Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air in District 1 was heavy with the scent of freshly polished marble and the faint tang of ozone. The grand square was transformed into a stage for spectacle, draped in banners of gold and silver, as if the Capitol needed to remind them of their opulence. Children whispered anxiously, their voices drowned by the humming cameras stationed at every angle. For the citizens of District 1, this was a day of pride cloaked in dread.

Mikage Reo stood among the crowd, his posture stiff and unmoving. He wore a suit tailored to perfection, its fabric shimmering faintly under the harsh sunlight. His parents had insisted on it. Of course, they had. Everything about him was just a reflection of the Mikage family: perfect, pristine, and cold.

"Stand tall, Reo," his mother had said that morning as she adjusted his collar. Her hands were steady, her voice sharp. "This is your day."

Reo hadn’t responded. He didn’t need to. His role was clear, the perfect son, the flawless tribute, the weapon his parents had crafted from birth. He stared ahead, the voices around him dissolving into meaningless noise. But beneath his calm exterior, his mind churned with thoughts he could never voice.

He was strong but not bulky, his lean frame the result of years of relentless training. Yet despite his physique, he felt fragile. The weight of expectation pressed against his chest, heavier than any weapon he had ever wielded. Growing up in luxury, he had always gotten what he wanted. Toys, clothes, tutors—everything had been handed to him on a silver platter. Nothing appealed to him anymore. There was no joy in indulgence, only a hollow monotony.

The Hunger Games disgusted him. He had always thought the concept cruel, a sickening spectacle where children were paraded and slaughtered for the Capitol's entertainment. Reo hadn’t been alive during the war; none of them had. Why were they still paying for sins they hadn’t committed? The Capitol’s obsession with control sickened him.

And now, here he was, a pawn in their twisted game. He didn’t want to participate. The thought of stepping into the arena, of being forced to kill, made his stomach churn. But he had no choice. His parents needed him to maintain their reputation. The Mikage name had to shine brighter than ever, and Reo was the vessel for their ambition.

He clenched his fists, the fine fabric of his suit bunching slightly under the strain. His jaw tightened as he swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat. To the crowd, he was calm and composed, the epitome of District 1’s pride. Inside, he was anything but.

When the escort finally stepped onto the stage, their overly cheerful voice cutting through the tension, Reo barely reacted. He was too busy suppressing the storm raging within him. This wasn’t his moment—it was his sentence.

Across Panem, in the crumbling remnants of District 12, the atmosphere was starkly different. The square was silent, save for the occasional murmur or shuffle of coal-dusted boots. A sea of muted grays and blacks filled the space, the people looking more like shadows than individuals.

Nagi Seishirou stood off to the side, his silver hair catching the dim light. He was tall for his age, with a perpetual slouch that made him seem like he might collapse at any moment. His eyes, lazy and half-lidded, swept across the crowd with detached curiosity. He wasn’t nervous; he wasn’t anything, really.

Next to him, a boy fidgeted nervously. Nagi recognized him in the vaguest sense—the blacksmith’s son. What was his name again? Yomichi? Isami?  It didn’t matter. Nagi only knew that the boy’s family was better off than most in District 12. He’d seen him around, clean and relatively well-fed compared to the rest of them. Now, the boy mumbled under his breath, glancing around like he was searching for an escape route.

Nagi didn’t bother engaging. The hunger gnawing at his stomach had dulled to a familiar ache days ago. He hadn’t eaten in a while—maybe three, four days? It was hard to keep track. Food wasn’t a guarantee for someone like him, and work in the mines wasn’t exactly lucrative when you were constantly scolded for slacking off.

“Lazy brat,” his supervisor had called him just yesterday. Nagi had shrugged it off. He didn’t see the point in exhausting himself when the effort hardly changed anything. Whether it was in the mines or out here in the square, life in District 12 was the same—gray, bleak, and endless.

The mayor’s voice droned on in the background, something about the dark days, the creation of the Hunger Games, and the honor of participating. Nagi didn’t listen. None of it mattered. The Games were just another way to die. Whether it was starvation, the mines, or the arena, the end result would be the same. If he got reaped, so be it. He didn’t have any reason to care, no reason to fight, no reason to live.

The warm breeze teased the edges of his silver hair, momentarily drawing his attention. He glanced up at the sky, a patchy blue dotted with clouds. It seemed so far away, unreachable, just like everything else.

“Now,” the escort announced, their Capitol accent cutting sharply through the air, “it’s time to select our tributes for this year’s Hunger Games: the Fifth Quarter Quell.”

Nagi’s gaze shifted lazily back to the stage, his hands tucked into his pockets. The crowd seemed to hold its breath, but he felt nothing. This was just another day, another inevitability. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t hopeful. He was just… there.

In District 1, the crowd grew silent as the escort, a woman draped in a shimmering gown that looked like liquid gold, approached the glass bowl. She dipped her hand inside, her long, glittering nails clinking softly against the paper slips.

She smiled, her voice saccharine as she began, “The first tribute is—”

“I volunteer as tribute.”

The words cut through the air before she could even finish. All eyes turned to Mikage Reo, his hand raised high, his face a mask of calm determination. There was no gasp of surprise, no murmur of protest. Everyone had known this moment was inevitable. Reo was the highest-ranked boy in the District 1 training facility, the pride of their system.

He stepped forward without hesitation. His steps were measured, purposeful, each one a reminder of the weight he carried. The camera zoomed in on his face, capturing the perfect smile he had rehearsed a thousand times. Inside, he felt nothing. Just the familiar, cold emptiness that had been his constant companion for years.

The escort, unfazed, turned back to the bowl to draw the second name. As soon as her hand pulled out the slip, a voice rang out from the crowd.

“I volunteer as tribute.”

Michael Kaiser. He didn’t just walk through the crowd; he prowled, his movements deliberate and filled with a confidence so profound it bordered on arrogance. The blue-tipped ends of his blonde hair swayed with each step, catching the light like a beacon. His smirk, sharp and knowing, spoke volumes: he wasn’t just stepping forward to compete—he was stepping forward to win.

Kaiser ascended the stage with the kind of ease that made it look like he owned it. His sapphire-blue eyes scanned the audience, drinking in their gazes, his posture practically daring them to doubt him. Every step, every motion, radiated an air of superiority, but somehow, that arrogance was magnetic, drawing everyone’s attention.

The two of them had trained together for years at the District 1 training facility, where ambition and privilege bred the Capitol’s best killers. Reo and Kaiser had always dominated the rankings, but in very different ways. Reo’s perfection was clinical and unyielding, while Kaiser’s arrogance fueled his unpredictability and flair. Together, they were a carefully crafted spectacle: the stoic weapon and the arrogant star.

Reo didn’t bother looking at Kaiser. He didn’t need to. He already knew what Kaiser was. A man who loved the spotlight almost as much as he loved winning.

The escort clapped her hands together, her voice dripping with excitement. “Oh, what a brilliant demonstration of District 1’s excellence! Mikage Reo and Michael Kaiser, our magnificent tributes for the Third Quarter Quell. Let’s give them a round of applause!”

The crowd erupted into polite cheers, though most faces remained stoic. Reo’s parents stood in the front row, their expressions unreadable but their pride evident in the slight tilt of their chins. Kaiser’s family, equally influential, stood with smirks as sharp as his own, basking in the glow of their son’s moment.

Reo’s gaze stayed fixed on the Capitol escort, ignoring the chaos around him. Kaiser, however, turned to the crowd, flashing a smug grin, his confidence swallowing the stage whole. If Reo was the perfect tribute, Kaiser was the perfect showman, but with claws and fangs.

In District 12, the square was silent except for the faint rustle of the wind. The escort, a woman named Anri, stood out like a splash of gaudy color against the muted gray of the crowd. Her pink hair was teased into elaborate curls, and her dress was an explosion of ruffles and bows that clashed violently with the stark simplicity of District 12. She smiled, her lips painted a bright fuchsia, and waved to the crowd as though expecting applause. None came.

Nagi Seishirou leaned lazily against a post at the edge of the square. He barely noticed her, just another Capitol puppet in ridiculous clothes. Her voice grated on him, high-pitched and theatrical as she recited the history of the Hunger Games and the rules of the reaping. Nagi didn’t care. He wasn’t really listening.

When she finally reached into the bowl and pulled out the first name, the tension in the square thickened.

“Yoichi Isagi.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from somewhere in the crowd. Nagi shifted his gaze to the boy beside him, who went pale as ash. Isagi’s lips parted, trembling slightly, and then he took a shaky step forward. He stumbled but caught himself, his head jerking up to look around as though someone might come to stop this.

“No,” a woman’s voice broke through the silence. Isagi’s mother. She pushed through the crowd, her face streaked with tears. “No, not my son. Please!”

Two Peacekeepers moved quickly to block her path, their batons held low but threatening. Isagi’s father gripped her shoulders, pulling her back. She sobbed openly, her cries echoing in the stillness.

Isagi stood frozen, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. “It’s okay,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “It’s okay.”

Nagi watched the scene unfold with detached curiosity. He barely knew Isagi, just the blacksmith’s son, someone he’d seen around but never really spoken to. It was strange, the way people cared so much. Nagi couldn’t imagine anyone crying for him. Not that he wanted them to. It seemed like too much effort for something pointless.

