fork. Her fingers were tight, though she hadn't even touched it in what felt like forever. The chandelier above her shimmered with golden light, casting reflections across the polished plates and crystal glasses. But her plate, composed of cold chicken and beans barely touched, seemed insignificant, as if it had no place here at all. She forced herself to take another bite, but it dissolved on her tongue, tasteless, as if she were eating dust.

Zephyria's voice broke the silence.

"Oh, you two were simply wonderful!" she declared, her wine glass raised as she piled more prawns onto her plate. "Like sea spirits summoned by fire, yes—exactly that!"

Her applause rang out a fourth time, a self-satisfied grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Thank you, ma'am," Mason said.

Mollie didn't reply. She tore a corner from her bread, still the same piece she'd been nibbling on since the start of the meal, and bit into it with an air of disdain. Every chew seemed laboured, each bite a reluctant movement.

Evelia frowned. Mollie, back home, would have devoured everything in sight, never passing up a chance to try something new or claim a second helping. But now, nearly twenty minutes in, she hadn't eaten more than a few crumbs. Not a single bite of the main course.

Evelia leaned closer, speaking quietly. "Mollie. You have to eat. You know what the arena's like. Food is scarce. It's called the Hunger Games for a reason."

Mollie hissed in reply. "I don't want this Capitol food. Tastes like poison."

Across the table, Zephyria's head turned?

"Nothing's poison, darling," she said in that sugary tone of hers. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "We've all been eating, and look. Still alive, aren't we?"

Mollie lifted her chin, meeting Zephyria's gaze directly. "That's why I said 'it's like poison,' not 'it is.' You should learn how similes work."

The air in the room grew cold.

Zephyria's smile faltered, slipping just for a moment. Her wine glass hit the table with a dull thud, and red wine splashed across the white cloth, spilling in a wild bloom. Evelia's chest tightened at the sight, the red stain spreading too quickly. For a second, she could only see blood on the floor, and felt like she was back in the arena. She shut her eyes, trying to push the image away.

Zephyria's voice brought her back. "You'll listen to me, sweetheart. If you'd rather not end up like the Avox standing behind you, I suggest you keep that clever little mouth of yours shut."

Silence fell. The crackling fire seemed to stop. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

 "You can't cut a tribute's tongue," Mollie argued.

But Evelia heard the uncertainty beneath the defiance.

Zephyria's smile returned, but it was cold as ice. "You sure about that?"

Evelia's chair scraped the floor as she stood. She could feel the anger boil in her veins.

"Say that again," she said, her voice steady, the words a low threat.

Zephyria blinked, a hint of surprise in her eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

Evelia didn't move. "You don't threaten my tributes."

The words weren't loud, but they struck the room with a weight that felt far greater. Evelia was rarely angry, and she never confronted people who irritated her. Most of the time, she would simply walk away from the situation or ignore whoever was getting on her nerves. But the Games had changed that part of her.

"Not when I'm in the room, or ever, for that matter. You think your Capitol silk will protect you?" She took a step forward, her eyes never leaving Zephyria's. "It won't. You're an escort. So escort. Smile. Pose. Do whatever the hell you're supposed to do, but you leave my tributes alone."

"Who do you think you are, speaking to me like that?" Zephyria staggered to her feet, swaying slightly as she gripped the edge of the table for balance. Her heels wobbled, her face flushed, but not from anger. She was drunk, the wine clearly taking its toll.

Evelia stood firm, her eyes never leaving her. She didn't flinch, nor move.

"I'm a Victor," she said. 

Zephyria's laugh was sharp, cutting the air. "Oh, really? You think the Peacekeepers will care when I tell them you threatened me? With a knife?"

"That's not true!" Mason's voice cut in, his chair scraping loudly against the floor as he rose, his body tense with alarm. But Evelia held up her hand, a single and quiet gesture. He froze.

Evelia's gaze turned back to Zephyria. "I didn't touch you. Wouldn't go near you with a splintered stick. But tell me... who do you think they'll believe? A Victor who walked out of the President's arena with blood on her hands? Or an escort they forget about after the Games are over?"

Zephyria faltered. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. She glanced at the red stain blooming across the tablecloth, then back to Evelia. She took a step back, visibly shaken.

"You didn't kill anyone," she said quietly. "You... you don't have blood on your hands."

Evelia nodded. "Exactly. Let's keep it that way."

The silence stretched long, but it wasn't awkward. It was still. The kind of silence that filled the room completely, like smoke after a fire.

"You're all insane," Zephyria spat, her voice rising in fury. She shot a glare at Mason and Mollie, her eyes wide and unhinged. "All of you!"

The apartment door slammed open with a crack that echoed off the walls. Two Peacekeepers stormed in, boots striking the floor in perfect, unnerving rhythm.

Mason didn't rise like protocol demanded, and neither did Mollie. They both stayed rooted in place. Evelia's chest tightened, but not with fear. There was something sharper, fiercer. Pride. It coiled low in her stomach as she slowly turned to face the Peacekeepers.

Her voice was steady when she spoke. "What is it?"

"They're probably here to tell you to behave, unless you want your head on a stick," Zephyria hissed, her voice laced with venom.

