404serenity

Part 00 : how it all started

I remember how it all began. I was eight, my first day at school. My mom had always taught me at home, so stepping into that classroom for the first time felt like entering a different world. The kids… they were cruel. “Freak.” “Weirdo.” That’s what they called me. I curled up in a corner, head buried in my knees, wishing I could disappear. Then a boy came to me, offering his hand. “Hey… I’m Haymitch. Wanna come with me and play with my friends?” he said. And just like that… it all started. Since then, Haymitch, Astrid, Burdock, and I were… friends? Maybe even best friends.

At twelve, I noticed the way Haymitch’s hair caught the sun, how his blue eyes seemed impossibly clear, almost like crystal. Handsome, in a quiet, unsettling way.

At fourteen, I blushed whenever he passed too close.

At fifteen, I cherished every stolen moment with him in the valley where the sun rose over the flower fields, where birds sang without fear… I cherishedy the memory of his lips on mine.

By sixteen, we had grown up. Love? That’s what the elders called it : the thing we shared but didn’t dare name.

The morning of the Reaping arrived. My parents ran a tailor shop; they were merchants. We were lucky enough to call ourselves comfortable: hot water, a roof over our heads, bread on the table. On my bed lay a pale yellow dress. I put on my shoes, braided my hair, and tried to steady my heart. The air was thick with prayers and quiet dread, heavy with the unspoken truth that death hovered close. The 50th Hunger Games. Twice the tributes. Twice the spectacle. Twice the blood.

When I reached my section in front of the Hall of Justice, Drusilla, our escort, ascended the stage. We were shown the same propaganda film about rebellion. Who even paid attention anymore? Then the names were called.

“Maysille Donner!” The girl was small, blonde, daughter of the sweets shop owner. People whispered that she was mean. I think she was just trying to survive.

“Louella Mckoy!” Even smaller, a sweetheart. My chest tightened as I watched her step forward.

“Wyatt Callow!” I didn’t know him, only that he had a kind heart.

« Woodbine Chance ». I don’t remember well what happened after that, only that the boy lay on the ground. Another boy must be reaped.

“Haymitch Abernathy!” My heart shattered. I almost vomited on the shoes of the girl beside me. I wanted to scream, to stop it, to do anything… but I could only watch him walk onto that stage. Not him. 

I did not get the chance to see him before he leaves for the Capitol, only his family did… Oh how i wished to get the chance to feel his lips one last time… Weeks passed. Haymitch won. When I heard it, I collapsed, tears burning my cheeks, waiting for him to return. But when he did… fire had already claimed him. His home. His family. Everything. I remember Astrid, Burdock, and I holding him as he broke down, flames devouring everything he loved. His Ma and Sid… gone. Since that day, Haymitch was never the same. He wasn’t my Haymitch.

Now, the new Haymitch passed me without a glance, without acknowledgment. No warmth, no teasing smile. I didn’t blush anymore. Something inside me had broken that day, too…

Part 01 : the reaping of the 52th Hunger Games 

At eighteen, I was grown. School was behind me. I helped my parents at the shop every day. For my final year as a potential tribute, my mother laid out another pale, washed-yellow dress. The same shoes. This time, I didn’t braid my hair. I let it fall loose.

Free. That was how I felt. When this whole masquerade ended, I would be free. No more fear of the Reaping. No more counting the years. One last time. As usual, I took my place in my section at the back now, with the other eighteen-year-old girls. I stood beside someone I vaguely remembered from school.

A new escort this year. Effie, I think. Her name barely mattered. Her pink hair was no better than Drusilla’s harsh orange. Different face, same function.

The same speech, The same film. Only this time, Haymitch stood on the stage, barely upright, hollow-eyed. A victor displayed like a warning.

“Ladies first,” they said. “Thalia Finch! Where is Thalia Finch?”

A girl stepped out from the sixteen-year-old section and then she ran. Not toward Effie. Away from her. Away from her fate.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

The sound echoed before I even understood it. She made it almost to the back of the sections. She collapsed two meters from me. I could smell the blood before I saw it, warm and metallic. A Peacekeeper dragged her body away like discarded fabric. Effie didn’t pause. She never did. Another name was pulled.

This time… I wasn’t sure I heard it right.

All heads turned toward me. A circle opened, slow and deliberate. My name hung in the air. My heart sank. I stepped forward, carefully avoiding the small puddle of blood at my feet.

On the stage, I avoided Haymitch’s gaze. He looked like he might faint at any moment, another reminder of what survival really meant.

“Boys next. Fineas Samuelson.” A small boy climbed the steps. Fourteen. From the Seam. Thin, fragile. I knew his face even if I didn’t know him.

The world went silent. Everything around me blurred. I felt numb, hollowed out. We walked side by side into the Hall of Justice.

In the visiting room, my parents came first. Hugs. Tears. My mother clung to me like she could stitch me back into her arms. “Come back to us, please,” she whispered through her sobs.

Then Burdock and Astrid. “Please,” Astrid cried, gripping my hands. “Make Haymitch help you.”

“You can win,” Burdock said, desperate. “I believe it. Fight. Please, for us.” “I-I’ll do my best,” I answered, my voice shaking. “But Haymitch won’t stand by my side, I fear…”

They didn’t have time to reply. The Peacekeepers were already pulling them away.

“Win! Please!”

Win.

The word echoed in my head.

Win.

Part 02 : Before the games

The train hummed beneath us, smooth and indifferent, carrying us straight toward death. I sat at the table, hands folded too tightly in my lap. Across from me, Fineas stared at the polished surface as if it might crack open and swallow him whole. Effie stood beside us, stiff-backed, already performing. She talked about smiles. About posture. About pleasing the audience and courting sponsors, as if charm could outweigh blood.

“Remember,” she chirped sharply, “chin up, smiles on!”. The door to the mentors’ compartment slid open. Haymitch stood there, swaying slightly in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. His eyes were dull, unfocused. Without a word, he staggered past us toward the minibar, already reaching for a bottle.

“Haymitch!” Effie clapped her hands together. “You’re here! Why don’t you welcome our tributes?” “I’ll pass my turn,” he snapped, not even turning around.

Fineas’s face flushed instantly, red creeping up his neck. Rage, raw and unfiltered. He looked at Haymitch like a boy realizing, all at once, that the person meant to save him had already given up. And me…

I didn’t know what I felt. Anger, yes , watching him drown himself in alcohol when he had friends here for him, when he had me… and now while two children were handed knives and sent to die. Pity too, because I knew why the bottle was always closer than people. And something sharper, buried deeper: the ache of being unseen.

Did he even know I was here? Haymitch’s gaze swept over Fineas first, quick and assessing, lingering just long enough to register what the Capitol would see: small, thin, weak. Disposable. Then his eyes found me. They didn’t stay. It was as if he forced himself to look away, jaw tightening, shoulders stiffening like acknowledging me would make something inside him split open.

“Haymitch,” Effie hissed, irritation breaking through her polish. “Don’t. Be. Rude. They are your tributes.” She turned back to us with a practiced sigh. “I’m so sorry, my dears. Haymitch can be… difficult. But I’m sure he’ll help you. Won’t you, Haymitch?” “Yeah. For sure,” he muttered, dropping into a chair beside Fineas.

Silence fell heavy between us.

Fineas broke it. « You won the Games. You survived. I just… tell us how to come out of that arena alive.”

Silence.

Haymitch stared at the table. “The only thing that matters,” he finally said, “is the audience. Make them care. Give them something to root for. That’s how you get sponsors.” “And in the arena?” Fineas asked softly. Haymitch didn’t answer right away. “You adapt,” he said at last. “Or you don’t.”

Fineas nodded slowly. He looked exhausted, understanting that Haymitch won’t be usefull. “I’m tired,” he murmured.

He stood, offering us a small, almost apologetic look, then walked out of the room. Effie exhaled. “Well. That was… unproductive.”

She adjusted her jacket, already disengaging. “You’ll be taken to the Capitol shortly. Try to make a good impression.” And then she left.

The door closed. It was just us now.

Haymitch paced once, dragging a hand down his face. When he stopped in front of me, his eyes were sharp with something close to panic. “What are you doing here?” he snapped. I opened my mouth, but he didn’t let me speak. “This wasn’t supposed to be you,” he said, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “I never thought it could be you. You were not meant for this- The Capitol” he laughed bitterly. “They’re playing games with me.”

I swallowed. “None of us is meant for this” I whispered. He flinched. “Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t make it sound fair.”

Silence stretched between us, heavy and fragile. And in that moment, I understood: Haymitch wasn’t refusing to help because he didn’t care. He was refusing because caring might kill him… or me first.