Anri’s cheerful voice broke through the commotion. “And now, for our second tribute!” She reached into the bowl again, her ridiculous nails clicking against the glass. She pulled out the slip and unfolded it with dramatic flair. “Nagi Seishirou.”

Nagi straightened slightly. He blinked, then sighed, his shoulders slumping further. “What a pain” he muttered to himself.

The crowd shifted uncomfortably. A few people sent him sympathetic glances, but most quickly looked away, as if acknowledging him might curse their own luck. Nagi didn’t mind. He stepped forward, his movements unhurried and indifferent, as though he were heading to the mines for another day of half-hearted work.

Anri beamed at him as he climbed onto the stage. “Our brave tributes, Yoichi Isagi and Nagi Seishirou!” she exclaimed, gesturing dramatically to the boys.

Isagi stood rigid, his face a mask of barely concealed fear. Nagi stood beside him, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable. He glanced at Anri, her too-bright smile and garish outfit, and felt a flicker of annoyance. She looked ridiculous, like a doll someone had over decorated and placed in the middle of a coal pile.

As the tributes from each district were gathered onto their respective stages, the Capitol’s anthem blared through speakers, a cacophony of triumph and control. The notes swelled and boomed, reverberating across Panem, a constant reminder of their condemnation masked as celebration.

In District 1, Reo and Michael Kaiser stood side by side, their contrasts striking. Reo was the picture of composure: sharp suit pressed to perfection, golden cufflinks gleaming, and a posture that seemed to defy the weight of the moment. His calm demeanor radiated confidence, like a sculpture coming to life, calculated, flawless, and untouchable.

Beside him, Michael Kaiser commanded attention in his own way. Dressed in a suit tailored just as finely but with bold details—electric blue accents and a silk handkerchief tucked jauntily into his pocket—Kaiser’s presence was impossible to ignore. His long blond hair, tipped with streaks of blue, swayed in the light breeze, a deliberate choice to stand out. He exuded a smug charm, his smirk a permanent fixture, as if he already knew he was the Capitol’s favorite before the Games had even begun.

The two tributes made a striking pair, opposites in every way. Where Reo’s strength was in his precision and quiet intensity, Kaiser radiated charisma and flair, his arrogance a magnet for both admiration and irritation.

Reo barely noticed the anthem or the cheers. His mind was already calculating: the alliances he’d need to form, the threats he’d face, and the weapons he’d rely on. Years of archery lessons, combat drills, and psychological conditioning had honed him into a perfect tribute. But beneath the mask of composure, he felt the familiar pang of resentment.

His parents’ faces shone in the crowd, their pride practically beaming through the sea of polished faces. To them, this was a victory—a culmination of years of careful planning, another stepping stone in the Mikage family’s relentless pursuit of power and prestige. Reo looked away. He didn’t want to meet their eyes. Not now, not ever.

Kaiser, on the other hand, thrived in the attention. His gaze scanned the crowd, soaking in their admiration like a sunbather absorbing rays. When his eyes met the Capitol’s cameras, he gave a slight tilt of his head, his smirk deepening. The crowd erupted in applause, enchanted by his arrogance masquerading as charm.

“Smile a little, Mikage,” Kaiser said under his breath, his tone teasing but sharp. “The Capitol loves a good show. You wouldn’t want them thinking you’re boring, would you?”

Reo turned his head just enough to meet Kaiser’s gaze, his expression carefully neutral. Indulge him, Reo thought, the mantra echoing in his mind. Play along, just enough to keep him close and off guard. This is survival, not friendship.

“You seem to have the theatrics covered,” Reo replied, his voice smooth and measured.

Kaiser chuckled, the sound rich and self-assured. “Of course I do. But you’ve got your role to play, too. Capitol loves a dynamic duo. They eat that up.”

Reo’s lips quirked in the faintest smile, a rehearsed expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll do my best not to disappoint.”

Meanwhile, in District 12, Nagi and Isagi were far less composed. Isagi’s knuckles were white as he clenched his fists, his jaw set in grim determination. Nagi, on the other hand, swayed slightly where he stood, as though the effort of remaining upright was almost too much.

The escort prattled on about honor and sacrifice, but Nagi’s thoughts drifted. He was already tired, and the Games hadn’t even started. His mind wandered to mundane things—what the food on the train would taste like, whether he could sneak a nap during the journey. He didn’t think about winning or losing. He didn’t think about the Capitol.

What’s the point? he thought absently, his gaze flicking to the edge of the crowd where a group of children watched with wide, frightened eyes. He felt a flicker of something—a pang of guilt, maybe—but it was gone as quickly as it came.

When the ceremony ended, the tributes were whisked away, their fates sealed. The Capitol’s reach extended beyond the borders of their districts, pulling them into a world where survival meant sacrifice, and victory came at an unthinkable cost.

Back in District 1, Reo sat stiffly in a plush chair, the opulence of the farewell room doing little to ease his discomfort. The walls were lined with ornate gold detailing, and a chandelier hung above him, its crystals shimmering like the Capitol’s mocking promise of wealth and glory. The air was heavy with the scent of roses, an overbearing reminder of the Capitol’s decadence.

His parents entered, their movements precise and deliberate, like actors stepping onto a stage. Their faces were masks of pride and determination, not a hint of fear or doubt to be seen. His father, a tall man with a severe expression and perfectly combed silver hair, strode forward first.

“You know what to do,” his father said, his voice clipped and businesslike, the tone he always used when issuing orders. “You’ve trained for this. Failure is not an option.”

Reo nodded mechanically, his response ingrained from years of similar exchanges. He knew better than to argue. Arguing never changed anything, it only prolonged the inevitable lecture about expectations and duty.

His mother, draped in an elegant dress that matched the District’s opulence, stepped closer. Her hand found his shoulder, her grip firm but not comforting. She didn’t lean down or soften her voice; that wasn’t her way. “Make us proud,” she said, her tone both an encouragement and a warning.

Neither of them lingered. They turned almost in unison and left the room, the door closing behind them with a soft click.

The silence that followed was deafening. Reo exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging for just a moment. He allowed the mask to slip, and in the solitude of the farewell room, the weariness in his eyes was undeniable.

He reached for the edges of the chair, gripping the armrests tightly as if grounding himself. His gaze fell to the floor, where a reflection of the chandelier wavered on the polished tiles. The light looked distorted, as fractured as he felt inside.

But the moment passed. He straightened his back, lifted his chin, and drew a deep breath. The facade of composure, polished to perfection through years of practice, slid back into place.

Reo rose to his feet, brushing an invisible wrinkle from his suit. He turned toward the door, his steps measured and deliberate as he prepared to face the Capitol’s spectacle.

In District 12, the atmosphere was far less rigid. Isagi’s family crowded around him, their faces pale and tear-streaked. Nagi, on the other hand, sat alone. Nagi’s gaze drifted over the crowd, stopping briefly on a small figure near the back. It was a child he vaguely recognized from the mines, her wide eyes fixed on him. She stepped forward hesitantly and held out something shiny. A locket. It looked heavy, the intricate design of a strange bird etched into its surface.

Nagi took it without a word, slipping it into his pocket. The child’s small hand lingered for a moment before she stepped back into the crowd and went off to her parents. He didn’t know why she'd given it to him, but it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be coming back to return it anyway.

When the guards came to take them to the train, Nagi followed without resistance. Isagi lingered, his mother clinging to him until the Peacekeepers pulled her away.

As the train pulled out of the station, District 12 faded into the distance, replaced by the endless horizon. Nagi leaned against the window, his gaze unfocused.

The Hunger Games were waiting. But for now, all he wanted was sleep.

Chapter Text

The steady hum of the train filled the room, an ever-present reminder of the journey toward the Capitol and the looming Games. District 12’s train, though modest by Capitol standards, was a realm of excess and luxury compared to the grim realities of the Seam. Plush velvet seats, polished wood tables, and glass chandeliers adorned the dining car. The table groaned under the weight of lavish platters, golden loaves of bread, glistening roasted meats, vibrant fruits, and decadent cakes that seemed more like sculptures than food.

Nagi sat slouched in his chair, a loaf of bread in his hand. He wasn’t eating, only tearing it apart bit by bit, the pieces collecting into a mound on his plate. The aroma of roasted meats and spiced fruits filled the room, but it didn’t stir his appetite. What was the point of all this? All this food, enough to feed District 12 for weeks, just laid out for two kids and their creepy mentor. A feast for a slaughter.

He tore another chunk of bread, watching it fall onto the growing pile. The Capitol really thought they could solve everything with luxury, didn’t they? Slap some gold on a death train, pile the table with food most of Panem could only dream about, and act like this wasn’t all leading to a bloodbath. His lip curled in faint disgust. The Seam’s kids, kids like him and Isagi, don’t even get enough to eat, but here we are, drowning in this circus.

His gaze wandered across the room, lingering on the gaudy chandeliers and their ridiculous sparkling crystals, the table groaning under the weight of wasteful indulgence, and Anri’s overly bright dress that hurt to look at for too long. It’s all so fake. No one cares if you eat or starve as long as you look pretty while dying. He shifted in his seat, his fingers tightening briefly around the loaf before he tore another piece.