"No," one of the Peacekeepers said flatly. "We're here to take Evelia Vane."

Zephyria clapped her hands, the sound sharp in the thick silence. She looked positively thrilled.

Evelia's pulse jumped. "What? Why? I didn't do anything! She was threatening my tributes. I defended them!"

"You held a knife to my throat," Zephyria snapped.

"That's a lie," Mason and Mollie barked in unison.

The Peacekeeper dismissed them with a flick of his hand and stepped forward.

Evelia instinctively moved back.

"We're not here for... whatever that was," he said coolly. "Someone wants to see Miss Vane. We're just the escort."

Evelia narrowed her eyes. "Who?"

"We can't tell you."

Evelia's fists curled at her sides. Her mind was shouting at her to push back, to demand answers, but the look in the Peacekeeper's eyes said everything. She wouldn't get a single word more.

"You can't just drag her off without saying who's asking for her!" Mollie snapped, stepping forward.

The Peacekeeper's hand dropped to the weapon on his belt.

Mollie halted mid-step.

Evelia took a slow breath, forcing her voice into something calm. "Fine. Let me grab my jacket."

"No time," the Peacekeeper said.

"No time for her to put on a jacket?"

"No."

A chill prickled across her skin. She gave a stiff nod. Mason caught her eye—concern shadowing his expression, maybe even guilt—but said nothing. Mollie looked like she'd lunge if she thought she could take one of them down.

Evelia turned. Her feet felt heavy. Each step pulled her further from safety.

Behind her, Zephyria beamed, like she'd just unwrapped a gift.

The corridor outside was colder than she remembered. Maybe it was the sterile lighting. Maybe it was the way the Peacekeepers boxed her in, one on each side, their footsteps sharp against the floor.

Her mind spun. Who wanted her? And why now?

She tried to breathe slower, deeper, but it wasn't working. Her chest felt tight. Every conversation, every choice she'd made since arriving returned in sharp fragments.

Had someone heard her speaking to Tessa or Haymitch about their plan to protect Mollie?

Mentors weren't supposed to get involved with tributes from other districts. They had to stay with their own, that was the rule. Over the years, a few mentors had sent the occasional sponsor to random tributes to keep the Games lively and hold the audience's attention. But it was never out of loyalty to another mentor, and certainly not to defy the President.

Because loyalty like that could lead to something far more dangerous than rebellion. It could lead to hope.

And the Capitol had no tolerance for hope. It liked its Games controlled. Bloody, but orderly. Something predictable.

Nothing they were planning was predictable.

Her stomach tightened. Was this about Mollie?

The lift jolted, cutting through her thoughts. One Peacekeeper tapped the control panel. The doors slid open, revealing a hallway Evelia had never seen before. She supposed that wasn't unusual. This was her first year as a mentor; the training centre was massive. There was still plenty she didn't know.

But something felt off.

She hesitated, then stepped forward, and flinched when a Peacekeeper grabbed her arm and shoved her through the next door.

Suddenly, she was outside.

The night air was cool, and Evelia swallowed the insult rising in her throat. She could really use a jacket right now. The streets were empty, stripped of sound and people. It was strange for the Capitol; the city usually never slept.

Then hands seized her again and she was pushed into a car. The door slammed shut behind her.

"What the... fuck?" she shouted, kicking at the walls.

Her voice echoed back at her, swallowed by the metal walls. No one answered her. All she could hear was the low, relentless hum of the engine.

Then the car lurched forward.

Evelia staggered, catching herself with one hand against the wall. The interior gave her nothing; there were no window, making the whole thing dark. She pressed her palms to the cold surface, trying to steady her breathing. 

Still nothing.

No voice. No message. No sense of direction. Just motion and the quiet panic crawling up her spine.

She slid into the corner, curled her knees to her chest, and tried to think.

Time warped. A minute felt like five. Five felt like forever.

Her thoughts spun in circles, too fast to control. What was this? A warning? A punishment? An interrogation? If someone knew about Mollie, about the alliance, then maybe this was the Capitol's way of reminding her who was in charge. But it didn't feel like a warning.

It felt like an erasure.

Like she was being taken somewhere no one came back from.

A chill spread through her chest.

Were they going to kill her?

The car began to slow.

Her breath hitched.

Then it stopped.

The silence afterward was heavier than the engine's noise had ever been. For a moment, there was nothing. Then a hiss and a soft click as the lock disengaged.

Light spilled in, and Evelia blinked a couple of times to get her eyes used to the light again.

Two Peacekeepers stood at the threshold, their visors catching the overhead light. 

"Out," one said.

Evelia pushed herself upright, limbs heavy, slow to obey. Her legs prickled with pins and needles as they straightened beneath her, stiff from too long spent frozen. The quiet of the space pressed in, broken only by the shuffle of her boots.

She stepped down onto cold concrete. The air smelled faintly of metal and oil.

She was in a huge garage. Capitol transports stretched out in perfect rows, and the ceilling seemed to be at least ten meters high. Everything was cool and metellical, making Evelia shiver.

The Peacekeepers moved behind her and flanked her without a sound. They guided her past the rows of vehicles to a lift concealed behind mirrored glass. One typed in a code and the doors opened with a whisper after three seconds.

She stepped inside.