The bed on the train was too soft. That thought struck me the moment I lay down, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling. The sheets smelled clean, artificial, like something scrubbed of history. My body sank into the mattress, but my mind refused to follow. The train glided forward without a sound, smooth as a lie, carrying us closer to the Capitol. I tried to sleep. I really did. But every time I closed my eyes, my chest tightened. Images rose uninvited from my mind : a forest I didn’t know, weapons in unfamiliar hands, the sound of cannons. I saw blood, though I didn’t know whose. I saw myself falling, tripping, not fast enough. I was going to die.

The thought didn’t come with panic at first. Just a dull certainty, settling deep inside my bones. Then Haymitch’s face intruded, unasked. The way he’d stood on the train, how he had looked at me like I was something he wasn’t allowed to touch. How he’d snapped, how his voice had cracked when he told me I wasn’t supposed to be here. I didn’t understand him. I turned every memory over in my mind, searching for a clue I must have missed. Had I done something wrong? Had he stopped loving me long before this, and I’d been too blind to notice?

Or was this his way of loving me now? That question hurt the most. Sleep came in short, restless stretches. When I woke, my heart was racing, my hands clenched in the sheets like I was already fighting for my life.

The Tribute Center rose before us like a monument to excess. Glass and white stone, towering and pristine, as if death itself had been polished here. The elevator carried us upward, floor after floor, until the numbers stopped at twelve. District Twelve. The top floor. The irony didn’t escape me. We barely had time to step inside the apartment before they came for me. Hands guided me gently but firmly down bright corridors. Voices were soft, reassuring, practiced. I was undressed without ceremony, placed beneath warm water. At first, it was almost comforting—until it wasn’t.

They scrubbed me. Again. And again. Fingers rough against my skin, brushes digging too deep. They apologized when it hurt, murmured that it would be worth it. Hair was pulled, wax burned, skin reddened. I bit my lip to keep from flinching. This body wasn’t mine anymore. It was being prepared. I focused on the tiles beneath my feet, counting the cracks, counting my breaths. Dissociation came easily; I’d learned that trick years ago. By the time they were done, my skin felt raw, oversensitive, like I’d been flayed without a blade.

When they led me to the stylists, I felt hollow. They were kinder than I expected. Almost embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” one of them said, eyes flicking between Fineas and me. “District Twelve tradition. We… don’t really get creative freedom.” Miners. They dressed us in black and grey, rough fabrics cut cleanly, polished just enough to be palatable. Coal dust as identity. Survival reduced to aesthetic. The parade came too quickly.

We were placed on the last chariot, the metal cold beneath our fingers, the harnesses tight. Music thundered. Lights blinded. Crowds roared. Other districts cheered with practiced excitement. Careers shone, polished, confident. Fineas stayed close, rigid, eyes forward. Every muscle in his small body tense. I could almost hear him thinking: don’t fall, don’t breathe wrong, don’t die. The chariot moved. Fast. Solemn. Like a funeral carriage. Always last. Always District Twelve. Always expected to be nothing. The audience noticed. Eyes lingered. Curiosity, interest. A few smiles. And then, just a few, leaned forward, enchanted by our small defiance. I smiled because I had to. Jaw aching, lips raw, arms stiff.

When the chariot finally stopped, my cheeks hurt from forcing the smile. My stomach twisted in recognition of the cruel rules: survive by being seen, survive by being desired. Back at the apartment, Haymitch lay stretched across the couch, the bottle resting loosely against his chest, as if he had forgotten it was there. His eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling, unfocused.

He looked exhausted. Not drunk, just worn down. Like someone who had been fighting a war no one else could see. My chest tightened at the sight of him.

“I’m going to bed,” Fineas said softly, rubbing his eyes. “See you tomorrow.” “Good night, Finn,” I replied, forcing a small smile as he disappeared down the hallway.

The apartment fell into a heavy silence. I turned back to Haymitch. To the distance he had built between us brick by brick, year after year. I couldn’t carry it anymore.

“Haymitch,” I said, barely above a whisper. “We need to talk.” He didn’t answer. But his jaw tightened. He had heard me. “Why?” I asked after a moment. “Why did you shut me out? Why do you look at me like you’ve already lost me?” His breath hitched just slightly.

“You think I don’t see you?” he murmured. “You think this is indifference?” He finally turned his head toward me. His eyes were tired. Careful. Afraid. “I pulled away because I had to,” he said quietly. “Because the Capitol watches everything. And the moment they realize you matter to me… they’ll use you.”

My throat closed. “Use me how?” His gaze dropped to the floor. He swallowed hard. “Like they used everyone else I loved,” he said.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. “So you decided to hurt me instead,” I whispered.

He flinched. Actually flinched. “I decided to keep you alive,” he corrected, voice rough. “Even if it meant you hated me for it.” He stood slowly, unsteady, stopping a step away from me close enough to feel, not close enough to touch. “Every time I don’t look at you, every time I act like you don’t matter, it costs me,” he said. “But if I let myself care the way I want to… they’ll destroy you. And I won’t survive that. Not again.”

My eyes burned. “Then don’t leave me alone in this.” He closed his eyes, as if the words physically hurt. “I’m trying,” he whispered. “I swear I am. I’m fighting them in every way I know how. But I’m just one man, and they’ve already taken too much from me to threaten me with anything else.” His voice broke. Just once.

“I lost my family because I loved them openly,” he said. “I won’t make that mistake again.” He turned away before I could answer.

Before I could beg him to stay. He left the room quietly, like someone afraid of breaking something already shattered. I stood there long after he was gone, tears sliding down my face without a sound. Eventually, I retreated to my bedroom. I needed rest. Tomorrow, I would have to survive again.

The Tribute Center smelled of sweat, metal, and anticipation. I stepped onto the training floor, feeling small and uncertain. Swords had been my choice, almost by instinct, because they called to me more than any other weapon. I had no skill, no finesse. My hands shook as I gripped the hilt. The weight felt strange. My first swings were clumsy, unbalanced. I tripped over my own feet more than once, and I could feel the other tributes’ eyes, even Fineas’s, on me.

He choosing knives instead. I could tell from the way he held them, the way he scanned the room, that he was cataloging everything, the movements of every tribute, the faintest hesitation, the way trainers shifted. Nothing escaped him. For the first hour, I was a mess. Swords swinging too wide, too fast, missing every mark. Trainers corrected me, adjusted my stance, told me to breathe. I felt foolish, exhausted, frustrated. But I kept trying. By the second hour, something clicked. My footwork started to improve. The swings became less desperate, more purposeful. I landed my first hit on a trainer. The satisfaction was dizzying. I could almost hear my heart pounding in my throat. Four hours in, I had improved beyond what I expected. My arms ached, my hands blistered, but I was finally able to hold my own. I parried, struck, and even bested a few of the trainers who had initially corrected me. Each success made me a little braver, a little more confident. I wasn’t a pro, but I was competent enough to survive.

I couldn’t help but notice them too: the Career tributes. Standing apart, polished, confident, their eyes like sharp knives measuring everyone. I felt a chill. Their presence was overwhelming, the kind of focus that made you feel exposed and small. I watched them, tried to understand them, see their weaknesses, though I felt vulnerable just being noticed by them.

Fineas was quiet beside me, knives in hand, eyes sharp, observing every detail. He didn’t speak much, but I could feel his calculations. He noted who was strong, who was fast, who made mistakes. He learned the rhythm of the room, the patterns, the habits. He didn’t need to win fights yet; he was learning to survive by seeing everything, remembering everything.

By the end of the day, we were both exhausted but alive. Our evaluations the next day revealed the result: a seven. For District Twelve, that was exceptional. Both of us. A sign that we could hold our own, that we had potential. The knowledge was comforting, though it didn’t erase the fear of the arena that always lingered in the back of my mind.

I could feel it, too the subtle glances from Haymitch, lingering just long enough to remind me he was there, watching, caring in his own restrained, impossible way. Every interaction with him was a careful dance: too close might reveal too much, too far and I would feel abandoned. For now, though, I had my swords. Fineas had his knives. And I had begun to feel, faintly, that maybe we had a chance.

“Your dress,” the stylist said, holding it like a treasure. Golden butter, shimmering, delicate as sunlight on warm cream. I touched the fabric and it slipped through my fingers like water. The fit was perfect, tailored for me, soft and light. I had never felt anything so… beautiful. Fineas’s costume was also yellow, muted but elegant, with subtle gold trim that matched my dress. He looked uncomfortable in it, shifting nervously, but the effect was undeniable. I descended the stairs, heart thumping. My reflection in the polished bannister glimmered in the soft evening light. And then I saw him Haymitch.