I should throw it all. Toss the roast, the bread, the cakes, just smash it everywhere and let them choke on the waste. Let them clean up their stupid mess, or better yet, let the strangely dressed escort slip on the gravy and break her neck. The thought was darkly satisfying, but he sighed and slouched further into his seat. Too much effort. Cleaning up would probably fall to me anyway.

Nagi leaned back, letting his gaze settle on the blur of the passing trees outside the window. This was all so annoying. The Capitol, the Games, the stupid food. Every bit of it, just another thing to endure. He picked at the bread again, absently piling another piece on the mound. At least this way, no one can say I didn’t touch it.

Across from him, Isagi shifted awkwardly in his seat, glancing between the food and Anri. “It’s… a lot,” Isagi murmured, his voice small. Nagi knew he was thinking the same thing as him. That was something most district folk had in common.

“Oh, sweetie!” Anri cooed, crouching slightly to meet Isagi’s eyes. Her pink ruffles shimmered with every movement, making her look more like an absurd exotic bird than comforting. “I know it’s overwhelming, but you need to eat! You’ll need all your strength for the Games, you know. This is Capitol-quality food. Nothing like what you’ve had before. Try the soup! It’s made with real golden carrots.”

Isagi hesitated, lifting a spoonful of soup to his mouth. He sipped it slow, like he was trying to make it last. Nagi’s eyes drifted to the cakes stacked high with frosting at the center of the table. Each one looked like it’d taken hours to decorate, shiny and perfect. His gaze shifted to the ridiculous pile of vegetables beside them. Golden carrots.

Who even thinks of stuff like that? he wondered idly. Carrots are carrots. Making them gold doesn’t change how they taste. Probably doesn’t even taste good. Too fancy.

He picked up a roll and pulled it apart, the soft bread crumbling easily in his fingers. He wasn’t eating, just tearing it to pieces bit by bit. The pile of crumbs on his plate grew, but he didn’t care. All this food, and no one’s even touching it. Guess it’s not meant to be eaten. Just looked at. Capitol types must like it that way. Probably can’t tell real food from decorations.

Isagi’s spoon clinked against his bowl as he went in for another careful sip, his movements quiet but tense. Nagi glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He’s really making a meal out of it. Soup’s just soup, though. Nothing to get worked up over.

Nagi leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze drift to the window. Trees blurred past, the landscape rolling on and on. It was almost hypnotic. He tapped his fingers lazily against the armrest, his thoughts meandering without much focus. How much food’s on this train? Enough to feed a whole district for weeks, probably. And here it all is, sitting around. Bet most of it’s getting tossed by the end of the day. He shifted slightly, letting out a soft breath. What a waste. Not my problem though.

His eyes wandered back to the golden carrots. They’d probably laugh if you put a normal carrot in front of them. Like it wasn’t good enough. Bet these ones don’t even taste like anything. Just shine for the sake of shining.

He rested his chin in his hand, the half-dismantled roll still in his other. He wasn’t angry, it was too much of a hassle to get worked up. It just all seemed…stupid. But getting in a tizzy over it would take effort, and he wasn’t about to waste energy on something that wouldn’t change. Instead, he just stared at the table, eyes half-lidded, letting the train’s steady hum carry his thoughts somewhere else.

The sound of the door sliding open interrupted his thoughts. Jinpachi Ego entered, his thin frame almost swallowed by the room’s extravagance. His unkempt hair and baggy clothing looked entirely out of place against the Capitol’s polished backdrop. He adjusted his glasses with a deliberate motion, his sharp gaze immediately dissecting the boys before him.

Nagi vaguely remembered watching Ego’s Games on a flickering TV in the corner of a crowded District 12 bar. It was over a decade ago, back when Nagi cared just enough to look at the screen during the Victory Tour broadcasts. Ego had been scrawny then too, his disheveled hair and sharp features standing out amidst the burly tributes of that year’s pool, but he had been younger and less experienced. But then again nothing can really prepare you for the arena.

He hadn’t won with brute strength or alliances. No, Ego’s victory had come through calculated cruelty. He’d abandoned his district partner in the early hours, leaving her to fend off a pack of Career tributes while he laid traps around the Cornucopia. The finale was infamous, he lured the last three tributes into an explosive snare, killing two outright and finishing the third with a crossbow while they writhed in the dirt.

Yikes, Nagi thought flatly, the memory faint but clear enough to leave an impression. He wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or horrified. Either way, it was too much effort to care. Although Nagi supposes he shouldn't judge. He was a child fighting to the death in an arena, just like every other victor.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Ego began, his voice sharp and cutting, his lips curling into a sneer. “What’s some scrawny, grease-stained nobody who hasn’t seen a vegetable in ten years supposed to teach you about surviving the Hunger Games?” He paused, pushing his glasses up his nose with a finger. “Let me save you the trouble: I’m not here to teach you survival. That’s for weaklings clinging to life like parasites.”

He leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “What I can teach you is how to win. Because survival? That’s temporary. Winning? That makes you immortal.”

Isagi straightened, his eyes narrowing with curiosity. “Winning is survival,” he said cautiously.

Ego’s smirk deepened. “Wrong. Survival is scraping by, clinging to life out of fear. Winning is crushing everyone else under your heel and walking away with your name carved in history. There’s a difference.” He gestured toward Isagi. “You. You look desperate. That’s good. Desperation can be molded into something useful.”

Isagi’s mouth opened and closed, unsure how to respond. “But… isn’t teamwork important?” he tried, his voice faltering. “What about alliances? They could—”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Ego interrupted with a dismissive wave. “Sure, make alliances. Hold hands with the strongest, cleverest, prettiest tributes. Trust them with your life. Then watch how fast they slit your throat when it’s convenient. Alliances are lies. You want to live? In the area you have an egoist. You have to care about no one but yourself, then only will you be capable of making it out alive! No one in that arena is your friend.”

Isagi’s face flushed. “But—”

“Everyone’s going to die except one person,” Ego continued, his tone merciless. “So stop pretending you’re in this for camaraderie and start thinking about how to be that one person.”

Isagi slammed his hand on the table, startling Anri, who had been carefully nibbling at a pastry. “You’re supposed to be our mentor! Tell us how to live, damn it! Do your stupid job! I need to live!”

The room fell silent. Ego didn’t flinch. Instead, he adjusted his glasses again, his smirk sharpening. “Finally,” he murmured. “There might be hope for District 12 after all. You’re starting to get it. The rest of them will be trying to survive. You, diamond in the rough, will win. Or you’ll die trying.”

After Ego finally left the room, his words lingering like a storm cloud, Anri attempted to step into the silence with her signature Capitol optimism. She adjusted the folds of her shimmering dress and cleared her throat, her voice a lilting contrast to Ego’s harshness.

“Well, now that he’s finished with all that... intensity,” she began, her tone almost scolding, “let’s talk about something equally important, if not more! How to actually get people to root for you. Sponsors, boys. That’s where the real help comes from.”

Isagi, who had been frowning at the table, snapped his gaze toward her. “Sponsors? How do we get them? Is there something we should be doing now? Techniques to show we’re worth their investment?”

Anri blinked, momentarily startled by his directness, but quickly regained her Capitol composure. “Oh, well,” she said with a small laugh, “it’s not just about skills or fighting prowess. The Capitol audience isn’t looking for another brute with a sword. They want stories, charisma, and personality! You have to make them like you. Or fear you. Either works, honestly.”

Isagi’s frown deepened. “That doesn’t help us survive. What are we supposed to do with ‘likeability’ when someone’s coming at us with a spear?”

Nagi, meanwhile, continued staring out the window, tuning out most of the conversation. He didn’t care about Isagi’s desperation or Anri’s Capitol-colored pep talk. 

“Oh, don’t be so cynical,” Anri chirped, waving a manicured hand dismissively. “Sponsors can send you food, medicine, and weapons. Whatever you might need. But they won’t spend their hard-earned Capitol credits on just anyone. You need to stand out! That’s what your interview is for. You need to captivate them.”

“Captivate them?” Isagi repeated, disbelief creeping into his voice. “We’re supposed to be fighting for our lives, not putting on a show.”

Anri smiled, her teeth gleaming as she leaned forward conspiratorially. “Oh, darling, the Games are a show. That’s the entire point. Survival is only half the battle; the rest is making sure they remember your name.”

Nagi finally glanced her way, her words pulling his attention despite himself. He didn’t like the idea of parading around like a performing monkey, but he couldn’t deny the logic. Still, the thought of putting in that much effort just to please people he didn’t care about felt... annoying.

Anri seemed to sense his gaze and turned her overly bright smile on him. “And you, Nagi?” she asked, sidling closer. “Aren’t you excited? There are some very interesting tributes this year! Oh, like that boy from District 8, what’s his name? Bachira? He’s so lively, like a little bee buzzing around. And of course, the volunteers from District 1! Mikage Reo and Michael Kaiser. What a pair!” She giggled. “But I’m sure you can beat them easily.”

“Mikage Reo,” Nagi repeated softly, the name catching in his mind. His thoughts snagged on it like a burr on fabric. Reo. The rich guy’s kid, right? Must be nice, volunteering just to show off. Why would you even want to do that? That’s so stupid. What a pain.

“Nagi?” Anri prompted, her smile faltering as she tried to gauge his reaction.