The walls gleamed, chrome and glass so polished her reflection stared back at her. A smooth panel pulsed with faint light and a Peacekeeper typed a number Evelia couldn't see. Then, the lift began to rise.

No one spoke. Evelia didn't ask where they were going. She was desperate to know, but she figured that if she asked, they might think she was afraid, and Evelia didn't want that. She needed to appear detached from the situation, though she didn't really know why. She just did. Call it instinct.

Her chest tightened. Her palms began to sweat. She wiped them against her trousers and lifted her chin, bracing against the unknown.

The doors opened.

The corridor stretched out in front of her, lined with polished black marble streaked with gold. White columns rose at even intervals, each cradling a vase overflowing with strange flowers—deep crimson, silver-laced, their petals glossy under the soft, source-less light.

She walked but her steps made no sound. It all felt like a fever dream. Perhaps it was. Evelia hoped it was.

The Peacekeepers followed at her back.

Hallways passed in quiet succession. There were no windows, and therefore no clues to the outside world. Just long stretches of gleaming stone and a silence that felt deliberately maintained. Evelia found it strange to design a building without any windows at all.

Then doors appeared in her sight. They were all, dark wood carved with thorned vines and curling roses. Whoever lived here clearly liked roses. 

One Peacekeeper stepped forward and pushed them open.

Warm air spilled out, and she stepped in.

A greenhouse, but it was nothing like the ones she'd read about.

This place throbbed with controlled life, curated beauty. Plants climbed steel trellises. Trees stood in perfect rows, their leaves shivering under faint mechanical currents. The air was dense with floral scent and the muted hum of machinery hidden beneath the soil.

And at the centre of it all, on a stone bench beside a bed of strange silver roses, sat President Snow.

He didn't look up right away. His hand moved slowly, plucking a wilted leaf from the bush. It fell soundlessly.

Then his eyes met hers, and Evelia felt a chill sweep through her.

"Miss Vane," he said, voice soft. "What a pleasure."

Evelia's throat tightened. She didn't move. Fear held her still, keeping her silent, unable to do anything at all.

Snow's smile was mild. "Come. Sit. I've been meaning to speak with you."

He shifted with a faint wince, reaching for something beside him. When he turned back, he was holding a flower. Pale blue, with tis edges tinged with violet.

A lily.

Her favourite.

Her heart dropped. A slow, sickening weight that landed deep in her chest and didn't rise again.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Snow said quietly, eyes fixed on the lily as if nothing else existed. "Rare. Fragile. Hard to keep alive outside the right place."

He turned the flower carefully between his fingers. A thin line of blood dripped from his nose, falling onto a petal and staining it red.

"Do you know what I like about lilies?" he asked, finally looking up to meet her eyes again. "They grow in silence. In stillness. They bloom without needing anyone to notice."

He smiled then, as if they were sharing a quiet moment instead of standing on the edge of something dangerous.

"You've stirred things up, Miss Vane."

Her breath hitched.

"Not openly," he said, slowly rising to his feet. He looked thinner than she remembered. Older, too, like the years had finally caught up with him and refused to let go.

"I notice the difference. The public doesn't. But I do. And I'm very particular about patterns."

He took a step forward, then another, straightening his back to look confident.

But Evelia caught it. The stiffness in his shoulders, the way his hand hovered just a second too long in the air before finding balance. He was sick. It was in the way he moved, in the tension he couldn't quite hide.

"Patterns?" Evelia echoed.

Snow nodded once, just before a harsh cough racked through his chest. He turned, spitting blood onto the floor. A man appeared almost instantly, pale-skinned, ginger-haired, dressed in dark fabric that blended into the shadows. He knelt beside the president, steadying him, then pressed a tall glass into his hand.

Milk.

Evelia blinked.

Was that milk?

For a second, she genuinely wondered if she was hallucinating. Milk was what was keeping him upright? That was his secret weapon? If the nation suddenly ran out of dairy, would he just... keel over?

The absurdity settled into a strange, quiet horror.

"Do excuse our President. His health's... a bit unpredictable these days," the ginger-haired man said, rising to his feet. He offered Evelia a pleasant smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You're the newest mentor."

It took her a second to realise he was speaking to her.

"I—yes. That's me. Unfortunately."

The words slipped out before she could stop them. Her stomach dropped.

Coriolanus Snow was sitting right in front of her.

Great, she thought. Just great.

"I mean—that's what I'd say if I were an idiot," she added quickly, stretching her mouth into what she hoped passed for a smile.

"And she's funny, too!" the man laughed, extending a hand toward her with effortless charm. "Plutarch Heavensbee."

Evelia took it, shaking his hand cautiously. His grip was firm and warm, an odd contrast to the athmosphere. He was smiling like they were old friends, like this wasn't the most nerve-wracking moment of her life.

She couldn't help but wonder if it was a trap. Or a test. Perhaps both.

"Evelia Vane," she said.

Plutarch's smile widened. He gave a small, thoughtful nod, like her name carried some hidden weight. Perhaps it did. Perhaps that was the whole point.

"Well, Evelia," he said, clasping his hands behind his back with practised ease, "I've heard quite a bit about you."

Her shoulders stiffened. "From who?"