He was slouched on the couch, bottle in hand, eyes slightly glassy. For a moment, I wondered if he noticed me like this, dressed up, not just as a tribute but… as me. Did he think I looked pretty? Did it matter to him? Idiotic. Absolutely idiotic. I shook my head, trying to banish the thought. This wasn’t the time for questions like that. Survival came first.

The stage was blinding, a cascade of lights and colors, music thundering from every direction. Caesar Flickerman moved with his usual, impossibly radiant energy, greeting the tributes with his booming, cheerful voice. One by one, district by district, the girls walked forward. District One’s polished career girl, confident and flashy, waved to the cameras. The applause was practiced, uniform. District One’s boy followed, similarly trained, already strategizing every move. District Two. District Three. District Four… Each pair, girl then boy, moving through the motions. Smiles, carefully chosen words, gestures that had been drilled, rehearsed for years. Some were fearless. Some faltered under the lights. I watched them, noting how each tried to win over the Capitol, how each carried their district on their shoulders.

Finally, it was District Twelve’s turn. I stepped forward, feeling the weight of every eye, every camera, every thought of the audience. My heart pounded. My hands were clammy. Fineas, a step behind me, looked composed, calm, but I could see his eyes scanning, learning, cataloging.

Caesar’s smile hit me first. “District Twelve! What a delight! And you, my dear what a vision!” I felt heat rise to my cheeks, gripping the folds of my butter-gold dress. “Thank you,” I whispered, trying to steady my voice. He leaned closer, gaze sparkling. “Now, tell me… representing your district, how does it feel to stand here, under these lights?”

“It’s… an honor,” I managed. “I hope to make District Twelve proud.” “And your family at home?” he prompted, eyes warm. “They must be waiting for you.” “Yes,” I said quietly. “I hope to return to them.”

“And love?” he teased lightly, as he did with every tribute, turning the cameras toward the audience. My chest tightened, and my mind immediately flicked to Haymitch. My lips forced the smile expected of me. “I’m focused on surviving first. And winning,” I said softly. The applause erupted, cameras flashing. I could feel Caesar guiding the audience, shaping the story, but I was aware only of the weight of District Twelve on my shoulders, of Fineas beside me, and of the promise of Haymitch watching, restrained, distant, protective.

As I stepped back, Fineas moved forward. He, too, would face Caesar, the questions, the cameras. I held my breath, hoping his calm would guide him through, just as I hoped I had survived this first test.

Back in the apartment, the night settled around us. The soft hum of lights, the faint city sounds outside. Haymitch sat near the window, unsteady but awake. “I don’t understand why,” I whispered, the tension from the day pressing against my ribs.

He looked at me, dark eyes heavy. “There’s nothing to understand,” he said. “I can’t tell you everything. I can’t protect you if I do. You have to survive. That’s all that matters.” I took a deep breath, frustration and fear twisting together. “For you?” His lips pressed into a thin line. “For you. For me. For anyone I can’t stop from getting hurt. Just… survive. Please.” I nodded, swallowing back the words I couldn’t say. Love, affection, everything was off-limits, dangerous. All that mattered was that he wanted me alive. That alone was enough to shatter and sustain me at the same time.

I lay down that night, the dress folded neatly in the corner, swords by my side. Tomorrow, the arena. Tomorrow, the rules of survival would change again. I stared at the ceiling, heart tight, knowing one thing for certain: I would do everything in my power to survive. For him.

Part 03 : the 52th Hunger Games begin !

DAY 1

The cold hits me before the platform has even finished rising. It doesn’t sting. It bites. It cuts. The air slips under my clothes, into my teeth, behind my eyes. My suit and the others’ bright fluo coats clash violently with the blinding white surrounding us. I breathe slowly. I count the seconds. I don’t shake. I don’t look at the others. I don’t think.

The platform locks into place. The silence is heavy, almost unbearable. In front of me, the Cornucopia rests on the ice of a frozen lake. Open crates, gleaming weapons, bags of food laid out like traps. The ice is veined with white cracks. Beyond it, the valley spreads out: dense forest to the left, steep mountains to the right, a distant chasm at the far end. The wind lifts the snow and lashes it against my face.

Ten seconds.

My heart pounds too hard in my chest. I already feel the burn in my lungs, the cold stiffening my fingers. I focus on one thing only: surviving the first three minutes.Three.

Two.

One.

The gong sounds.

I run. The ice is treacherous, but my legs hold. I head inward, not toward the edges. Around me, chaos erupts screams, dull impacts, metal clashing. Someone falls, slips, gets trampled. A body slams against the ice with a hollow sound. The cannons begin to fire. I reach a crate and drag it toward me. Inside: a short knife, an empty canteen. A thick coat hangs halfway out of a nearby bag. I grab it and pull it on as I move. A hand clamps around my arm. A girl from District 5. She’s smaller, her eyes wide with terror. She’s shouting—something—I can’t really hear it. She tries to rip the knife from my grip.

There is no choice. No thought. No morality. I drive the blade into her throat. Blood bursts out. It’s hot despite the cold. It splashes across the snow. She grabs at her neck, makes a wet, broken sound I don’t understand. Her eyes lock onto mine for half a second.

Then she falls. The cannon fires almost immediately. I freeze for a moment, the knife still clenched in my hand, my breath caught in my chest. Then another scream snaps me back. I run.

Behind me, the slaughter continues. The boy and girl from District 1 are terrifying Arceus slams a boy against the Cornucopia, Yael cuts with methodical precision. And the boy from District 2 Kai, I think catches someone on the ice and kills them without slowing down. The Capitol is getting what it wants. I plunge into the forest. The trees are packed tight, heavy clumps of snow crashing down from their branches. My lungs burn, my thighs scream. I don’t stop until the screams fade away. Until there is nothing left but my breathing and the wind.

When I crouch behind a tree trunk, my hands are shaking. Not from fear. Just the nervous backlash.

I look at the knife. It’s red. The blood is already darkening. I wipe the blade in the snow. Cannons are still firing, spaced out now. One. Then two. Then three. Each detonation punches straight through my chest. I count without meaning to.

The cold truly settles in now. My fingers grow stiff. I keep moving so I don’t freeze, pushing deeper into the forest, farther from the lake. Above me, an owl hoots. The sound is too deep, too drawn out. My heart tightens as I look up. It vanishes into the rising storm. When night falls, the valley turns dark blue. I hide in a hollow between two rocks—not a real cave, just enough to block the wind. No fire. Too dangerous.

I lick a little snow to wet my mouth. The water almost burns as it goes down. Lying against the frozen stone, I see the girl from District 5 again. Her face. The sound. The blood. I cry.

DAY 2

Morning is brutal. Snow has buried everything the night spared. Each breath burns my throat, my fingers are stiff, my muscles numb. The wind howls through the trees, and I pull my coat tighter around myself, moving slowly but never stopping. Every step crunches in the snow. Every sound makes me flinch. I see her before I truly recognize her a small figure crouched behind a tree. Luvilia, District 10. Fifteen years old. I spoke to her a little during the training sessions. She looks at me with wide eyes. I approach carefully, my knife secured at my waist.

“Hi…” I murmur. My voice almost vanishes in the wind. She stares at me for a moment before answering. “You… you survived yesterday?” “I guess I did.”

I don’t trust her. Not yet. But enough to decide that surviving together is better than surviving alone. We move side by side. The forest is thick, branches whipping against our faces. Every sound is suspicious. Every crack could be another tribute. We spot a rabbit, frozen in the snow. “Can I?” Luvilia asks, holding up a sharp stone.

I nod. She strikes. The rabbit collapses. We skin it quickly, cold on cold, the meat already half-frozen. I feel her eyes on me. A quick smile crosses her face the first hint of warmth in hours. We keep going in silence. Every step is measured. Every noise puts us on edge. I feel the cold gnawing at my muscles, but stopping isn’t an option.

Around midday, we find a shallow cave. Not deep enough for a real fire just enough to block the wind. I crouch, scanning the surroundings. Luvilia sits beside me. “Do you think they can see us?” she whispers. “The Careers?”

“Maybe. But moving would be worse.” My hand tightens around the knife.

We eat snow to wet our mouths. The water burns as it goes down, but it warms us just enough to keep us from freezing solid. Cannons still echo through the valley. One. Two. Three. Each blast punches straight through my chest. Fatigue weighs on me. Hunger begins to claw at my stomach. But the cold is worse. Every movement hurts. We can’t afford to stop.

“We should move tomorrow… find another shelter.” We lie down directly on the snow, wrapped in our coats. The snow melts slightly against our clothes, then freezes again. Every breath burns, every movement is painful. Luvilia drifts into a light sleep. I stay awake, ears strained for every crack, every shift of wind. Every shadow could be death.