“Mm,” he replied with a noncommittal grunt, brushing her off.

Isagi looked between the two of them before turning his focus back on Anri. “So we have to impress people? Great. And what’s your plan to make that happen?”

“Well,” Anri began, clasping her hands dramatically, “you boys both have your.. unique charms. Nagi, your,, erm... mysteriousness is intriguing, and Isagi, your passion will resonate with people. We just need to polish your presentations a bit.”

Isagi groaned, clearly unimpressed, while Nagi let his gaze drift back to the window. The train continued its journey, the Capitol growing closer with every passing second. The tension in the car was thick, the looming Games casting long shadows over them all.

The train continued its journey, the Capitol growing closer with every passing second. The tension in the car was thick, the looming Games casting long shadows over them all.

The dining car glimmered with the kind of over-the-top luxury only the Capitol could create, gold-rimmed plates, crystalline chandeliers, and silk-upholstered chairs that seemed too extravagant for anything as ordinary as sitting. Reo pushed his food around on the plate, his appetite absent despite the feast before him. Across the table, Kaiser tore through the meal like he hadn’t eaten in days.

“You’re seriously not going to eat?” Kaiser asked, licking his fingers clean after finishing a golden roast quail. “Suit yourself, Mikage. But don’t come crying to me when you’re starving in the arena.”

Reo didn’t bother responding, his fork spearing a glossy carrot with just enough force to vent his frustration. This whole setup, the meal, the Capitol’s false generosity, Kaiser’s smug attitude, was grating on him.

The doors to the car opened with a flourish, and their escort swept in like she owned the place. Her gown was a dazzling concoction of golden fabric and jewels that glittered with every movement, her hair styled high and adorned with delicate chains. Even her voice carried an air of theatricality, like she was hosting a Capitol broadcast rather than addressing two tributes who volunteered to fight 23 other human beings in an arena to the death.

“Gentlemen,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Allow me to introduce you to your mentors!” She paused dramatically, her jeweled bracelets jingling as she gestured to the door. “First, the ruthless victor who clawed his way to glory with sheer cunning and selfish strength, Noel Noa himself!!”

Noa entered without theatrics. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark coat plain yet somehow more commanding than any Capitol finery. His sharp eyes swept over Reo and Kaiser, and for a moment, the entire car seemed to grow colder.

“And,” the escort continued, her voice lifting with excitement, “the Capitol’s sweetheart, the dazzling victor whose charm captivated millions, the one, the only Chris Prince!”

Chris walked in with a warm smile and a fluid grace that drew every eye. His tailored suit gleamed under the chandeliers, perfectly cut to accentuate his athletic frame. The contrast between him and Noa couldn’t have been more striking, where Noa’s presence was sharp and intimidating, Chris radiated an effortless charm and approachability.

The escort stepped back, her arms spread theatrically. “Now, our esteemed mentors will choose their tributes!” She beamed at them, clearly proud of this Capitol twist to the usual system.

Noa’s gaze flicked between Reo and Kaiser, his expression unreadable. He walked toward Kaiser, his boots heavy against the polished floor. “You,” he said simply, the word carrying a weight that left no room for argument.

Kaiser grinned, clearly pleased by the selection. “Of course you’d pick me,” he said, standing with an almost arrogant confidence. “You’re a man who recognizes talent.”

Noa didn’t respond, gesturing for Kaiser to follow him. Without another word, the two exited the car, leaving Reo alone with Chris.

Chris took a seat across from Reo, his Capitol-perfect smile softening into something more sincere. “Reo Mikage,” he said, his voice smooth. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Reo inclined his head slightly, his posture poised and polite. “Likewise.”

Chris leaned back in his chair, studying Reo with a calm intensity. “You’ve got a lot of eyes on you already, you know. Mikage. That name carries weight in the Capitol.”

Chris’s smile remained polished, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something deeper, unease, or perhaps a carefully concealed warning. His gaze darted subtly around the gilded dining car, lingering briefly on the ornate ceiling and the shimmering chandeliers, where Capitol cameras surely hid behind crystal droplets, capturing every word.

“It’s curious, isn’t it?” Chris said, his tone light but carefully measured. “How much weight a name can carry. Expectations piling up like a mountain before the Games even begin.”

Reo leaned back smoothly in his seat, the easy confidence of someone born into privilege settling into his posture. “You already mentioned that weight. My parents’ name carries quite a legacy,” he said, his voice calm, charismatic. “I intend to live up to it. Besides,” he paused, flashing a wry smile “I’ve already volunteered. So here I am, headed straight into the Hunger Games.”

Chris’s eyes flicked to him, a shadow crossing his expression. “Volunteering,” he repeated softly, almost like a caution. “That takes a certain kind of resolve. Or perhaps… resignation.”

Reo’s smile didn’t falter. “Maybe both,” he replied smoothly. “But it’s necessary. Not every choice is made in freedom. Some are... inherited.”

Chris’s fingers tapped lightly on the polished table, the rhythm uneven, as if weighing each word before he spoke. “You know, the Capitol’s fascination with victors goes far beyond the arena. They don’t just win the Games, they win your image, your story, sometimes… more than you might expect.”

Reo’s eyes sharpened slightly but he gave nothing away. “Stories sell, don’t they? And I’m quite good at telling mine.”

Chris’s smile deepened, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “True. Charm is a powerful tool. It keeps the Capitol interested… and the crowds captivated.”

He leaned in just a fraction, lowering his voice. “But sometimes, winning means losing something else. The freedom to choose what you become after the cameras stop rolling. Some find themselves chained to roles far darker than any arena could offer.”

Reo held Chris’s gaze evenly, his voice cool and steady. “I’m aware of the price. But I didn’t come this far to back down. My path isn’t just about survival. It’s about legacy.”

Chris gave a small, almost wistful nod. “A legacy can be a gilded cage, Mikage. Beautiful from the outside. Heavy to carry inside.”

Reo’s lips curled into a sly smile, the kind that suggested he wasn’t easily rattled. “Isn’t your job to train me to win the Games?” he said, voice light but edged with amusement. “Because, honestly, you’re sounding an awful lot like you’re trying to talk me out of them.”

Chris chuckled softly, the tension easing just a bit as he nodded. “Fair enough. Let’s focus on what really matters then.” He leaned forward, eyes curious. “Tell me about your skills, Mikage. What’s your style in the arena?”

Reo’s gaze sharpened, the hint of a challenge flickering in his eyes. “I’m an all-rounder. Adaptable. Able to blend in or strike when the time’s right.” He paused, fingers drumming lightly on the table. “But my precision and preference are in the bow and arrow. I prefer long distance.”

He smirked slightly. “I also use chakrams and throwing knives. Those are my favorites for mid-range, although I’m comfortable with almost any weapon, really.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, impressed but not surprised. “And hand-to-hand? That’s often where many fall short.”

Reo shrugged with casual confidence. “I’m not where I want to be yet, if I’m honest. Not quite at my best in close combat, but still better than most. It’s something I’m working on.”

Chris nodded approvingly, the smile returning to his face. Then, almost as if pondering aloud, he said, “You know, there’s something fitting about your versatility. It reminds me of a chameleon, amazing creatures, really. They are suited to adaptability and change the colour of their scales based on their environment.” 

His eyes flicked back to Reo, a subtle challenge hidden in their depths. “In a world like this, being able to shift and change isn’t just useful… it’s necessary. But every change carries its own cost.”

Reo met the gaze steadily, unshaken. “Change’s price is better than standing still.”

Chris’s smile deepened, as if they both understood more than what was said.

The night had settled in, heavy and quiet, but Nagi wasn’t ready to sleep, not yet. The steady clack of the train wheels beneath them was the only soundtrack to the dimly lit compartment where the District 12 tributes were holed up. Ego’s harsh words still echoed in Nagi’s mind, the cold reminder that the Games were no place for friendship or mercy. Be selfish. Survive at all costs. The mantra was simple, but Nagi just didn’t feel like caring much.

Anri hovered nearby, her brightly painted lips curving into what she probably thought was an encouraging smile. “You really don’t want to talk? Just a little?” she asked, her tone soft but carrying that Capitol lilt, like she was offering comfort on a talk show rather than to a boy about to fight for his life.

He grunted in reply, a single word. “No.”

She sighed, the sound overly dramatic, like she’d been rehearsing it for an audience. “Alright, alright. But just remember,” she said, tilting her head slightly, her perfectly coiffed hair catching the light, “this is a team effort. You’re not in this alone. We’re all in this together.”

Nagi didn’t bother responding, watching her with his usual detached stare. It was almost funny how she could say that with a straight face. “Together,” in the Capitol’s language, meant “as long as it serves us.”

She probably thought she cared, with her soft eyes and cloying words, but Nagi knew better. Her loyalties lay firmly with the Capitol. Her painted nails, her sparkling gown, the intricate Capitol ideologies woven into every sentence she spoke. It all tied her to the very system that saw kids like him as entertainment. She couldn’t care. Not really.

As she stepped away, her heels clicking against the polished floor, Nagi let his gaze drift to the ornate ceiling. Anri might have tried to play the part of the caring escort, but beneath the façade, she was Capitol through and through.

When it came time to settle down, they were shown their sleeping quarters, fancy by District 12 standards, but still a Capitol luxury: a bunk bed with polished brass rails, thick blankets, and pillows that probably cost more than a month’s wages back home.