He waved a hand vaguely. "Oh, you know how the Capitol is. Whispers travel faster than hovercrafts."

He said it like a joke, like she was supposed to find that reassuring.

She didn't.

Behind him, Snow coughed again. Plutarch turned, took the empty glass from the President's trembling fingers, then looked back at her with that same polished smile.

"Well, Miss Vane, it's been a pleasure. I'll see you at the Mentors' party in three days."

"The Mentors' party?" she echoed.

Plutarch winked. "You'll see. Take care of yourself, will you?"

And just like that, he vanished. Gone as quickly and smoothly as he'd appeared, leaving the scent of something faintly artificial in the air.

Evelia turned.

She was alone now, alone with Snow. The old man's smile was stained with blood, twisting something deep inside Evelia's stomach, making her swallow hard against the sudden nausea.

"Right," he said. "I hear you're rather close to Mister Abernathy, Evelia. May I call you Evelia?"

"No."

"Very well," he said, almost playfully. "Miss Vane, then."

He nodded toward the bench beside him. "Sit. Let's talk. I think we have some... misunderstandings to clear up."

Evelia fought the urge to back away. Sitting next to him felt like surrender, as if his darkness could reach out and drag her under with it. But she had no choice, did she? She was already on the edge. One step from a place she couldn't return from.

She'd escaped the fate the Capitol had carved out for her, the brutal, hidden world of sexual trafficking waiting after her victory. She'd spoken quietly, carefully rebellious words during her victory tour, just enough to alert those who mattered, but never loud enough to spark suspicion. All whist keeping the Capitol at her side.

But actions had consequences.

In Panem, they were brutal and unforgiving.

Reluctantly, Evelia lowered herself onto the bench, leaving as much space between them as she could. The moment she was close, the sharp scent hit her; a strange blend of blood and wilting rose. Did he never wash?

"You have a strong spirit, Miss Vane," Snow said after a silence that stretched too long. Evelia almost wondered if he had forgotten she was there. For a fleeting second, she hoped that, perhaps, his milk had been poisoned. That Snow might finally be fading. But of course, he wasn't.

Weeds were the ones that survived the longest.

"I suppose the arena forges a girl," Evelia answered.

"In more than one way," Snow agreed smoothly. "But I don't believe the arena is the only reason behind your... behaviour."

Her gaze narrowed. "Meaning?"

His smile widened.

"Oh, you know what I mean. You had quite the unusual upbringing, wouldn't you say? A missing father. A mother who refused to send you to the district's Academy, despite its... advantages. No training. No prestige. Just a girl with a sharp tongue and no protection. The very same mother, if I recall, who ensured your name was drawn in the reaping."

Evelia froze.

Her breath caught somewhere between her chest and throat, and for a second, the world narrowed to that single, impossible sentence. He couldn't know. No one could know. Her mother had taken the tesserae in Evelia's name—illegally. Secretly. And any Peacekeeper who might've spoken of it would've been dead before the words left their mouth.

But Snow knew, ahe was watching her closely, the satisfaction curling at the corners of his lips. He'd landed the blow.

"Missing father, who, as you now know, has passed," Snow said, his tone almost casual. "If you recall our conversation last year."

"Oh, I remember," Evelia said, her voice sharp. "That would be when you told me just the night before my Games you had him killed. To shake me."

She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. The venom was in the words.

"I wanted to help you grieve," Snow said mildly.

Evelia scoffed. "Please. What would you know about grief?"

Something flickered in his pale blue eyes. It had been brief and almost unreadable, but there. The change was so slight most wouldn't have noticed. But Evelia did.

She almost raised a brow. Had he—lost someone?

No. It couldn't be. Coriolanus Snow didn't grieve. He didn't even feel. Whatever lived behind those eyes wasn't sorrow, it was strategy. Another move in the game he never stopped playing.

He was just trying to get inside her head.

"I know your friend Haymitch Abernathy is grieving," Snow said at last.

Haymitch.

Evelia stiffened, her body half-rising before she stopped herself. Panic flared. Where was he? What had Snow done? Was this her punishment?

"He's fine, don't worry, Miss Vane," Snow said smoothly, as if reading her thoughts. "Sleeping. I've simply heard the two of you have grown... rather close."

"I got stuck in Twelve for a week. With Mags," Evelia replied, forcing her voice into something flat and unaffected. "She cares about Haymitch, she bisited him daily. I didn't want to be alone, so I went with her."

A lie, but a neat one.

"Right... right." Snow nodded again. Yet his voice carried that quiet disbelief, barely held back.
"Friendships don't bother me. They're important, after all. They keep people grounded. Help them through the worst days. Offer... guidance."

Evelia nearly laughed.

"But you two, Miss Vane..." His eyes sharpened. "You and Mr Abernathy. That friendship isn't quite like the others, is it?"

Evelia's expression stayed steady. "And why would that be?" 

Snow folded his hands neatly in his lap, as if preparing to share a harmless observation.
"Well," he said, "there's your history. Both Victors. Both... difficult. Not exactly in the Capitol's good books."

He smiled thinly. Evelia did not move.

"You challenge the story they want to tell," he continued. "On your own, you're a nuisance. Together, you're... complicated."