Before I finally close my eyes, I see the girl from District 5 again. Her eyes. The blood. The sound of her fall. I shake my head. No time for regret. There is only survival. “Tomorrow… do you think we’ll make it?” Luvilia murmurs, half-asleep.

I answer quietly. “If we don’t make a mistake… maybe. As long as we stay together, it could work.” Silence settles again. The wind keeps howling. The forest feels like it’s watching us. The cold never sleeps. And neither do I.

DAY 3

Morning is glacial. The forest is quiet, but I know the Careers are out there somewhere. I haven’t slept more than a few hours. My muscles ache, my fingers still numb from the cold. I move along a snow-covered slope, searching for any food. And then I see him.

Kai. District 2. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Marked by exhaustion, but still dangerous. His gaze locks onto me — cold, calculating. No smile. No hesitation. Just the promise of violence.

I tighten my grip on my knife. He studies me for a few seconds, then attacks. He’s fast. Brutal. Every blow I block makes my arms shake. Every hit I take knocks the air from my lungs, sends me stumbling. My fingers cling to the blade, but the cold is already deep in my bones. “You really think you can beat me, Twelve?” he growls. “Not part of my plan.” He smiles, a cruel twist of the mouth and strikes again. The last blow hits my face.

Pain explodes. Sharp and violent, like my eye is about to burst. Then it happens something ruptures inside, a sudden flash of red flooding my vision. I stagger back, blinded by the pain. My left eye is burning, pulsing with every heartbeat, bright red and uncontrollable. I blink, but it doesn’t fade. The red stays. I’m shaking, the pain stealing my breath. But I don’t have a choice. I have to keep going.

He steps forward, convinced I’m disoriented. I let my body sag toward the snow. I play weak. He smiles and leans closer. That’s all I need. I strike. First the thigh, quick, precise. He stumbles, startled. Then I straighten and drive the knife into his throat.

Blood splashes onto the snow, dark in the cold. He falls. Silence crashes down, heavy and suffocating. The cannon fires, confirming what I’ve done. I stay still for a few seconds, gasping for air. The pain in my eye doesn’t fade. I touch my face. Blood seeps into my field of vision. The red is vivid. Horrifying.

I step back, watching the body. The wind sweeps across the snow, partially erasing the tracks. I have to move find shelter before someone else arrives. Every step hurts. Every movement pulls at my frozen muscles. The cold is everywhere. My fingers barely respond, but I clutch my knife like my life depends on it. Because it does.

I reach Luvilia, crouched behind a rock a short distance away. She looks at me, eyes wide.

“Your eye… it’s completely red,” she whispers. I shake my head, refusing to show the pain. “I’m fine. Just a hit. But we’re moving. Now.” She nods, silent. She understands. No useless words. We push deeper into the forest. The trees shield us slightly from the wind, but the cold still bites into my skin. The pain in my eye pulses with every movement. Each time I blink, a sharp burst of red flashes through my vision. I force myself to ignore it. To endure it.

We find a small hollow behind a cluster of rocks and rest for a moment. The snow beneath me is ice-cold, my fingers nearly senseless. Luvilia watches me, but I say nothing. I can’t. My focus is locked on the pain throbbing in my face, on the cold, on the oppressive silence.

DAY 4

Luvilia and I move forward with difficulty. Visibility is almost nonexistent. We stay only a few meters apart, hands outstretched, brushing each other’s fingertips to make sure the other is still there. The silence is heavy, broken only by the wind and the crunch of snow beneath our boots. “We need to find shelter… fast,” she breathes. Her voice is nearly torn away by the wind. “I know… just a few more meters,” I answer through clenched teeth. My body trembles despite me. My muscles scream. My fingers are nearly numb. But I keep going.

The forest has changed. The trees bend under the weight of the snow, their branches cracking, threatening to collapse. Snow blinds me. I blink, and everything is white — blurred, hostile. Fear starts to gnaw at me. Not the fear of dying, but the fear that the cold, the exhaustion, the isolation will make me lose control. Hours pass. Every movement is an inhuman effort. Luvilia slips on ice hidden beneath the snow and falls. I reach for her, pulling her up. She grimaces. “I… I can still walk,” she says weakly. I nod. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”

Then the blizzard worsens. The wind howls so loudly I can barely hear anything at all. I stumble, fall into the snow, barely manage to get back up. My thoughts begin to blur. I see shadows that aren’t there. I hear voices that don’t exist. Luvilia looks at me, fear in her eyes. “Are you okay?” she asks. “Yes… yes, I’m fine…” I lie. My body is still moving, but part of my mind has already been carried off by the wind. The cold, the exhaustion, the blood pounding in my veins are pushing me toward madness. I drag myself forward a few more meters, trying to suppress the panic rising in my chest.

Then I hear her scream.

Luvilia screams.

Luvilia screams.

She slips toward a hole hidden beneath the snow a crevasse disguised by white. I rush forward, but the wind and snow hit me like stones. Her hands claw at the ice. I lean down, reaching for her fingers and then there’s nothing. She’s gone.

I scream. I pound my fists into the snow. I drop to my knees. My heart races, my muscles refuse to respond. The cannon fires.

I stay there, kneeling in the snow, gasping for breath. The pain in my red eye is a constant sting, but it’s nothing compared to the emptiness hollowing out my chest. Luvilia is dead. The storm shows no mercy, and neither did the Games. I couldn’t do anything. The wind keeps howling. Snow erases the tracks, covers everything, wipes away life and every trace of our passage. I force myself to stand, my body numb, my hands red and blue with cold. Every step is a battle. Every breath is a silent scream I have to swallow.

DAY 5

I find Fineas curled up near the crevasse, his arms wrapped around his knees. He startles when he sees me, nearly falling backward. He’s thin, filthy, his lips blue with cold. “Fineas, !” I say. Just his name. He blinks, like he’s struggling to understand that I’m real. “You’re… you’re alive?” “Yes. So are you. Odds seems to be on our side for now.” He stands up awkwardly. He’s shaking so badly I wonder how he’s still upright. “I thought… I thought you were dead.” I shake my head. “Not yet. Come on. We can’t stay here.” He hesitates. Looks at the crevasse. Looks at the forest. Then back at me. “Okay… but I’m not very fast.” “That’s fine. Just don’t make noise.”

We walk together. He stays slightly behind me, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. At every sound, he flinches. I can feel him fighting not to panic. “I haven’t eaten since…” he starts, then stops. I stop too. I search through my things. And that’s when I see it. The silver parachute drifting slowly down between the trees. I freeze for a second. Then I catch it before it hits the ground. Fineas looks at me, eyes shining. “Is that… is that for you?” I open the package. Bread. Dense. Dry. A small flask of water. And a note. I read it. One sentence.

I believe in you. — H

I stay silent longer than I mean to. “Is that Haymitch?” Fineas asks softly. I nod. “Yes.” He makes a small, surprised face. “You seem really close. I shake my head. “Not really.”

I try to sound convincing. If the Capitol finds out, I’m dead. And so is Haymitch. Fineas doesn’t look convinced, but he understands that pushing won’t help. Besides, he wants that bread more than he wants answers. Without thinking, I break the bread in two and hand him the larger piece.

He hesitates. “Are you sure?” “Eat. That’s an order.” He bites into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Crumbs fall into the snow. He drinks next, too fast, nearly choking. “Slow down,” I snap. “You don’t want to throw up.” He gives a weak smile. “I forgot what bread tasted like.”

We sit behind some rocks to eat. The wind is weaker here. “Do you think we can win?” he asks after a while. I look at him I could tell the truth. I don’t. “Yes. If we’re careful.”

He looks down. “I’m scared. All the time.” “So am I,” I answer. It’s true. “But you keep going anyway. That’s what matters.” After that, I show him how to set a simple trap. Like Luvilia taught me. His fingers tremble.

We walk on. Then I feel it. A presence. I stop dead. “Fineas. Behind me. Now.” He obeys without question.

The boy from District 7. Zayn, I think. He’s barely recognizable. Hollow cheeks. Eyes too bright. Too alive. He smiles not a real smile. Something broken.

« Sharing ? » he asks. I tighten my grip on my knife. “Get lost. Or I’ll skin you alive.” His gaze drifts to Fineas. Slowly. For far too long. “He’s small,” he murmurs. “Must be hungry.” “Step back,” I say. My voice shakes despite me.

Zayn attacks.

Everything happens too fast. Fineas screams. I scream too not fast enough. Zayn hits him, throws him to the ground. Fineas screams my name.

“LET HIM GO!” Zayn doesn’t listen.

