Chapter Text
The presenter rummaged through the bowl, fingers brushing against countless slips of paper before finally pulling one free. He unfolded it with agonising slowness, his voice ringing out across the square.
"Yang Jeongin!"
Time stopped. The roar of the crowd faded into a hollow hum, leaving Jeongin alone with a single, shattering thought: he had been reaped.
Walking toward the stage felt like moving through a nightmare. Each step was heavy, unreal. He kept waiting to wake up—to see his family again, to find himself safe at home, happy, untouched. But the world didn't blur or fade. The stage was real. The silence was real.
And his name still echoed in the air.
He reached the stage, climbing the stairs with legs made out of jelly. The sunlight burned against his skin, hot and merciless. Every face in the crowd blurred together—a sea of pale fear and pity. Jeongin searched instinctively for someone familiar, anyone who might meet his eyes. But there was no one waiting for him. There hadn’t been for years.
He swallowed hard, throat aching. Somewhere, a baby began to cry. The sound seemed to slice through the thick air.
The presenter was smiling too brightly, the way Capitol people always did. “Our male tribute from District Four!” he announced cheerfully, as if this were some kind of festival. “What a fine young man. Let’s give him a warm round of applause!”
No one moved. The silence pressed down heavier than the heat. The presenter blinked, the false cheer flickering for a heartbeat before he turned back toward the girls’ bowl. Jeongin stood still, trying not to tremble. His palms were damp, his knees unsteady. He could feel the stares boring into him—pitying, frightened, distant.
“And for our female tribute…” The presenter reached into the second bowl and drew out a name. “Min Jisoo!”
A ripple of whispers passed through the crowd. Jisoo. Everyone knew her—quiet, sharp-eyed, older by two years. Jeongin watched as she stepped forward, spine straight despite the tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. She didn’t look at the crowd; her gaze was fixed ahead, unflinching.
When she reached the stage, the presenter placed a manicured hand on each of their shoulders, smiling wide for the cameras. “Let’s have a big hand for our tributes, everyone! The pride of District Four!”
The anthem of Panem began to play. The Capitol seal shimmered on the massive screen behind them, golden wings spreading across the sky. Jeongin’s stomach turned. He barely noticed when the Peacekeepers led them off the platform and into the Justice Building, away from the eyes of the district. Once the heavy doors closed behind them, the world seemed to exhale. The square’s noise vanished. All that was left was the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. They were separated—Jisoo led down one hallway, Jeongin another. He followed silently, until a Peacekeeper opened a door and gestured him inside.
“This is where you’ll say your goodbyes,” the man said gruffly. “You have five minutes.”
Goodbyes.
The word echoed in Jeongin’s head as the door shut behind him. The room was small and bare, a single wooden table in the center, two chairs. A clock ticked on the wall, slow and steady. Jeongin sat down. He waited. One minute passed. Then another. Then another. The door stayed closed. He stared at it, willing it to open. Maybe someone would come. Maybe one of the fishermen he worked with, or the old woman from the docks who sometimes slipped him extra bread. Maybe— But nobody came. His throat tightened.
He laughed, the sound breaking halfway between humor and despair. “Nobody has come for me for a long time,” he said softly.
The Peacekeeper outside didn’t respond. Maybe he hadn’t even heard. Jeongin pressed his palms against the table, feeling the rough grain of the wood beneath his fingers. The room smelled faintly of salt and old paper. His chest ached in a way that felt deeper than fear—emptier. The kind of ache that came from years of waiting for something that never arrived. He remembered the orphanage: peeling walls, sand always blown in from the shore, children’s laughter echoing through narrow halls. The caretakers had been kind enough, but kindness didn’t stop hunger. Kindness didn’t stop the way people looked at him—like he was already half gone. When he turned twelve, he started working on the docks, mending nets for men who didn’t remember his name. Every reaping since then, he’d stood alone. And now, he’d die alone too. He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. The ticking of the clock felt too loud. He counted the seconds until the door opened again and the Peacekeeper returned.
“Time’s up.”
Jeongin nodded wordlessly and stood. His legs felt strange, like they didn’t belong to him. The Peacekeeper led him out of the room and down another hallway, toward a pair of large doors at the far end.
Jisoo was already waiting there, her expression guarded. When she saw him, she gave a small nod. “Did anyone come?” she asked quietly.