Her pulse quickened, but her face betrayed nothing. She understood the game now. He was probing, testing boundaries.

"I'm not accusing you, Miss Vane," his tone softened. "I'm just interested. Two young rebels, holding on to each other, hoping it might save them."

She tilted her head slightly, showing she wasn't shaken. "Maybe it will."

Snow chuckled softly. "Hope," he said, "is dangerous. It's the spark that ignites revolutions. Unruly things, revolutions."

She said nothing. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction.

"But revolutions," he added, leaning back, "have consequences. And leaders rarely escape unscathed."

His words hung heavy between them. The threat was clear. She didn't know the full measure—if he would silence her quietly, or drag her through torment first.

"I wonder," he said finally, voice low, "how far you'd go for that hope. For Mr Abernathy. For your District. For your little friend in the arena."

Evelia's jaw clenched. She forced her breath steady.

"If you're threatening Mollie—"

"I'm doing nothing of the sort," Snow interrupted. "Just observing. Wondering what a girl like you would sacrifice."

He leaned in, just a fraction. "You've already lost so much, haven't you?"

She had. Her father, dead. Her mother, hateful. Her will to live, fractured. Friends in the arena, gone. Now Mollie slipping away.

But Evelia met his gaze, unwavering. "Try me."

Snow hummed softly, turning away without another word. Her heart hammered with a flicker of hope. Maybe it was over. Maybe she'd passed the test.

Then came the soft creak of a cabinet door.

He returned holding a small black box, tied with silver ribbon. Innocent-looking, almost delicate. He offered it with the smooth courtesy of a gentleman presenting a gift.

"I brought you something," he said, voice faintly amused. "A token. I think it'll help you understand what I'm saying."

Evelia's fingers trembled as the box pressed into her hands. She shook her head once, firmly. "I don't want it."

"You wouldn't want to misunderstand me, would you? So you'll open it."

Her hands moved on their own, fumbling with the ribbon as her mind began to race. What kind of gift would Coriolanus Snow give her? She had no idea, and it struck her how little she truly knew about the President. If she wanted to confront him properly, that was something she would have to change.

The lid lifted.

Inside lay a severed finger. It was pale and disturbingly clean, the nail neatly manicured. The skin looked well preserved, suggesting it had been cut not long ago.

A silver ring circled it, set with a deep blue sapphire. Two letters were engraved on the band:

C.V.

Her breath caught. The room spun.

Coral Vane. Her mother. This was her mother's finger.

Her throat tightened until she thought she might choke. Her body froze in stunned silence.

Snow's smile deepened, unwavering.

He watched her, pleased. "I believe in clarity," he said softly. "Words twist and warp. But gestures?" He gestured at the box. "They're harder to ignore."

Evelia's hands shook, clutching the box as if it might vanish. Her mind screamed to stop staring at it but her eyes refused to look away.

Snow watched her, reading every heartbeat.

"There's a delicate balance in this world," he murmured. "One wrong step, one careless word, and everything unravels. You've learned that well."

She swallowed, the metallic taste of fear rising.

"Your choices..." His voice carried weight rather than accusation. "They have consequences, Evelia. Not just for you, but for those you care about."

Her breath quickened, emotions crashing against the limits of her control.

Snow leaned forward, his eyes catching the light with something unreadable. "This is not a threat. It's a promise. Or a reminder, if you prefer."

Her gaze locked with his.

"I'm no one's pawn," she whispered.

"No. You're the player. But even the strongest players must know when to fold."

Evelia's fingers tightened around the box, her knuckles turning white as her heart pounded hard against her ribs. The room seemed to draw in closer, shadows gathering at the edges of her vision. Silence settled over her, holding her in place.

Snow's eyes gleamed with cold patience, watching her falter without making a move.

"You see," he whispered, voice low and sharp, "in Panem, loyalty is a currency. And debts... debts are paid in blood."

His words lingered. Evelia wanted to scream, to run, to tear the world apart with her bare hands. But all she could do was tremble under the weight of his message.

This was no mere warning. It was a sentence.

And Snow was the executioner, lurking in the dark. Waiting for Evelia's one slip, ready to strike and end her without mercy.

·✦·

"Right," Evelia said, standing just outside the training room. Her eyes flicked to Mason, then Mollie. No one had brought up the night before; not the fight with Zephyria, not the moment the Peacekeepers dragged Evelia away. And that was fine by her. The less said, the better. At least they weren't asking questions that might slip into the wrong ears.

"Don't train your best skills."

"That's the fourth time you've said that," Mollie muttered.

"And I'll keep saying it until it sinks in. You don't show your full hand until it matters. Keep your strengths quiet until the last day, before the evaluations."

She paused, letting the silence land.

"People need to know you're not easy prey. But if you show too much, they'll figure out how to beat you before the Games even start."

"What about allies?" Mason asked quietly.

"Stay away from the Careers," Evelia said without hesitation.

"But—"

"I know. You're Careers too. But those ones? They're not real allies. They'll smile to your face and slit your throat the second you turn around. They always do."

Mason fell silent.

"Stick to the lower districts," Evelia continued. "District Eleven, or Three if you prefer. Just not One or Two. And don't antagonise them, either. You don't want them marking you on day one. Be polite, but stay invisible."