I see his hands. I see his mouth. I understand before I want to. I step back. My body refuses to move forward. My mind is screaming, but my legs won’t obey. Fineas cries. Then he stops screaming.

Zayn eats.

I vomit into the snow. When I lift my head, Zayn is looking at me, lips red. He laughs. Then he disappears into the forest.

I stay there a long time.

Too long.

The cold eventually forces me to move. I leave alone the bread almost gone, the flask empty, Haymitch’s note clenched in my hand. I believe in you. I don’t know if I deserve it anymore.

DAY 6

Morning is silent. Too silent. The forest feels like it’s holding its breath. Snow smothers every sound. My muscles are stiff, my fingers still red and blue with cold, but I have to move. I can’t stay here and let death circle me. Zayn is somewhere in this valley. I can feel it. His presence is like the smell of metal and madness. His wild eyes, his laughter, the memory of Fineas it all burns inside my head. Rage rises. Fear too. Every step through the snow is torture. Every crack, a threat.

I move between the trees slowly, quietly. Each breath I exhale is visible in the frozen air. I think of Fineas. Of the way Zayn took him. Of his scream, still echoing in my ears. Anger and horror give me strength. I am no longer just surviving. A broken, deranged laugh. I tighten my grip on my knife and slip after the sound, moving step by step. Snow crunches faintly beneath my boots. Every movement is calculated. I have to be fast. Precise. Merciless.

Zayn disappears briefly behind a rock. I freeze. And then I see him. He’s devouring a small animal he’s just killed, his hands shaking, his eyes shining with madness. He hasn’t noticed me yet. This is my moment.

I launch myself at him. He turns, startled but not fast enough. The knife sinks into his shoulder. He screams, an inhuman, animal sound. He tries to bite, to claw, to tear at me, but I pull back and strike again. “You’re going to pay for Fineas!” I shout.

He laughs again.

Mad.

Broken.

A cannibal.

His movements are chaotic, brutal. He hits me, pain flares in my ribs but I keep going. Rage guides me. Every strike is deliberate. Every blow is an answer to what he’s done. We struggle in the snow, bodies slipping, stiff with cold. I feel his breath on my face as he lunges again. I feint, step back, strike.

Again.

Again.

And finally, I drive him backward into the crevasse hidden beneath the snow.

He screams, flails, fights but the cold and the void take him. His body vanishes into the darkness below. I stare down after him. Silence crashes back in. Snow drifts over the traces he left behind. The forest is still again. The wind keeps howling but Zayn is no longer laughing. I collapse to my knees, gasping, the knife still clenched in my hand. My red eye burns. The cold bites into my fingers. But I’m still here.

Still standing. Peace has returned but the pain remains. The memory of Fineas, his smile, his courage despite his age, burns deep inside me. I stay there for a while, unmoving. The wind threads through the trees. Every breath hurts. Every movement reminds me how fragile life is here.

But for now, Zayn is dead.

I killed him. I avenged Fineas.

I gather what little food remains Haymitch’s bread and take a sip of icy water. The words I believe in you echo in my mind. I still believe in myself. I have to go on. I have to survive.

DAY 7

Snow covers everything even the traces of Zayn and Fineas. I walk alone. My muscles are numb, my red eye still burning with every blink. The wind whistles through the trees, harsher than ever. Every breath slices into my chest. Every step through the snow is a superhuman effort. I stop behind a tree, gasping. The silence is crushing. The forest feels dead, but I know it’s an illusion. The Careers are out there somewhere. Traps can be triggered at any moment. Loneliness weighs heavier than the cold. The anger toward Zayn is still there, but Fineas… his loss eats at me even more.

I rummage through my pack. Haymitch’s bread is almost gone. So is the water. I close my eyes for a moment. I believe in you echoes in my head. I have nothing left to hold onto except my own will. The forest seems to close in around me. Every tree looks like a face. Every shadow moves. I shiver, and not from the cold. It’s the feeling of being watched unseen, waiting to strike.

I keep moving, slowly. Snow blows into my eyes. My red eye still burns, but I’m starting to get used to it. Then a sound behind me. A light crack, but unmistakable. I freeze, knife raised. My heart pounds. “Show yourself,” I shout, my voice cutting through the wind.

No answer. Only wind and snow. I advance carefully. And then a small fox bursts out of the snow, startled, vanishing into the trees. I exhale. Just an animal. But for a moment, I thought it was another tribute or worse… Zayn, coming back from somewhere. I move on.

I reach a frozen lake. Beneath the ice, the water is deep and black. The ice creaks under my boots, but I have to cross. Every step is a risk. One mistake could kill me. I grip my knife and move slowly, listening. Halfway across, a stronger gust slams into me. My muscles shake. I nearly lose my balance. I sit down on the ice, panting. I close my eyes for a moment. Fear gnaws at me, but I have to keep going. Survival means staying in control even when my body screams otherwise.

I finally reach the other shore. My feet are frozen, my fingers nearly useless. But I keep going. I need shelter for the night. The forest ahead looks denser, more dangerous but it’s all I have left. As I move forward, I spot a cave in the mountainside. The entrance is narrow, but it offers protection from the wind. I slip inside, breathing hard, muscles stiff. The cave is dark and damp. I sit against the rock wall, clutching my knife.

The silence is absolute. Too absolute. Loneliness presses in. I think of Fineas. Of Zayn. Of Luvilia. Every loss has carved a scar deeper than the cold. But I’m still alive. I’m still standing. And that has to be enough. I eat the last piece of dry bread. The water is almost gone. I close my eyes for a moment, listening to the wind scream outside. The world is cruel but I’m still here. My red eye burns with every blink. I touch it lightly, as if to remind myself I’m real. That pain is proof I’m alive.

I lie down in the dirty snow of the cave, knife pressed to my chest. Tomorrow will be worse. The Careers, the cold, the hunger they’re all still there. But so am I. I have to

DAY 8

The ice cracks on the very first step. Not a small sound. A real crack deep, echoing up my legs like a warning. The lake is vast, white, silent. The wind slices into my skin. My red eye burns, my vision blurs in and out. I’m exhausted. Yael is there, facing me. District 2. She’s breathing hard. She’s at the end of her strength too. We move slowly. Too slowly for it to be clean.

Every step is calculated. Every movement hurts. My muscles shake. The ice groans beneath our weight. “You look half-dead,” she spits, her voice rough. I answer, “Speak for yourself.” It seems to set her off. She attacks first. Not fast. Heavy. I block badly. The impact shoots up my arm into my shoulder. I stumble back, nearly slipping. The ice cracks again. My heart is racing.

We circle each other. The cold eats at me. My mouth is dry. My fingers are almost numb around the knife. She feints. I bite. Bad idea. I feel the impact in my leg before I understand it. Her knife sinks into my left thigh then she pulls.

Not a quick strike. No. She drags it. Slowly. From top to bottom. It tears. Really tears. Like the muscle is being split in two.

I scream. Not controlled. Not contained. An animal scream that rips my throat raw. My leg nearly gives out. I drop to my knees on the ice. Blood pours out, warm despite the cold. The pain is so intense my head spins. “Fuck… FUCK!” She smiles, breathless “It’s over.”

I slam my hand into the ice to keep from collapsing completely. The surface is slick, fractured. I see the lines beneath my fingers. The cracks. I understand. I strike the ice with the butt of my knife. Once. Twice. The pain in my leg is unbearable it feels like it’s no longer attached to me. Yael laughs. She thinks I’m panicking. I hit again. Harder. The ice cracks louder. A sharp, dangerous sound. She freezes. Her smile vanishes. “What are you doing?” I grit my teeth. “I hope you know how to swim.” I let myself fall backward on purpose, throwing my weight onto the fractured area. The ice gives way with a sharp snap.

Not under me. Under her. Yael screams as the ground disappears. She plunges into the water. The sound is muffled, swallowed by wind and snow. She thrashes for a second. Then nothing. The cannon fires, distant, almost muted. I stay there on my knees, gasping, my leg on fire. I cry without realizing it. Not from grief. From pure pain. Every heartbeat pulses through the wound. I try to stand. I can’t.

I crawl. Every movement is torture. The ice burns against my hands. I leave a red trail behind me. I stop. I breathe. I bind my leg with a strip of fabric, shaking so badly I can barely tie the knot. The wind howls. Then a voice. Amplified. Cold. Official.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Panem…”

I lie there on the ice, unable to move.

“…we have a winner.” I close my eyes. Fineas. Luvilia. Zayn. Blood. Cold.

“I present to you… the winner of the 52nd Hunger Games, from District 12.” The silence afterward is deafening.