Nagi claimed the top bunk without a word, climbing up with the lazy grace of someone who didn’t care to negotiate.

Isagi’s eyes narrowed, crossing his arms with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey, top bunk’s mine. You know that, right?”

Nagi’s voice was flat, almost bored. “Didn’t say it was.”

Isagi grinned, nudging him playfully but with a spark of seriousness underneath. “Come on, Nagi. Don’t be a jerk. You’re not the only one who needs a good night’s rest.”

Nagi just stared up at the ceiling, dry as dust. “Not moving.”

The line hung in the air, simple and deadpan. Isagi’s grin faltered a bit, knowing this wasn’t the place for fights, not really. Still, he sat on the lower bunk with a sigh.

Nagi lay back, staring at the ceiling. A few days from now, he thought, and he’d be fighting for his life. Fighting to the death. But the idea was just... a hassle to think about. Like chores or bad weather. Something unavoidable but best ignored until it couldn’t be anymore.

He shut his eyes, letting the train’s hum lull him toward a restless sleep, one where survival was just another thing to tolerate.

Chris left the dining car with a polished goodbye, his footsteps fading into the distance. Reo leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he stared at the remnants of the untouched meal in front of him. The Capitol’s excess never failed to annoy him, but his expression betrayed nothing.

The door slid open again, and Kaiser strode in with his usual air of superiority. “Well,” Kaiser began, dropping into his chair like he owned the place, “Noa’s a man of few words, but I can tell he recognizes greatness when he sees it.”

Reo raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. “Oh? Did he knight you his successor already?”

Kaiser smirked, helping himself to a piece of bread. “Practically. You could learn a thing or two from him, like how to be decisive. You seem... too diplomatic for the arena.”

Reo didn’t rise to the bait. “And yet, here I am, still your competition.”

The escort swept in at that moment, her golden gown shimmering under the light. “Boys, enough bickering for tonight,” she said with a dramatic wave of her hand. “It’s bedtime. You need your beauty sleep if you’re going to dazzle the Capitol tomorrow.”

Reo gave her a polite nod, rising from his seat. Kaiser, meanwhile, rolled his eyes but followed without complaint. They were led to a suite with two separate beds, both draped in luxurious fabrics. A grand window overlooked the train’s path, the darkened landscape of Panem speeding by in a blur.

Kaiser flopped onto one bed, stretching out as if testing its worth. “This’ll do,” he muttered.

Reo sat on the edge of the other, his posture relaxed but attentive. He began unbuttoning his jacket, neatly folding it before placing it aside. The air between them was quiet for a moment until Kaiser broke the silence.

“Strategy,” Kaiser began, his tone brisk and authoritative. “You’ve seen the tributes. We’re looking at two types: threats and fodder. The volunteers from 2 and 4 will be tough, but I’m not worried about the rest.”

Reo hummed thoughtfully. “What about District 11 or 12?”

Kaiser waved a hand dismissively. “11 has a good tribute in what, every 5 years? And 12? Don't make me laugh. Forget them. Some lanky kid and his scrawny friend? Please. They’re practically corpses already.”

Reo chuckled lightly, his tone smooth and measured. “Confidence is one thing. Underestimating your opponents is another. Those ‘corpses’ could surprise you.”

Kaiser’s grin widened, unfazed. “Surprises don’t bother me. I’m always in control.”

Reo leaned back against the headboard, his gaze steady on Kaiser. “So, what’s your grand plan, Emperor?”

Kaiser sat up, his blue eyes gleaming with conviction. “We form alliances early, but only with people we can dominate. District 2 and 4, maybe, keeping the whole career pack thing. Then, when the time comes, we cut them loose. No room for sentiment.”

Reo nodded slowly, a faint smile playing at his lips. “Cold and calculated. Fitting.”

Kaiser tilted his head, his gaze narrowing. “What about you? You’ve got charm, Mikage, I’ll give you that. But charm doesn’t kill.”

Reo leaned forward slightly, his voice soft but firm. “Charm gets you allies. Allies can be turned into shields. Tools. Weapons. Every piece has its place in the game.”

Kaiser chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re more cutthroat than you let on. I like it.”

Reo smiled, reclining back onto the bed. “I aim to please.”

The two fell into silence, the faint hum of the train filling the room. Kaiser eventually drifted off, his breathing evening out. Reo stayed awake a little longer, his mind replaying Chris’s words from earlier. Winning wasn’t just about survival—it was about what came after. The Capitol never gave anything for free. And that was a truth Reo Mikage couldn’t afford to forget.

He closed his eyes, letting exhaustion take over. Tomorrow, the Capitol awaited, and the real games were just beginning.

Chapter Text

The train began to slow, the soft screech of the brakes like the winding down of a beast being dragged to slaughter. Inside the luxury car, the walls shimmered gold in the dim light, but the atmosphere had dimmed into something colder. Quieter.

Reo sat by the window, his cheek resting on the back of his hand as the Capitol skyline drew closer through the glass. Spires of chrome and glass stabbed into the clouds like needles, surrounded by screens already displaying teaser shots of the arriving tributes. His own face stared back at him in perfect HD—sharp, poised, unreal. He watched it flicker across a building like a billboard warning.

That’s not me, he thought.

Chris Prince sat across from Reo with a wine glass in hand. Not that he seemed interested in drinking it. He gave a small, polished smile and gestured lazily at the untouched spread between them.

“You know,” he said, voice light and practiced, “half the Games is about keeping people watching. The more eyes on you, the more help you’ll get. Sponsors love a story. Make them fall for you, root for you, cry over you. But not too much.”

Reo raised an eyebrow, resting his chin in his hand. “Too much?”

Chris’s smile twitched knowingly. “Tragedy has its limits. You want them invested, not uncomfortable. The Capitol doesn’t like reminders that this is a bloodbath. They prefer charm with their violence.”

Reo leaned back, twirling his fork between his fingers. “So I smile, give them a nice sob story, and make dying look elegant?”

“Exactly,” Chris said, eyes glinting. “You’ve already got the look. That face of yours is going to make a lot of people very loyal very quickly. Use it. Just don’t let them think they own you completely. A little mystery keeps the audience hungry.”

Reo laughed softly, the sound smooth but dry. “I’ve been keeping people at arm’s length since I was five. That won’t be a problem.”

Chris tilted his head, studying him for a moment. “Careful with that. The Capitol’s always reaching for more than you think. A foot in the door can turn into chains if you’re not watching.”

Reo’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes cooled. “I can handle a leash. I’ve worn one before. Name like mine. Comes with a collar.”

Chris nodded slightly, then smoothly changed gears. “I know we went over this but tell me again, weapons? What’s your preference?”

Reo exhaled, grateful for the shift, eager to repeat himself. “Bow and arrow. I like to keep my distance. Throwing knives and chakrams for mid-range. I’m fast, accurate. Adaptable.”

Chris’s eyes lit up. “Ah right. You’ve got the whole chameleon act covered.”

Reo tilted his head. “Are you comparing me to a lizard now?”

“You know it!” Chris said with a faint grin. “Smart. Watchful. Always changing.”

Reo didn’t answer. He only smirked, watching the countryside blur past the window. For a moment, they sat in silence.

Chris rose first, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves. “Keep that up in the arena, and you might just live. Just… don’t lose yourself in the act.”

Reo didn’t move as the mentor walked away, only murmured under his breath once he was gone:
“Too late for that.”

Noel Noa remained in the corner, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The man had barely spoken since choosing Kaiser, but when he did, it stuck.

“You don’t win the Games by fighting fair,” Noa had told Kaiser earlier. “You win by being the one who finishes them. Whether that means stabbing someone in the back or starving them out. You do what it takes.”

Kaiser had smiled at that. Reo hadn’t.

The train gave one final hiss, steam beginning to billow outside the windows like fog on a stage. The Capitol loomed, impossibly large, unnervingly clean. A beast with glittering teeth.

Reo stood slowly, smoothing down the lapels of his coat. His heart wasn’t racing, not really. But something deeper stirred, something cold. Dread, maybe. Or resignation. He'd trained for this. He’d volunteered. He was ready.

So why did it feel like he was walking into something bigger than even the Games?

The doors slid open with a mechanical sigh.

Steam rolled out in thick clouds, curling around his ankles, rising in swirls like the hands of ghosts. Cameras clicked before his shoes even touched the ground. The scent of citrus hit him first—too clean, too sharp, almost acidic. Power disguised as perfume.

He stepped out. Each click of his polished shoes on the marble platform was swallowed by the roar of applause and flashing lights. Spotlights burst to life, slicing through the fog to capture his every angle. His back straightened instinctively, shoulders squared like a prince taking the throne.

He didn’t flinch.

Behind him, Kaiser stepped down with a yawn and a stretch, shaking out his arms like a cat who believed the whole platform belonged to him.

“Finally,” Kaiser muttered. “Thought I’d suffocate in all that velvet.”

Chris Prince followed at a more graceful pace, the sunlight catching in his hair and making him gleam like Capitol currency. His suit shimmered faintly as he stepped into view, throwing a casual wave to the cameras. They lapped it up.

Then came Noel Noa. No flash, no flair. Just presence. He didn’t acknowledge the press. He didn’t need to.

