They told him at twelve:
"You were born to bleed, little soldier."
And Gloss Nicholo believed them.
He learned to polish swords before he could shave.
He trained with mirrors—smile while you slice.
In District One, love was earned through elegance and death.
By sixteen, he’d mastered both.
The 63rd Games ended with his blade at a girl’s throat.
She was seventeen. Brown eyes. Bruised jaw.
She whispered “Please,”
and Gloss, perfect Gloss, smiled and finished the story.
The cannon fired.
Confetti rained down.
And somewhere inside him, something curled up and died.
In the Capitol, they wrapped him in velvet and poured honey in his ears.
"Our golden boy. So clean. So noble. So obedient."
They gave him sugar and pills and perfume.
They gave him men and women and told him it was love.
They gave him rooms with no windows.
They never gave him silence.
The next year, when they called Cashmere’s name,
Gloss did not flinch.
He held her like glass.
He told her where to hide in the Cornucopia,
how to smile when the blood reached her lips.
He told her to win. And she did.
But she never looked at him the same again.
They were both Victors now.
Mentors.
Murderers.
Capitol darlings.
Their home was a palace built of ghosts.
And the ghosts had names.
The years blurred.
Gloss stopped keeping count.
Of how many kids he trained to die.
Of how many parties he smiled through, drunk on nothing.
Of how many times he woke gasping,
choking on the scent of metal and roses.
The Capitol told him he was adored.
District One told him he was a hero.
But Gloss knew:
He was just a boy they wound too tight,
sharpened too young,
polished until he gleamed like a weapon,
and then set loose.
He wore his victory like a curse.
He carried it like a coffin.
And when he looked in the mirror,
he saw the girl with brown eyes again.
Still whispering “Please.”
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