The hovercraft descends over the lake. The light burns my eyes. Hands lift me up. I scream again when they touch my leg. I don’t care. I’m alive. Barely.

Part 04 : the Victor !

I wake up fast, as if I skipped the part where people open their eyes slowly. The room is warm and quiet. The sheets smell clean. The light is soft, almost orange, like late afternoon at home. For a second, I don’t know where I am, but I know I’m not in the arena anymore. There’s no cold air, no trees, no snow. Just silence. I try to sit up and get out of the bed. I move too quickly.

My balance goes wrong, and I fall onto the carpeted floor before I understand what happened. The landing isn’t painful, but something feels completely off in my body like a part of me didn’t follow the movement. I try again, slower this time. I look down.

My left leg is gone.

In its place, there is a golden prosthetic that starts mid-thigh and ends in a rounded foot. It’s smooth, clean, almost shiny in the warm light. I stare at it without breathing. I touch the metal. It’s cold at first, then warms under my hand. My chest tightens. My throat hurts. I don’t scream, but I want to. The shock is so strong it feels like everything inside me is shaking. I don’t know if I’m crying at first; it’s just wet, and my breathing is uneven. I sit there for a long moment, holding the edge of the bed with one hand and the metal leg with the other. Eventually the first clear thought comes: I’m alive.

They wouldn’t do this surgery otherwise.

They wouldn’t bother saving me if I wasn’t a victor.

My breathing slows. I wipe my face with my sleeve. I try to stand up again. This time I manage it. The prosthetic feels heavy and strange, but I stay upright. The apartment is quiet when I walk into the main room. It looks comfortable, soft couches, warm colors, a big window showing the city. Definitely not the arena. Definitely not the Justice Building in District 12 either. Somewhere in between. There’s no one here. No voices. No family waiting. Only a single white rose on the table, next to a small card.

Welcome home. - President Snow

I stare at the rose for a long time. I don’t touch it. I don’t need to. I know exactly what it means, and who sent it. My stomach turns. My hands shake again. I look around once more, as if someone I care about might walk in now my mother, Haymitch, anyone. But the room stays empty and quiet.

I stay frozen in the living room, staring at the white rose on the table. My heartbeat is loud in my ears. I don’t touch the card again. I don’t want to.

I try to breathe slowly, but my chest keeps tightening. I don’t know if it’s fear or confusion or both. I look around, hoping for any sign of my family, Haymitch, someone… anyone. The room is warm, clean, familiar in a strange way, but I still feel completely alone. Then I hear voices in the hallway. Fast footsteps.

Before I can move, the door opens. Effie rushes in first, bright and breathless, followed by the prep team. She doesn’t even give me time to speak before her arms are around me, squeezing tight. “Oh sweetheart!” she says, her voice high and shaky. “You did it! You actually did it! Oh, we are so proud of you!” Her perfume fills my nose. I blink hard, trying not to cry again. My leg aches with every small movement, like a reminder I can’t avoid.

The prep team crowds around, talking all at once touching my hair, checking my skin, asking questions I can’t answer. Their hands are gentle, but I still feel trapped. “Effie—” I start, my voice weak. She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are watery, her makeup slightly smudged. "Yes sweetie ?".

“Where’s Haymitch?” I ask. My voice breaks halfway through. Effie freezes. Just for a second. “I don’t know exactly, last time I saw him he was miserbale” she says quietly. “You know… during your Games, he stopped drinking.” Her voice softens. “He was terrified for you. I’ve never seen him like that. You two… you share something very special.”

I swallow hard. My throat hurts. I nod, but I don’t really understand anything right now. Effie claps her hands once, too loud, like she’s forcing herself back into her usual tone.

“Alright! We don’t have time to waste,” she says. “People are waiting. We have to get you ready for your winner’s interview with Caesar. Clothes, hair, make-up, everything. You’re the star tonight.” The prep team moves again, guiding me toward the elevator. I take one last glance at the rose on the table. The message still lies beside it. “Welcome home.”

My leg throbs when I walk, metal moving under skin I can’t feel. The prep team brings me straight into a large room filled with mirrors and bright lights. Everything smells like powder and warm air. They don’t ask if I’m ready. They just start working. Hands brush through my hair, smooth my skin, adjust my posture. Someone adds heat to my cheeks to make me look less pale. I keep my eyes on the floor for a moment, then lift them just enough to catch my reflection.

My hair is styled low and neat, gold threads woven through the braid.

My outfit is entirely gold too, soft fabric, layered, elegant but strong-looking.

I look like I match the prosthetic.

Like everything about me was planned.

I touch my face gently. Some scars are gone, especially the ones on my arms and cheek. But others remain: the thin mark on my collarbone from the fight with Zayn, the faint scratch on my jaw from the blizzard. It feels intentional, like they decided which parts of my story should stay visible. When I finally look down at my leg, the gold catches the light sharply. The metal shines.

It doesn’t feel like a part of me yet.

Maybe it never will.

But at least it looks strong.

The elevator takes me down to the stage. I can feel the weight of the prosthetic with every step, but I stay steady. My heartbeat is louder than the music. When the doors open, the lights hit me immediately—warm, bright, overwhelming.

Caesar Flickerman stands at center stage, smiling wide.

He opens his arms when he sees me, like I’m someone he’s waited for. “Ladies and gentlemen of Panem,” he calls, “please welcome the newest victor District Twelve’s own!” The crowd cheers. It’s so loud I almost step back, but Caesar reaches out a hand and guides me to the seat beside him. His grip is warm and surprisingly gentle. When the applause fades, he leans forward, voice softening just for me. “First of all,” he begins, “congratulations. You’ve survived what most of us can’t even imagine.”

I breathe in, trying to keep my hands still on my lap. He nods once, then goes right into it.

“Let’s talk about the storm on day four. The blizzard. Many of us at home thought you wouldn’t make it through.” I look down briefly before answering. “It felt endless. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t breathe. It was… just white everywhere.” My throat tightens. “And I lost someone there. Luvilia. She was… kind. I wish I could’ve done more.”

Caesar gives me a moment. the crowd lets out a sympathetic murmur. “And after that,” he continues, voice gentler now, “you found Fineas.” I exhale slowly through my nose. “Yeah. He was scared. But he still tried. I think… he just wanted to keep going.” My voice gets thinner at the end. “I miss him.” I hold the tears in my eyes.

The screen behind us flashes briefly with an image of Fineas smiling shyly during training. The crowd murmurs, softer this time more human. Caesar leans in. “His loss seemed to change you.”

I nod once. “It did. He was a friend, a brother to me.” He shifts the subject, but not the tone.

“That leads us to Zayn. You tracked him. You confronted him. Why?” My jaw tightens. “Because Fineas didn’t deserve what happened to him. And I couldn’t let it happen again. To anyone.” Caesar doesn’t press for details. He moves on before the silence gets too heavy.

“And then day eight. The lake. The final fight.” He glances at my leg, just once. “Was there a moment when you thought… it was over for you?”

I let out a quick laugh, breathy and without humor. “More than one. When she cut my leg—” I stop, swallow. “I didn’t think I’d stand again. But I didn’t want my story to end there.” Then I show them my prosthetic. The crowd claps for that short, supportive. I don’t look up. Caesar waits for the noise to settle, then tilts his head slightly, changing direction.

“Now,” he says, smiling again, “you’re going home. A victor. Have you thought about seeing your family again?” Something in my chest tightens unexpectedly. I blink a little too fast. “I… yes. I have. I want to see them. I want to make sure they’re okay.” I pause. “I hope they’re watching.” I don’t say I hope they still recognize me. Caesar nods thoughtfully, then lifts a card from his lap he always saves the personal questions for last.

“And speaking of support…” he says, voice lighter, “your mentor. Haymitch Abernathy. The crowd reacts some laughter, some cheering at the name. “He sent you a sponsor at a… very critical moment. A message too. Were you two close before the Games?” My stomach drops. I grip the arm of the chair lightly to keep my hands steady. “No,” I say quickly. “Not really.” I force a small smile. “He just… did his job. I guess. Caesar raises one eyebrow, amused. “Just his job? It looked like more than that to us.” I shake my head gently. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him yet. I don’t know where he is.” There’s a ripple through the audience, curiosity, maybe surprise. Caesar softens. “Well, maybe we’ll see a reunion soon,” he says. “People at home would like that.”

I don’t answear. Caesar leans back, giving me room for one final moment. “One last question,” he says. “After everything, the storm, the loss, the fight, and now this stage… what do you want, more than anything, as Panem’s newest victor?” I look at the crowd. The cameras. The lights. My leg aches, but it keeps me grounded. “I want to go home,” I say simply. “And I want to remember why I survived.” The audience rises to their feet. Caesar stands too, lifting my hand in the air as applause fills the stage. I stay steady, even though everything inside me still feels like it’s shaking.