District 1 had arrived.

The platform buzzed with orchestrated chaos. Peacekeepers in crisp white uniforms, Capitol officials clutching data pads, reporters in feathers and sequins shrieking into cameras, stylists clapping their hands as if herding livestock.

Reo’s eyes moved across the crowd, pausing on the other tributes that had already arrived.

Ness stood on the platform with all the smugness of someone who believed the world already belonged to him. His posture was sharp, almost performative. Chin high, arms folded, like a statue carved from pride. The ever-present glint in his eyes suggested a craving for attention, and he watched the crowd as if expecting applause at any moment.

Beside him lounged a stark contrast. Rin Itoshi, coiled quiet. Lankier but no less deadly, with eyes like frozen steel and the calm of someone who planned his kills in silence.

Reo sized them up with detached ease. He knew better than to underestimate District 2.

“Looks like we were late to the party,” Kaiser muttered, elbowing him with a crooked grin. “You think District 4’s here yet?”

“No,” Reo replied, still scanning. 

He wasn’t sure why he was tracking arrivals. Boredom, maybe. Or calculation. Or the stupid, slow-burning instinct that someone in this crowd might matter more than they looked. Either way, it didn't change anything.

None of them were friends. None of them were allies. They were all just names waiting to be scratched out.

And Reo Mikage intended to be the last one standing.

A voice cut through the crowd like perfume—cloying, honeyed, unmistakably Capitol.

“Well, well, well… look what the Mikages dragged in.”

Reo’s spine straightened before he even turned. The sound alone made his skin itch.

A man sauntered toward them, theatrical and polished down to the flick of his wrist. He wore tight lilac trousers and a rose-gold blazer that shimmered like foil under the artificial sun. A plume of powder-blue hair spilled over one shoulder, and thin, tinted glasses perched atop a nose carved with surgical precision. His smile was a thing too wide, too white, and far too knowing.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” the man purred, eyes gleaming as they raked over Reo like he was already on display. “District 1’s golden boy. The Capitol’s darling before he’s even shed blood. Mikage Reo, you’ve grown into a dream.”

“Adam,” Reo replied smoothly, voice cold enough to chip ice. “Didn’t realize you’d be handling my attire.”

“I insisted,” Adam said with a flourish, stepping closer. Far too close. A gloved hand slid over Reo’s shoulder and lingered. “A masterpiece deserves nothing less than a master’s touch.”

Kaiser gave a short laugh. “And me?”

Adam’s eyes flicked toward him, appraising. “You’ll get what you need, dear. But Reo; Reo is Capitol history in the making.”

Trailing behind Adam was a man with neatly combed dark hair and a steel collar around his neck. His eyes were downcast, expression unreadable. An Avox. Reo recognized him faintly from Capitol events years ago. Tadashi. His face hadn’t aged much, but his posture had the kind of practiced stillness that screamed habit, not peace.

Adam gestured flamboyantly. “Tadashi, darling. Tape.”

Tadashi stepped forward wordlessly, the roll of measuring tape already in hand. Reo didn’t move. He stood still as marble as Tadashi began his work, shoulders, arms, chest. All professional. All precise. But Reo wasn’t looking at Tadashi.

He was watching Adam.

The stylist circled him like a vulture, fingers trailing far too close to skin as Tadashi adjusted the tape. When the measurements reached Reo’s waist, Adam leaned in. A breath too close. A touch too low. Gloved fingers ghosted just above the waistband of Reo’s pants, and  lingered there. Not long enough to call it a crime, but enough to make Reo want to recoil.

“You know,” Adam murmured into his ear, voice syrupy and low, “your father said you’d make a fine blade. But even he didn’t grasp your full… utility.”

Reo’s jaw tensed. His teeth clicked together behind a pleasant, practiced smile.

Across the room, Kaiser raised an eyebrow, watching the scene with mild amusement. “Hey, if it helps bring in sponsors, let him get handsy. You already know they eat that stuff up. Flash a smile and play the Capitol’s game, right?”

Reo didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

He let Tadashi finish, let the tape slide around his thighs, his wrists, his neck. He didn’t flinch—because flinching would be weakness, and weakness wasn’t allowed, not for someone like him. Not for the Mikage heir.

Adam circled him again, appraising his body like a sculpture half-chiseled. “Arms up, darling.”

He obeyed. He had to. That was the role. He’d been playing it his whole life.

Tadashi’s hand brushed his forearm, briefly, in a way that didn’t feel like measuring. It felt like… acknowledgement. Not pity. Just recognition. Reo didn’t look at him. He didn’t have to.

Adam gave a hum of satisfaction, clapping his hands once. “All finished. What a divine canvas you are, Reo. A pleasure to mold. Now, go get some rest. Tomorrow, we begin your transformation.”

He turned, already muttering fabric choices under his breath, strutting ahead like a peacock. Tadashi followed silently, footsteps lighter than air.

The moment they were out of earshot, Kaiser leaned in. “That guy’s a freak.”

Reo adjusted the collar of his jacket. “He’s the Capitol.”

Kaiser snorted. “He’s a little more than that.”

“He’s a mouthpiece,” Reo said evenly. “Just another mirror for the people paying attention. You smile, they smile back. That’s how the Capitol works.”

He said nothing about the way Adam’s touch lingered. Nothing about the quiet way Tadashi’s eyes seemed to apologize for things he couldn’t stop. Reo just kept walking.

He had volunteered.

He had trained.

He had every intention of surviving.

But under Adam’s watchful hands and Capitol cameras, Reo didn’t feel like a tribute.

He felt like a possession being polished. Just enough to be paraded before it was broken.

The train hissed to a stop with far less ceremony than Reo’s had.

No paparazzi. No lights. No Capitol officials clamoring for photos. Just the cold, sterile silence of the platform and a few scattered Peacekeepers standing with the disinterest of men who’d seen too many tributes come and go.

Nagi stepped off first, his boots meeting the marble platform with a dull thud . No one was waiting. No fanfare. No cameras. Not that he expected any. He wasn’t here to be famous. He wasn’t here to be anything, really. Just surviving the next few days sounded exhausting enough. Maybe he'd die painlessly before the games began, if he was lucky.

He was about to look away from the massive LED billboards above when something strange caught his eye.

Purple.

Not the unnatural Capitol purple either. This was warmer, softer. It framed the face of a boy on one of the massive floating holograms above the station. There he was. Smiling like he’d never tasted fear. Mikage Reo, the billboard read in swirling golden script. District 1’s volunteer. A crown logo shimmered beneath it, marking him as a Capitol favorite.

Huh.

Nagi stared at it for a second longer than he meant to. He didn’t care. He didn’t. And yet...

That’s the rich guy’s kid, right? Mikage. The name had stuck in his brain ever since Anri mentioned it. Weird. It was just a name. Just a face.

He blinked, turning away. What a pain.

Anri’s chirping voice dragged him back into reality. “Come along, boys! We need to get inside and checked in.”

Nagi followed with the same energy he approached most things. With minimum effort and zero resistance. He noticed Isagi trailing behind her, practically vibrating with nerves and excitement. The Capitol’s towering buildings stretched high above them like steel trees, shimmering in pastel glass. Around them, the remnants of other districts bustled, tributes in conversation, mentors already gone off to do who-knew-what.

Inside the gleaming halls of the tribute center, it was chaos.

Tributes from every district were scattered in organized clumps, all corralled by their own escorts and mentors. It was loud. Clean. Sterile. But not comfortable.

Isagi leaned in close and started whispering. “Those two over there? Definitely district 8. Look at the clothes. That’s Bachira, I think… and the blond guy, that’s Shidou, right?”

Nagi followed his gaze lazily. He didn’t care much. The bee boy was buzzing around excitedly, as if the Capitol wasn’t the mouth of a beast waiting to swallow them whole. Typical.

Isagi kept scanning. “And that guy’s from 2, isn’t he? Ness? I saw his reaping footage, he kept talking about this ‘opportunity’ or something.”

Nagi didn’t answer. His eyes had started drifting again, subconsciously scanning the crowd.

For what?

He didn’t know. His gaze moved from group to group, District 2, District 7, the water-soaked kids from 4 finally arriving. His eyes darted once more toward the far hall, past a stylist with neon claws and a mentor with glowing teeth.

But Reo wasn’t there.

Whatever. He told himself he didn’t care.

Ego had vanished. Probably off doing something cryptic and rude. Anri clapped her hands and took over. “Now, now! We have just enough time to get you to your stylist before the prep team comes to fuss. I hope you’re ready for a Capitol makeover!”

Nagi didn’t respond. Just kept walking.

They were led through a curved corridor of polished marble and holographic walls, until finally Anri knocked once on a sliding door and ushered them in.

Their stylist stood waiting, serene and composed amid a swirl of soft pink fabric.

He was tall and slim, with long pale-pink hair tied neatly behind him and silver-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. A traditional folding fan rested delicately in one hand, the other tucked behind his back. Compared to most Capitol fashion disasters, he was elegant—understated even. Minimal jewels. No glitter. His suit was a clean black with red trimming, sharp and regal.

“Welcome,” the man said, his voice smooth and practiced. “I am Cherry. I’ll be handling your presentation.”