"They won't like that," Mollie said under her breath.

"They don't like anything," Evelia replied. "So just give them nothing."

A Peacekeeper approached, announcing training would begin in two minutes. Evelia gave a curt nod before turning to Mollie and Mason. A sharp image flashed in her mind — both of them, broken and bloodied in the arena. Her hands, slick with blood. Their blood. Because if they died, it would be on her.

She closed her eyes tightly and shook her head, forcing the vision away. When she opened them again, she met their gazes and forced a small smile.

"You'll be just fine," she said, placing her hands on their shoulders. "I promise. Don't let fear take hold.  Just stick together and watch each other's backs."

Mollie gave a small nod, her eyes flicking to Mason, who was already watching her. She looked away almost immediately, and Evelia had to bite back a laugh. Instead, she stepped forward and pulled them both into a tight embrace. She knew she shouldn't. She wasn't supposed to get attached when one of them would be gone by this time next week. And Mollie... Mollie was already her best friend. If anything, she should've been keeping her distance, but she simply couldn't. 

"Good luck," Evelia whispered, releasing them from her hold.

As the training room doors slid shut behind them, she found herself alone in the silent corridor. Her mind spun back to the moment she opened President Snow's gift. The severed finger. What had he done to her mother? Was she still alive? Or had Snow already killed her?

The thought tightened something deep in Evelia's chest. Yes, she hated Coral. Hated how her mother had shattered her life; sentencing her to the arena, neglecting her as a child, blaming her for her father's disappearance... But no matter the bitterness, Coral was still her mother.

Evelia pressed a hand to her ribs, as if trying to hold something in.

She'd told herself she didn't care. That Coral didn't matter. That if Snow had hurt her, it was justice in a way. Fair trade for everything she'd done. But now, faced with the idea that her mother might have died alone and terrified, Evelia couldn't keep the truth from clawing its way up her throat.

It mattered. God, it mattered more than she wanted it to.

She leaned against the wall, jaw clenched, forcing herself to breathe through the tremble in her hands. Coral had deserved a lot of things, but not that. Not being reduced to a warning in a box. Not being used as leverage.

"Oh, there you are, my favourite mermaid!"

Evelia blinked as she forced herself to shove her emotions in the very back of her mind, then lifted her head.

Tessa stood in front of her, grinning as if the world hadn't just tilted sideways.

"I've been looking for you everywhere," Tessa said.

But the smile faded the moment she took in Evelia's expression, that tense mix of grief and anger she couldn't fully conceal. Without a word, Tessa took her hand and led her into a quiet corner of the corridor, away from prying eyes and ears. The cameras were still there, of course, but if they kept their words vague enough, it might be safe.

"Do you think we should do it today?" Tessa asked softly.

She was talking about the plan, the meeting with Haymitch and Niko in his safe place to go over the entire Mollie situation. Evelia paused. Snow's warning still reverberated in her mind, and it would be reckless to act immediately, to push back so soon after such a clear message.

But she was already walking a knife's edge.

And the sooner she got to the other side, the better.

She met Tessa's eyes, jaw set.

"Yeah," she said. "Let's do this."

·✦·

The lights in the Training Center flickered out precisely at ten. That was the signal.

Evelia was already on her feet, slipping silently out of her apartment and into the stairwell. She climbed quickly, her heartbeat loud in her ears, her breaths shallow. The Twelfth Floor. That's where they were meeting.

When she reached it, footsteps echoed from the corridor. Two Peacekeepers, their white armour catching the emergency lighting, moved from their post to investigate the sudden outage. Evelia flattened herself against the cold wall, barely breathing, as they walked past her close enough for her to hear the static crackle from one of their radios. Then they disappeared down the stairwell.

She hurried to the door and knocked, four sharp raps, each spaced exactly two seconds apart. Tessa's idea.

"How else would you know it's us?" she'd murmured to Haymitch during planning. "Anyone could knock."

"Why would anyone else than you lot want to see me?" he'd muttered back.

"Just admit it's a good idea, rude boy."

The door creaked open a second later, spilling a narrow line of light into the hallway and behind it, Haymitch's face appeared, half-cast in shadow. His eyes swept over her, then he stepped aside without a word.

She slipped in. The door shut behind them with a soft click.

Evelia was the first to arrive.

"Keep it quiet," Haymitch muttered, settling onto the worn couch. "My tributes are asleep."

She nodded and joined him, sinking into the seat beside him as she absently cracked her fingers, one at a time.

"I heard your boy got along well with Mollie," she whispered.

A flicker of a smile tugged at Haymitch's mouth as he nodded.

"He did. Said she was funny. Sat with her at lunch." He paused, amused. "I think he's got a crush on her."

Evelia bit back a laugh, shaking her head gently. The comeback was already on her tongue—something about Mollie being a lesbian and not remotely interested in boys, let alone thirteen-year-olds—but she hesitated because of the cameras and microphones. 

Though... the power was down.

"They're not working," Haymitch said.

She blinked. "What?"

"The cameras. The mics. Dead. You can talk."

Evelia let out a breathless giggle. "Damn, Abernathy, you just read my mind."

Haymitch chuckled under his breath, shaking his head slowly as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

"You're just predictable, Mystery Girl."