Backstage, the noise from the studio fades behind the walls. I lean against the cool paneling, still catching my breath, my hands pressed to my knees. My chest is tight, my tears haven’t stopped. The Capitol’s applause and chatter feel miles away. And then I hear it. A voice low, familiar, impossible to mistake. “Hey…” I lift my head. Haymitch. His eyes find mine immediately. For a moment, the world shrinks until it’s just the two of us.

He walks toward me, slowly at first, then quicker. I step forward without thinking, and soon we’re running toward each other, closing the distance in a heartbeat. When we collide, it’s not just a hug. It’s everything unspoken for months, the fear, the longing, the relief. I bury my face in his chest, my hands clutching his jacket as if I could anchor myself there. “You… you made it,” he murmurs, his voice rough, holding back the tremor I know is there.

“I did,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I survived.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes searching, holding mine. “I… I was so damn scared. I didn’t want—” “You didn’t have to,” I cut in gently. “I’m here. I’m alive. And… you’re here too.” He lets out a shaky breath, resting his forehead against mine. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed this. You.”

I smile through my tears, leaning closer. “I missed you too.” For a moment, nothing else exists, no Capitol, no Games, no chaos. Just the two of us, finally together again, and the quiet knowledge that we survived it. Haymitch stands there, silent, his eyes on me. My heart beats a little faster.

Before I can say anything, Effie appears at the entrance, sparkling as always.“Sorry to interrupt, but the Capitol reception is waiting for us! Come on, come on, come on!” She waves her arms like she could drag us with her. Haymitch lets out a low growl, frowning. “Effie…” he mutters, his voice quiet, annoyed. I instantly feel a flush of embarrassment creeping over me.

“I’m so excited for you!” Effie adds, practically bouncing in place. “Oh my gosh, you and Haymitch, you’re just too cute, seriously! I Hope we will see him smile more now. » I blush, looking away. Haymitch rolls his eyes, crossing his arms, clearly exasperated.

“I… should we go?” I murmur timidly. Effie grabs my hand and pulls me along. Haymitch follows silently, keeping his distance but watchful, letting me breathe, though his brows stay furrowed.The reception hall of the Capitol was dazzling, overwhelming. Glittering lights, sharp suits, and the hum of conversation filled the space. I moved slowly through the crowd, guided by a handler, every step calculated. My prosthetic leg felt heavy, but the golden finish caught the light, drawing admiring eyes. Haymitch walked beside me at first, keeping a steady presence. But after a few minutes, I felt him pull back. He muttered something about needing a drink and drifted toward the bar. I didn’t argue. His silence was his way of staying close, even if he was physically elsewhere.

I focused on the people around me. Sponsors smiled, clinked glasses, asked polite questions. I answered, keeping my voice calm, neutral. Every word was measured. I smiled when necessary, nodded when expected, but my mind was alert, restless. And then I felt it, a cold weight at the edge of my awareness. I glanced toward the balcony at the far end of the hall. President Snow. His pale eyes scanned the room like a hawk. A small part of me froze. I’d survived the Games, yes, but I knew what the Capitol could demand of a victor… and what Snow could demand of me.

A sponsor approached, a familiar face. He had invested in me during the Games, and now he moved forward with a smile, extending a hand. My chest tightened. It wasn’t just politeness I felt, I knew the unspoken rules. A victor could be “gifted,” “protected,” but always at a cost. Always under the shadow of the Capitol’s reach. The thought of Snow watching, waiting, turned my stomach cold. “Congratulations,” the sponsor said warmly. “You’ve made us all proud.”I forced a smile, shaking his hand. “Thank you… for believing in me.”

The sponsor leaned closer again, his smile practiced, his hand brushing against mine just enough to make me flinch. My heart hammered. Across the room, Snow’s gaze never left me, sharp and calculating, a reminder that every move I made was under his scrutiny. I could feel my body tense, the same instinct that had kept me alive in the arena rising. I tried to keep my smile, to nod politely, but the air felt heavy, like it was pressing down on me. This was different from the Games, the stakes weren’t just my life anymore. It was subtle, insidious. The Capitol had a way of twisting everything.Just as the sponsor began to guide me toward a quieter corner, a shadow fell over the interaction.

“Hey. That’s far enough.” I looked up, and there was Haymitch, his jaw tight, eyes dark with worry. His hand rested lightly on my shoulder, a barrier, but his presence said more than that. He had been watching from the bar, keeping an eye on Snow, and now he wasn’t taking any chances. The sponsor’s smile faltered. Haymitch interrupted, voice low but sharp. “I think you’ve done enough talking for today. Let her breathe.” The sponsor blinked, unsure, caught off guard. Haymitch didn’t give him a chance to recover, his stare deadly. “Back off,” he said. I felt my chest loosen a little. Relief, sharp and sudden, surged through me. Haymitch stayed between us, a wall of quiet authority. The sponsor finally nodded, backing off just enough to leave space between us. “You okay?” Haymitch murmured, voice low, almost a growl. I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yeah… thanks.”

His eyes flicked to Snow across the room, and I could feel the tension. He had seen what Snow could do to other victors. He wasn’t taking any risks, not with me. Not after everything. For the first time since entering the reception, I felt a tiny measure of safety. But the shadow of the Capitol and Snow still lingered. Survival had a new shape now. And for the first time, I knew that even outside the arena, Haymitch would fight to keep me alive.

« Do you trust me ? ». He asked. I nodded, my pulse racing, and Haymitch stepped closer. His eyes were steady, unreadable, but there was a determination in them that made my chest tighten. And then, without hesitation, his lips met mine. The first shock made me freeze for a heartbeat. Then instinct took over. My arms instinctively lifted slightly, my body leaning in, caught between confusion and the undeniable pull of the moment. Flash of camera everywhere. I couldn’t tell if this was just a strategic move, something he had to do, or if it was because he actually wanted this… wanted me. My mind spun, a chaotic mix of questions: Is this real? Does he… really want me? Or is it all for show? The flashbulbs exploded around us, white light and noise overwhelming my senses, but the kiss kept me anchored. It was intense, yet controlled. I could feel the warmth of his hands, the firm press of his body against mine. Every second stretched, making me lose myself in it, even as my brain screamed for answers I wasn’t ready to hear. “Hold hands! Another kiss! Move closer!” the paparazzi shouted, their voices distant in the haze of the moment. I barely noticed. I was caught in the collision of instinct and emotion, suspended between disbelief and the surprising comfort of his presence.

Finally, he broke the kiss, taking my hand and guiding me to a quieter corner, away from the cameras. My knees were weak, my thoughts scrambled, and I whispered, “What… what was that? Why… why did you do that?” Haymitch looked at me, calm but intense, eyes searching mine. “You don’t understand. If you don’t show up publicly with someone official, the Capitol will see you as… disposable. That sponsor didn’t have good intentions. And… I also really wanted to kiss you.” I blinked, still processing. My heart thudded painfully in my chest, a strange mix of relief, confusion, and… something I couldn’t name. Part of me wanted to argue, part of me wanted to melt into the warmth he offered. But I stayed quiet, letting the realization settle: for once, I felt like someone had my back. And that someone was him.

I took a shaky breath, still holding his hand as we leaned against the quiet corner. The chaos of the cameras felt miles away, replaced by the steady thrum of our own heartbeats. My voice was barely above a whisper. “I… I missed this,” I said. “Being… with you. Like this.”

He didn’t answer at first. He just looked at me, eyes narrowing slightly as if he were weighing my words. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, he squeezed my hand. “Me too,” he said, his tone low, gruff, but there was something soft buried underneath, something I hadn’t heard in years. “More than you think.”

He let out a small, almost impatient sigh. “You know me,” he muttered. “I’m not good at… all this. Showing what I feel. Doesn’t mean I don’t care. Doesn’t mean I’m not… attached.” He took a deep breath, his eyes softening as he met mine. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… ignore you all those years. I just… I wanted to protect you. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t attached. Not for a second.” My chest tightened. “Yes… I understand. Don’t worry, I get it now,” I whispered, relief washing over me.

He let out a small sigh, like he was finally letting go of something heavy. “Good. Because I won’t let you go now. Not ever. I care about you… more than I probably should. But that’s just how it is.” I pressed my forehead against his, breathing in the faint scent of him, feeling the warmth that had been missing for so long. “It’s… it’s been too long,” I murmured. “Yeah,” he said quietly, lips twitching into that rare, faint smile I remembered. “It’s been too long. And I won’t let it happen again.”