Isagi gave a half-bow, clearly trying to be polite. Nagi just blinked at him.

Cherry nodded once, pleased. “Good posture,” he said to Isagi. Then to Nagi: “And you… look like you don’t want to be here.”

“Mm,” Nagi replied. Which was about as much as anyone ever got.

Cherry didn’t seem offended. Instead, he simply gestured to the circular platform in the center of the room. “Up. Both of you. Shoes off.”

Nagi stepped up, standing still as Cherry and a few silent assistants began their work. Unlike whatever happened in the fancier districts, there was no creepy fondling, no cooing over skin tone or comments about camera appeal.

Every movement was calculated, professional. The tape measured his arms, shoulders, waist, legs. Cherry made notes on a small holopad, never missing a beat.

“You’re lean,” Cherry said to Nagi. “Not bulky, but strong. You fight?”

“Sometimes.”

Cherry arched a brow. “Only when it’s convenient?”

Nagi shrugged. “When I have to.”

“Typical District 12,” Cherry said dryly, but not unkindly. Then turned to Isagi. “You’ve got a more balanced frame. Useful for archery. Good symmetry.”

The measuring continued, and Nagi let his mind drift.

Reo was probably somewhere upstairs already. Being paraded around. Cameras in his face. Sponsors lining up with gold-dipped checkbooks. Nagi imagined him smiling, charming them without trying. The Capitol loved beautiful things.

What a pain.

But still, his eyes slid once more to the door, as if he might catch a glimpse through the glass.

Nothing.

Of course not.

Cherry snapped his fan open with a crisp flick. “You two have potential,” he said simply. “Let’s make sure the Capitol sees it.”

Nagi said nothing. Just stood there, letting them craft whatever version of him they thought would sell.

The lounge buzzed with noise, bravado, and the click of Capitol-issued boots on marble. Reo leaned back against one of the velvet chairs, arms crossed, observing the chaos as the other tributes mingled or clashed.

Reo noticed Barou Shoei, the male tribute from District 5, stood like a wall of muscle and fury, glaring at anyone who dared speak too loudly near him. His arms were crossed, jaw tight, like he’d been born with a permanent snarl. Not far from him, Ness from District 2 had practically glued himself to Kaiser’s side, eyes wide with admiration, voice grating with praise.

He was pretty sure 12 arrived some time ago, but they were escorted away with their stylist before Reo had a chance to get a look at the tributes. He does vaguely recall a tall pale boy with white hair and a short guy with blue hair. 

Hes snapped out of his thoughts by a loud excited voice. 

“You’re so efficient, so commanding. Like a born emperor!” Ness gushed, hands practically clasped in prayer as he trailed Kaiser’s every move. His Capital-accented voice had a fluttery edge to it, like he was perpetually on the verge of fainting from sheer awe.

Kaiser basked in the attention like it was owed to him. He didn’t even look directly at Ness. Just gave a small, indulgent laugh and tilted his head back with lazy arrogance. “Tch. Of course,” he said, lips curling upward in that practiced smirk. “But don’t trip over yourself, Ness. I only lead, not babysit.”

The jab was effortless, said with the kind of charm that could pass as teasing if you weren’t paying close attention, but Reo was. And Ness didn’t even seem to notice the sting, too caught up in whatever fantasy he’d built around Kaiser’s image.

Reo watched them from a few feet away, arms folded, expression unreadable. Ness was annoying, sure. He clung like a parasite, breathless over every word Kaiser muttered. But it was the way Kaiser smirked that bothered him more. Like a wolf indulging a trembling rabbit, knowing full well it would eat it alive when the novelty wore off.

Disgusting. Reo thought, glancing away. Not that he cared what Kaiser did. Let him lap up the attention, soak in the Capitol lights, act like royalty in a castle built on corpses.

But still… there was something about it all. About Ness’s blind devotion and Kaiser’s practiced cruelty, that made his stomach twist, just a little.

Not fear. Not jealousy.

Something colder.

Something that told him, again, that alliances weren’t friendships.

They were just masks everyone wore to survive.

And some of them smiled while wearing them.

Near the refreshments, Otoya from District 4 was twirling a small blade between his fingers, speaking with an airy kind of pride. “My family’s bloodline traces back to shinobi,” he said, eyes half-lidded and smug. “Agility, stealth, precision—it’s in my veins. I can climb trees faster than most can walk.”

“Charming,” Karasu muttered beside him, clearly unamused. He sipped something clear and expensive-looking from a glass, sharp eyes always watching, calculating. “I’d rather have connections than tree-jumping genes. The Capitol doesn’t care about your legacy dude—they care about who they can make money off.” His voice was teasing, but with a serious edge, a crow picking at bones. “That’s how you win. Not by hiding in trees.”

Reo didn’t join their posturing. He had nothing to prove. Not yet.

From the corner of the room, Rin Itoshi stood alone. Back pressed to the glass wall, arms crossed. Silent. Like always. He didn’t need to bark to make himself known.

Reo moved toward him without much thought. Something about the silence around Rin pulled him in more than the noise ever could.

“You volunteered,” Reo said, his voice low and unthreatening.

Rin didn’t look at him. “Yeah. That's what careers do smartass”

“Why did you though? You don't strike me as the type.”

There was a long pause. Then, almost too quiet to catch, Rin muttered, “To prove I’m better.”

Reo tilted his head. “Than?”

“My brother.” The words dropped like stones. “Sae. He won a few years ago.”

Ah. That name Reo knew. Sae Itoshi. The Capitol’s once-golden boy turned ghost. Reo had seen his Games. Brutal. He hadn’t smiled once during the whole broadcast.

“I didn’t even know he had a brother,” Reo said honestly.

“Neither does he,” Rin replied flatly, and Reo couldn’t tell if it was sarcasm or truth. Maybe both.

“Sounds like he didn’t want you here.”

“He told me I’d die.”

Reo raised an eyebrow. “Cold.”

“No,” Rin said, eyes narrowing. “Cowardly.”

Reo blinked. He hadn’t expected that. But maybe, just maybe, Rin was right. Sometimes pushing someone away was the same as protecting them. He knew the Capitol loved that kind of twisted irony.

Before he could say anything else, a voice rang out like a bell dipped in venom.

“Mika~ge Reo!”

Reo tensed. That voice again. Didn't he already get his measurements?? WHY is he here bruh. 

He turned slowly to find Adam approaching again, gliding through the room like silk sliding across polished glass. Tadashi followed quietly behind, hands folded, gaze low. He wore the chain collar again. It never came off.

“There you are,” Adam said, smile gleaming like a blade. “You’re due for your second fitting. We can’t have District 1’s pride looking anything less than immaculate.”

Reo offered a thin smile. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

Adam leaned in close as they walked, breath grazing Reo’s ear. “Mmm, but disappointment isn’t in your vocabulary, is it?”

He laughed softly, fingers trailing far too low on Reo’s back.

The doors to the stylist suite hissed shut behind them with a final, velveted click.

Reo stood still, silent, taking in the overly perfumed air and soft light bouncing off gilded mirrors. He didn’t look at Adam, but he felt him. The way one feels the eyes of a predator before the pounce.

A low hum floated behind him. Lyrical, indulgent. It slithered through the air like perfume. Adam circled with slow, deliberate steps, silk trousers whispering as he moved, as though even his clothing knew how to prowl.

“A gem,” he said softly, not to Reo, but to the room itself. “No. More than that. A myth in motion. A Mikage. Oh, they truly do spoil me.”

Reo’s gaze fixed ahead, unmoving, unreadable. His spine stayed straight, every instinct in his body telling him to be still. Composed.

Adam trailed a gloved hand close—too close—to Reo’s side, stopping a mere breath from the curve of his ribs. “I’ve seen so many tributes. Bloodstained, wide-eyed, foolish things. But you… you’re lacquered in charm. Raised in glass and gold. The Capitol wants to peel you open and see what’s inside.”

He leaned forward slightly, breath brushing Reo’s collarbone. “But I want to keep you whole.”

“You, Reo, are the Capitol’s first glimpse of beauty this year. A boy sculpted in legacy. In promise.”

He paced again, fingertips dragging over bolts of fabric, but his voice never lost its hush. “I don’t want to break you like they do. That would be such a waste. No, no. I want to dress you in something that shows the world exactly what you are.”

He turned, eyes glittering behind his rose-gold frames. “Not fire. Not ice. Something slower. Something dangerous. Silk that cuts. A whisper that lingers. A storm in disguise.”

Reo said nothing. He’d learned quickly that silence was armor.

Adam reached for the measuring tape, letting it slither between his fingers like a snake. “Arms up, darling.”

Reo obeyed, jaw tight. The tape brushed over his biceps, his chest, his waist. And lingered. Adam’s hands trailed down a fraction too far, settled a second too long at his hipbone. Not inappropriate enough to call out. Not obvious enough to confront. But felt, in every inch of Reo’s skin.

“You’re everything they crave but don’t understand,” Adam whispered, standing too close again. “That’s power. And power, when wrapped properly, is unforgettable.”

Tadashi stood in the corner, still and silent. His eyes didn’t flinch, didn’t twitch, but Reo caught the faintest shift in his gaze, one that said he saw it all. Heard it all.

But this was Capitol kindness, wasn’t it?