She rolled her eyes but the smile tugging at her lips gave her away. "Right. Anyway, maybe let Jebediah know that Mollie's not into boys. At all."

That got his attention. His eyebrows lifted in surprise, then a grin split across his face as he slapped both palms against his knees.

"I think that's the case for Tessa too!"

Evelia blinked, lowering her voice to a whisper. "No way. Seriously?"

He gave a half-shrug, clearly enjoying the chaos he'd just stirred. "Yeah. I mean... I don't know for sure."

"She told me she's had three boyfriends."

"And she told me she's done with men."

Evelia slapped a hand over her mouth, caught between shock and laughter. "Did you ask her why?"

Haymitch raised an eyebrow. "Why would I?"

She dragged a hand down her face, exasperated. "Because how the hell are we supposed to know if she's into girls if you don't ask her?"

"Pretty sure interrogation isn't in the mentor handbook," he said, smug.

"You're hopeless," she muttered.

Four sharp knocks echoed through the room. Haymitch stood and crossed the space in a few lazy strides. The door creaked open, and Tessa burst in like a gale, hair windblown, cheeks flushed. Niko trailed behind her, quieter, gaze flicking to the floor.

Tessa collapsed beside Evelia with a dramatic sigh, chest heaving. "For fuck's sake—who knew climbing stairs could be so exhausting?"

"You came from the eighth floor," Evelia said, smirking. "I came from the fourth. Niko's on the third."

The boy nodded sheepishly, fingers rubbing at the back of his neck.

"I don't get what's going on," he admitted, voice soft.

Haymitch smiled faintly as he clicked the door shut behind him, the lock sliding into place with a soft snick.

"Follow me," he said. "And try to keep quiet, yeah? Or I'll have to kill you all."

Tessa snorted, unimpressed. "Charming."

She pushed herself up with a grunt, then turned and offered a hand to Evelia. The gesture was casual, but the grip was firm as she pulled her up from the couch.

Haymitch didn't wait. He turned sharply and padded down the corridor with the ease of someone who'd memorised every groaning floorboard and splintered panel in the place.

They followed without a word, falling into step behind him. Evelia let go of Tessa's hand once she'd found her balance, their footsteps whispering against the worn carpet. The hallway was cloaked in shadow, lit only by the flicker of a dying wall sconce and the soft orange haze bleeding in through a narrow window at the far end.

He stopped at a narrow metal door and glanced back, eyes catching theirs in the gloom. "Last chance to turn back. The Capitol's not exactly fond of rooftop strolls."

Tessa huffed and raised an eyebrow. "Urgh. Drop the drama. Since when do you care what the Capitol's fond of?"

That earned her a crooked smirk. Haymitch hauled the door open, hinges groaning in protest, then slipped through into a cramped stairwell.

They climbed in a spiral, feet scuffing against the concrete steps. The air cooled with every turn, growing thinner, sharper, as if the building itself were trying to shake them off.

At the top, he shoved open a second door and a rush of wind burst through, yanking at their clothes and hair.

Evelia blinked as the rooftop unfolded before her. The Capitol sprawled in all directions, glittering gold and shadow-black. Towers pierced the horizon like broken spires, and the sky above burned with the last embers of dusk. A crooked bench sagged near the corner, and scattered concrete blocks lined the edges, but the space felt wide, untamed. Almost like freedom.

Tessa let out a low whistle. "Okay. Not bad."

Haymitch wandered to the edge, leaned against the waist-high wall, and crossed his arms. "Didn't bring you up here for the view," he said. "Just needed somewhere we wouldn't be overheard."

Evelia joined him, the wind threading through her hair. "So... why cut the power?"

"So no one knows you're here." His voice was quiet now, matter-of-fact. "We've got thirty minutes. Tops."

Niko lingered by the doorway, his gaze drifting over the city's lights, eyes wide, taking it in like he didn't quite believe it was real. "This is insane," he murmured. "It's like the city never sleeps."

He stepped forward cautiously, then turned toward the others.

"There used to be a city like this before the war. Called "the city that never sleeps". Its ruins are in District Six now. It was called New York."

Evelia tilted her head, intrigued. "How do you know that?"

Niko shrugged. "I like knowing things."

Haymitch glanced over at Niko, eyes narrowing with interest. "You spend a lot of time in libraries or something?"

Niko nodded eagerly, the corners of his mouth lifting in a quiet smile. "I do. Banned books only. The real ones, not those rewritten propaganda versions they feed us now." His voice picked up, animated. "I love books about space," he added. "Actually, I love space. It's fascinating. But so are maths, and—"

"Alright, alright, let's save the lecture for later, dude," Haymitch cut in with a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "We've got enough to untangle without diving into astrophysics."

Niko flushed, the tips of his ears turning pink as he gave another small nod. Evelia couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips. It was hard not to when he looked so earnest.

Tessa clapped her hands once as she stepped forward.

"Well, like Mitchy said, we don't have much time."

Haymitch blinked. "I'm sorry—Mitch what now?"

"Mitchy," she said sweetly, ignoring his grimace. Then, without missing a beat, she turned to Niko. "Now. You're here because we need you to do something illegal. And if you get caught..." She shrugged with all the delicacy of a sledgehammer. "You'll probably die."