The moment stretched between us, quiet but full, a fragile bubble of safety in the midst of everything else. Cameras flashed, the Capitol’s chaos pressed on the edges, but for the first time since the Games, it felt like nothing else mattered. We stepped back into the center of the Capitol crowd, still holding hands, the flashbulbs firing around us. The air buzzed with excitement, almost electric, as people began to cheer and clap.

“Oh my, that was adorable! When’s the wedding?” someone shouted, laughter trailing behind. “Another kiss, another kiss!” cried another, waving their hands wildly.

I looked up at Haymitch. He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath, clearly unimpressed, but I could see the faint twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Then, slowly, we noticed the figure at the edge of the crowd, stepping forward with that icy composure that made everyone fall silent just by his presence. President Snow.

He approached us, white-haired, sharp-eyed, the scent of his rose lingering faintly in the air. He gave a small, polite nod. “Congratulations on your victory, Miss,” he said smoothly, his voice calm, almost charming. “And congratulations to you, Mr. Abernathy, on your… reunion. Much happiness. Enjoy your return home.”

I felt the behind his words before I even registered it consciously a subtle but unmistakable pressure, like the quiet heat of a snake coiling nearby. Haymitch’s grip on my hand tightened slightly, and I could see his jaw set as he studied Snow. I squeezed his hand back, aware that beneath the smiles and congratulations, there was something dangerous simmering, something the Capitol always had waiting, just out of sight.

As Snow stepped away, the applause and chatter of the Capitol crowd swirled around us, but I barely heard it. My heart was still racing from that cold, heavy weight behind his words. Haymitch leaned closer, his voice low, just at my ear. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you Sweetheart. Everything’s going to be fine.” I blinked up at him, still shaken, and he gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. His gaze scanned the crowd, sharp and protective, and I felt a small warmth spread through me despite the lingering fear.

The threat of Snow’s presence, the faint pressure of danger that had been hiding behind his polite congratulations, still lingered in the back of my mind. But with Haymitch there, steady and close, I let myself breathe a little. Maybe for the first time since the Games, I could feel… safe.

Part 05 : The aftermath

The train back to District 12 felt almost unreal to me. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the tracks, which had once felt like an endless countdown to death, now carried me home. Every familiar landmark brought a wave of relief, guilt, and exhaustion crashing over me. The Games were over. I had survived. But surviving didn’t erase the memories, the losses, or the scars.

When I stepped onto the platform of District 12, the air smelled of coal, earth, and pine. My family was there, standing at a distance, cautious yet eager to embrace me. They hugged me, held me tight, whispered words I had longed to hear, and yet I could sense their fear. They had been through so much the Capitol had taken enough from them already. They didn’t want help from anyone, not even me. I respected that. It was their way of remaining strong, keeping their dignity alive. I smiled, nodded, and promised myself silently that I would honor their independence, even as I longed to hold them closer.

Soon after, I moved into the Victor Village. It wasn’t far from Haymitch, just a few meters away. In truth, I ended up living in his house with him. Our house was modest compared to the Capitol’s opulence, but it felt warm and safe, a quiet refuge after the storm. The walls carried our laughter, our arguments, our quiet moments of understanding. Every morning I woke up to the sight of him reading a newspaper or sipping coffee, and the ordinary became extraordinary simply because he was there.

We were close now, in a way we hadn’t been since childhood. The Games had separated us once, life had forced us apart, but now, finally, we were together. Our love was steady, built from trust, shared trauma, and mutual respect. There were no grand gestures or elaborate declarations, we didn’t need them. Instead, there were touches, quiet conversations at night, and a constant presence that neither of us had dared to hope for during the chaos of the Hunger Games.

Haymitch became my anchor. He accompanied me through the Victory Tour, every city, every district, every staged celebration. The cameras, the questions, it was exhausting, emotionally and physically but he never left my side. He watched me, guided me, and reminded me that it was okay to feel, to be scared, to be overwhelmed. He helped me confront nightmares that surfaced unexpectedly, fragments of past horrors, memories of friends lost and enemies killed.

And I became his anchor, too. I helped him through his own demons, the struggles with alcohol that sometimes still haunted him despite years of experience and victory. I didn’t judge; I simply stood beside him, offering strength, patience, and understanding. Slowly, together, we found balance. He learned to trust me not just as a companion but as a partner, someone who would challenge him, hold him accountable, and love him unconditionally.

Over time, we became inseparable. Our bond deepened with every shared meal, every quiet evening, every difficult day of the Victory Tour. I marveled at the strength it took for him to open up, at the gentleness hidden behind his gruff exterior. He always said he marveled at my resilience, my courage, and the way I had survived everything the world had thrown at me and yet had remained compassionate, strong, and unbroken.

The Victory Tour was grueling. Each district brought its own challenges, crowds, questions, emotional outbursts, and reminders of the Games’ violence. But through it all, Haymitch was there. When I faltered, when I saw memories I couldn’t bear, he held my hand. When old fears resurfaced, he whispered words of comfort and reminded me that I was safe. And I did the same for him, helping him manage the temptation of alcohol, guiding him through moments of guilt or despair, showing him that he wasn’t alone in carrying the weight of the past.

Eventually, we married. It wasn’t a Capitol-style ceremony. There were no cameras, no cheering crowds, no snow-white roses to signal status. Instead, it was quiet, intimate, and deeply personal. Just us, a few close friends, and the knowledge that we had earned this life together, after all the horrors we had endured. We promised to protect each other, to love each other, and to never let the Capitol or anyone else dictate our lives again.

The room was quiet except for the soft sound of our breathing. Moonlight spilled through the window, painting silver stripes across the bed where we lay tangled together. Our bodies were warm, hearts still racing from the tenderness and intimacy we had just shared, and for the first time, the world outside : its dangers, its chaos felt distant, almost impossible.

Haymitch traced lazy circles on my arm, his touch gentle, careful, as if I were made of glass. I rested my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and let myself melt into the quiet of the night.

“I can’t believe this,” I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath. “Us… here… finally.”

He smiled, a small, soft smile, his lips brushing against my hair. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured. “Not just tonight… everything. I’ve wanted you by my side.”

I tilted my head up to meet his gaze. Our eyes held the unspoken weight of everything we had survived together, the Games, the fear, the loss. And yet here we were, alive, together, unbroken.

“I love you,” I said finally, the words trembling but true.

“I love you like all fire,” he replied, his voice low, filled with warmth and certainty. “Every spark, every flame… it’s all for you.”

My fingers traced the line of his jaw, memorizing it, feeling the quiet strength behind the tenderness.

He shifted closer, taking my hand in his. “I never want to let you go… I want you here with me forever”

My heart skipped. I felt a flutter, a hope, a certainty I hadn’t dared to feel until now.

“Forever?” I whispered, my voice catching in my throat.

He nodded, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. “Yes. Forever. Marry me ?”

For a moment, the world held its breath. I could barely speak, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. “Yes… yes,” I said, a laugh of joy mingling with my tears. “Of course I will. I love you… I love you like all fire.”

He pressed his lips to mine, soft and slow, letting the moment stretch into eternity. “And I’ll love you like all fire, every day, every night. Always.”

We lay together, hands entwined, hearts beating as one, wrapped in a warmth that no Games, no Capitol, no darkness could ever touch. For the first time, we were not survivors. We were simply us together, unafraid, in love, finally home in each other’s arms.

Life in Victor Village settled into a rhythm. We lived side by side, sharing responsibilities, laughing at small things, and finding joy in simple moments. Sometimes, I would watch him from the kitchen while he read a book or poured a drink, careful, cautious, but always present, and feel a warmth spread through my chest. He was mine. I was his. And that was enough.

The threat of the Capitol never fully disappeared. Snow’s shadow lingered, a constant reminder that power could strike at any moment. Every interaction with sponsors, every public appearance, was carefully calculated. But with Haymitch at my side, I felt protected. We navigated the world cautiously, avoiding provocation, yet refusing to live in fear. Together, we reclaimed our lives, slowly and deliberately.

Through all of it, our relationship flourished. We learned to communicate, to forgive, to love openly. We found humor in small things, comfort in routine, and solace in each other’s presence. And slowly, the weight of the Games lessened, not gone, but manageable.

Years later, our life was quiet but full of meaning. We were deeply in love, living in the Victor Village in a home that was ours, near enough to our families to feel the connection but distant enough to maintain peace. I visited my family regularly, seeing them laugh and live independently, and each time I admired their courage and resilience. Haymitch and I continued to face the world together, side by side, never forgetting the lessons of the past, always aware that danger could be lurking, but confident in our ability to protect each other.