Jeongin shook his head.
She looked at him for a moment, then reached out, brushing her hand briefly against his sleeve. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t trust his voice enough to answer. They walked together through the doors and out toward the train platform. The sky was fading to orange, the sea behind them glowing in the evening light. The gulls were still calling overhead. Jeongin turned one last time to look at the horizon—the glitter of water, the shape of boats rocking gently in the distance. The place that had been his whole world.
“Move along,” one of the Peacekeepers barked.
Jeongin tore his gaze away and stepped onto the train. Inside, everything was polished and perfect. Crystal lights shimmered from the ceiling, silver trays of food gleamed on the tables, velvet seats looked too soft to be real. The Capitol never failed to flaunt its wealth, even when sending children to die. Jisoo took a seat across from him, silent. Their escort, a woman with pink hair and sparkling nails, chattered endlessly about how fortunate they were to represent such a “spirited district.” Jeongin stared at his hands instead. His fingernails were still rimmed with salt and dirt. He felt completely out of place in all this glitter.
He didn’t eat. He couldn’t. His stomach had tied itself into a tight, unyielding knot.
The train began to move, humming softly beneath them. Outside, the coastline slid by in a blur of orange and gold. The sun dipped lower, and shadows crept across the glass. Jeongin pressed his forehead to the window, trying to memorize every detail—the way the waves sparkled, the curve of the shore, the thin line of smoke rising from the docks. He wanted to keep it all inside him, something real to hold onto when everything else was gone.
Jisoos voice broke the silence. “You worked on the docks, right?”
Jeongin blinked, startled by the sound of her voice. “Yeah.”
She nodded. “You’ll be good with your hands, then. That’s something.”
He wasn’t sure what to say to that. “It won’t help much in the arena.”
“It might,” she said quietly. “You never know what they’ll throw at us.”
They lapsed back into silence.
The escort kept talking, but Jeongin tuned her out. He could feel the exhaustion sinking into his bones. His mind replayed the reaping again and again—the sound of his name, the way the crowd had gone still, the taste of salt on his lips. When night fell, the stars appeared outside the window, sharp and distant. The train lights cast everything in gold and silver. Jeongin sat there, staring at his reflection in the glass. The boy looking back at him didn’t look like a victor, or even a fighter. Just a scared seventeen-year-old with nothing left to lose. At some point, Jisoo had fallen asleep, her head resting against the window. The escort had disappeared to another carriage, leaving the two of them alone. The quiet was almost comforting. Jeongin leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. For a moment, he imagined the sea again—the sound of the waves, the feel of sand beneath his feet. He pictured the stars over the water, the smell of salt. He could almost hear the laughter of the other children from the orphanage, distant and echoing. He tried to hold onto that sound, to trap it somewhere deep inside where the Capitol couldn’t touch it. The train’s motion was smooth, steady. It should have lulled him to sleep, but he couldn’t rest. Every time he closed his eyes, the same thought returned: You are going to die.
He opened his eyes again and whispered into the dark, “I don’t want to die.”
His voice barely made a sound, swallowed up by the hum of the train. But it was the truth—the only truth left. Hours passed like that. At some point, dawn began to creep over the horizon. Jeongin blinked against the soft light spilling through the window. The sky was pale pink, the mountains ahead glowing gold. In the distance, the Capitol rose like something out of a dream—tall and shimmering, beautiful in the most terrifying way.
Jisoo stirred beside him, rubbing her eyes. “We’re close,” she murmured.
Jeongin didn’t answer. He couldn’t look away from the city. Towers of glass and light pierced the sky, glittering with impossible color. It didn’t look real. It looked like something that could swallow him whole.
“Scared?” Jisoo asked quietly.
He hesitated. “Yeah.”
“Good,” she said, her eyes still fixed on the horizon. “Means you still have something to lose.”
He didn’t understand what she meant until later. Right now, all he could think about was how small he felt, how utterly powerless. The Capitol was growing larger with every passing second, and the sunlight made its walls shine like gold. The train dove into a tunnel, the light vanishing instantly. For a heartbeat, everything was pitch-black. Jeongin could hear his own heartbeat echoing in the dark, could feel the breath catch in his throat.
Then he whispered again, almost to himself, “Nobody has come for me for a long time.”
And this time, the silence that answered him felt final.