"Dude..." Evelia whispered, leaning toward Tessa with a look of barely contained panic. "You're gonna scare him off."

But Niko didn't flinch.

Instead, he straightened his spine and folded his arms across his chest, the easy-going softness slipping from his face. The shift was subtle, but striking.

He was lean, sure, but there was strength under the surface—arms corded with muscle, posture firm. It jarred her, that contrast. The quiet, gentle boy who talked about stars and banned books... was also a victor. One who had survived an Arena. One who had killed.

Evelia swallowed hard, the realisation landing in her chest like a weight she hadn't seen coming. It was so easy to forget. Niko didn't wear his past like she did, he didn't show it in the way his shoulders curled inward or in the way his gaze sometimes flickered to ghosts no one else could see. He didn't carry the grief like a wound still bleeding. But it was there, pressed beneath layers of softness, curiosity, and awkward charm. A kindness that had survived something brutal.

Tessa must've noticed too. The teasing edge slipped from her face, replaced by a steady seriousness Evelia rarely saw from her. She turned back to Niko, her voice more even now as she laid it all out.

The rebellion Evelia had sparked in the arena, the stunt that had put a target on her back and led to Mollie's name being drawn. The mission they were all tangled in now: making sure Mollie lived long enough to become more than a symbol. She needed to survive the Games, make it out, and mean something. She had to send a message to Snow.

"And that's not all," Tessa added. "It's not just about getting her out. It's about here, too. About waking people up."

Evelia frowned. "Wait, what?"

Tessa looked at her, firm. "I think we should try to unbrainwash the Capitol."

Evelia blinked. "You want to... fix them?"

Tessa nodded once. "Getting Mollie out won't be enough. We can't just fight from the outside. We need cracks on the inside too."

There was a beat of silence, stretched thin by the wind.

Then she looked at Niko, voice softer now. "You sure you're up for this?"

Niko didn't hesitate. He met her gaze without flinching. "You wouldn't have brought me up here if you thought I wasn't."

"Evelia, what happened to you?"

The question hung in the air, and Evelia's gaze flicked to Haymitch, whose grey eyes held a quiet concern, like he could see right through her, read every fragment she tried to hide. Her throat tightened, and she looked away, swallowing hard.

"Erm... I was about to tell you," she began, voice barely steady. "Last night, two Peacekeepers dragged me to Snow's greenhouse."

Haymitch's face drained of colour. Tessa gasped, "What?" and Niko's hand flew to his mouth, stunned.

"Yeah... well, he knows Haymitch and I are friends and that we still are rebels. He threatened to kill me if I didn't behave. And..."

"And what?" Tessa pressed softly, placing a steady hand on Evelia's shoulder.

Evelia's eyes found Haymitch's again, and he stepped closer, standing protectively at her side.

"He handed me a box," Evelia whispered, voice cracking, "and inside... was my mother's cut-off finger. His first warning. Or second. The first was Mollie getting reaped."

Silence wrapped around them like fog. Even the wind seemed to still.

Tessa's hand tensed on Evelia's shoulder, grounding her.

"That means you're getting under his skin," Niko said quietly. "If he feels the need to threaten you and to remind you who's in charge. Maybe your actions rattled him more than you realise."

"My best friend will probably die, and maybe my mother already is," Evelia hissed, her voice low and trembling with fury. "I've been reckless and stupid."

"That's not true, Evelia, and you know it," Haymitch said, his tone cutting through the guilt like a blade. "Snow's just smarter than us. That's why we don't fight him head-on—we outsmart him."

He turned to Niko, eyes sharp.

"You're in?"

"Yes."

No hesitation. No flicker of doubt. Just that one word.

Evelia stared at him. She didn't know if Niko was fearless or foolish. Maybe both. Maybe that's what it took.

"Can we call ourselves the Reaplings, please?" Tessa whispered.

Haymitch blinked. "Why?"

"I don't know," she said, shrugging. "It's reaping with an L—like it cuts through the word. Interrupts it. Like... like we're the ones stopping it. Forever."

She paused, then added, "I tried other letters. They all sounded awful."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Haymitch huffed a breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. "We'll workshop it."

Tessa beamed like she'd already carved it into stone.

Niko shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets. "The Reaplings," he echoed, rolling the word around like it might reveal something new if he said it slowly enough. "It's weird. But kind of cool."

"Definitely weird," Haymitch muttered, but there was no real bite to it. "Then again, you're all weird. So maybe it fits."

Tessa smirked. "You're part of it too, Mitchy."

He groaned, but didn't protest. "Unfortunately," he said, and yet his voice had gone soft, like the weight of that unfortunately didn't carry much truth.

Without thinking, he reached out and wrapped an arm around Evelia's shoulders, drawing her close. When he looked at her, the sharp edges of him always seemed to dull. Like she was the only one who got to see that version of him.

"You okay?" he asked, voice barely a whisper over the rooftop wind.

Evelia's lips curled into a tired smile. "Excited to see Snow's head on a stick."

Haymitch burst out laughing, the sound rough but real, echoing across the open air. He tightened his grip on her.

"Me too, Mystery Girl," he said. "Me too."