Draped in silk. Polished in mirrors. Laced with poison.

Adam stepped back at last, clapping his hands once, satisfied. “Perfect. You're nearly ready.”

He didn’t say for what.

The room smelled like roses and bleach.

Cherry led them down a velvet-lined hallway, heels clicking against pristine tile, fan fluttering idly in his manicured hand. Nagi didn’t look impressed, but then again, he never did. Isagi had been muttering questions under his breath since they stepped off the train, eyes darting left and right like he expected a trap. Maybe he wasn’t wrong.

The door at the end opened with a hiss.

Beyond it, everything gleamed.

Clean white floors. Bright, warm lights. Rows of pristine tables and chairs, each surrounded by Capitol workers in matching pastels, holding trays of creams and blades and powders like surgeons ready to operate.

Cherry turned to them with a breezy smile. “Don’t worry too much,” he said, twirling his fan once. “The tributes who aren’t from District 1 or 2 all come through here. We just need to make you… presentable.”

He said it like it was a kindness.

Nagi stared, expression blank. Presentable? For what? To die prettier?

Isagi shifted beside him, clearly tense. “What do you mean by ‘presentable’?”

Cherry’s fan snapped shut with a precise flick. “The cameras, of course. The interviews. The tributes with sponsors survive. And tributes get sponsors when they’re memorable. Polished. Beautiful.” He smiled again, wide and faintly amused. “Or tragic, if that’s more your flavor.”

Nagi didn’t flinch as they were separated and ushered toward opposite sides of the room.

The next hour passed in a blur of hands and voices. Warm water. Cold tools. Something sharp dragged across his legs, arms, chest. Body hair gone. Fingernails clipped. His head tilted and turned by strangers with glittering tweezers and face masks.

He didn’t protest. Didn’t speak.

They powdered his face, trimmed his eyebrows, rubbed lotion into his arms with gloved fingers. They cut his hair, not by much, just enough to neaten the edges, but it still fell into his eyes, stubbornly unkempt.

“His hair won’t stay styled,” one of the workers muttered. “It’s like it wants to be messy.”

Cherry hummed from nearby, fan brushing his lips. “Let it be. It suits him. Disheveled is the new dramatic.”

When they were finished, Nagi sat on a soft bench in a white robe, staring at the floor tiles like they might blink back at him.

He didn’t feel any different. Still Nagi. Still tired. Still annoyed that someone had spent ten whole minutes buffing his nails just to say he had “quietly expressive cuticles.”

Isagi shuffled over from the other side, freshly cleaned and blinking like he didn’t recognize his own hands. “They shaved everything,” he muttered. “Everything.”

Nagi grunted in response. “Mm.”

There was no fanfare. No applause. No gold-trimmed corridors or screaming fans. Just a few hushed Capitol voices behind the mirrors and the ever-present hum of sterilized machinery.

And through it all, Nagi felt nothing. Not excitement. Not nerves.

Just a mild irritation that this was all supposed to matter.

They were dressing corpses for the slaughter.

And everyone here was pretending it was a fashion show.

The doors to the common area glided open with a soft hiss.

Nagi followed Isagi in, slouched and slow-footed, hands stuffed in his pockets. The room glowed gold with Capitol lighting, vaulted ceilings, plush seating, and too many mirrors. Expensive comfort meant to distract them from the fact that they'd all be killing each other soon.

“Now remember,” Anri called behind them in her Capitol lilt, “make friends, form bonds! Alliances save lives in the arena, you know!”

Nagi tuned her out. She was always talking.

He let his eyes drift across the room. Tributes were scattered across the massive lounge, clustered in small groups or sipping Capitol water from jewel-toned glasses. Some looked terrified, others just bored.

And then he saw him.

Mikage Reo.

Hair like plum silk. Outfit sharp. Posture confident. Reo sat among the Careers like he belonged there. No, like he ruled there. The group curled around him unconsciously: Kaiser sprawled beside him, sharp as ever; Ness was practically draped over the armrest near Kaiser, eyes wide with devotion; Karasu leaned forward, fingers laced in a calculated arc of conversation. Otoya stretched lazily, boots on the table, likely halfway through another one of his inherited ninja tales.

Reo laughed at something Kaiser said, smooth and effortless, and Nagi—without meaning to—kept watching.

“Those guys must be from Four,” Isagi murmured beside him. “That’s Karasu and Otoya, right? And that’s Ness from Two. He’s been glued to Kaiser since they got off the train.”

“Mhm.”

“And Reo... that’s Mikage Reo. District One.”

“I know.”

Nagi didn’t elaborate. He just stood there, eyes scanning, like he was searching for something he didn’t understand.

Across the lounge, Ness was in the middle of gushing again. “You’re so strategic, so poised,” he said, his voice bordering on breathless. “Like you were born for this arena, Kaiser.”

Kaiser smirked, lounging like a god on a throne. “Obviously. But calm down, lapdog. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Ness flushed but didn’t back off, hanging onto every word.

Then his attention shifted, momentarily, to a smaller boy standing nearby. Kurona. Spiky red hair braided on one side, short and shark-toothed, awkwardly fiddling with the hem of his jacket. Definitely not a Career, but here anyway.

Kaiser’s gaze flicked over him, cruel amusement curling at his lips. “Did you take a wrong turn, shrimp? This isn’t the lost-and-found.”

Kurona opened his mouth to respond, but Kaiser cut in again. “Careful, you’ll get stepped on.”

Some of the Careers chuckled. Even Ness laughed, eager to join in.

But then Reo tilted his head, just slightly.

“Kaiser,” he said lightly, his tone silk-smooth. “Ease up. You’ll scare off the competition before the fun even starts.”

His voice wasn’t sharp, not scolding. There was a playful glint in his eye, a crooked half-smile on his lips. Reo wasn’t challenging Kaiser, not exactly. Just adjusting the flow of conversation like a conductor redirecting a symphony.

Kaiser narrowed his eyes, reading deeper than Reo gave away. “Just having fun.”

Reo nodded. “Of course. But there’s more value in mystery than mockery, don’t you think?”

He glanced toward Kurona, giving him the faintest smile, enough to disarm, but not to draw attention.

Kurona blinked, unsure what to make of it.

The conversation moved on. Karasu brought up sponsor rotations, Otoya added some nonsense about using smoke bombs, and Ness returned to gushing.

But Nagi had seen it.

The way Reo shifted the tone without losing ground. The way he took control of the room while pretending not to. He was magnetic, not loud or flashy, but quietly, annoyingly good at this.

And for some reason, Nagi still couldn’t stop watching him.

“You coming?” Isagi asked, already walking toward a table where District 8 had gathered.

Nagi’s gaze lingered a second longer on Reo, who was now leaning forward, saying something to Karasu with a low smile.

He blinked, slow and heavy.

Whatever. It didn’t matter.

Just another pretty face playing a dangerous game.

Still, as Nagi turned to follow Isagi, his head tilted slightly. Just enough to catch one more glimpse of violet hair in the corner of his eye.

He told himself again: It doesn’t matter.

But something told him he was lying.

The tributes were dismissed in a blur of fanfare and Capitol protocol. Escorts flitted about like jeweled insects, waving hands and barking instructions, while Peacekeepers ushered each district into waiting glass elevators, sleek and silent.

Reo followed the others into his own, the transparent capsule ascending through the heart of the Training Center. The city glittered outside, unnaturally bright, a kaleidoscope of burning pinks, digitized billboards, and colors that didn’t exist in nature. Artificial. Like everything else.

The elevator opened into luxury.

His assigned suite was a perfect example of Capitol excess, an open layout washed in ultraviolet light, chrome edges that reflected distorted versions of himself in every direction. The floors glowed softly under his feet, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. A hovering projection orb bobbed in the corner, waiting for voice commands. A wall-sized window displayed the Capitol skyline in high definition, enhanced until the stars outside looked painted.

The bed was circular. Of course.

The ceiling rotated.

The walls shifted color based on his temperature.

It was breathtaking, expensive, groundbreaking, everything Capitol design prided itself on.

Reo hated it.

Too bright. Too sharp. Too loud in its silence.

He sat at the edge of the bed, dragging a hand through his violet hair. His eyes burned. Not from exhaustion, but from overstimulation. He'd spent the entire afternoon surrounded by flashing lights, fake smiles, and egos big enough to strangle on.

Still, he couldn’t help replaying the faces he’d seen.

Barou Shohei from District 5. A beast of a boy, built like a battering ram with a jaw that looked like it had been chiseled out of stone. His stare alone could break glass. Reo hadn’t seen him talk much, but he didn’t need to. That kind of strength didn’t have to introduce itself.

Then there were the District 8 boys—Shidou and Bachira. Wild. Feral in entirely different flavors. Shidou radiated the kind of chaos that felt just one step away from murder at any given second. Bachira was... weirder. Cheerful. But in a way that made Reo’s skin crawl. The kind of smile you’d see on someone who set fires for fun.

Both dangerous. Both unhinged.

From District 11, there was Kunigami. Tall, orange-haired, with a chest like a Capitol train engine. The kind of person who probably spent more time lifting than thinking. Reo had overheard him talking to the boy from 6. Chigiri. The redhead. Slender frame, long legs, hair tied back with quiet precision, he seemed attractive, like a princess. The capitol will eat that up. