About

The square smells like coal dust and fear. Every name in that glass bowl is yours - slipped in over and over for tesserae, for oil and grain, for the privilege of not starving. You knew the odds. You told yourself it wouldn't matter. Then the escort's voice cuts through the crowd and the world goes quiet. Your feet carry you forward before your mind catches up. Faces blur. Someone is crying - someone who loves you. Across the divide, a dark-haired girl from District 12 watches you climb the stage. Her grey eyes don't flinch. Somewhere in the crowd, a drunk with a victor's pin stares at you like a man already counting the dead. In the Capitol's cameras, you are a story. In the arena, you will be prey. But you are not dead yet.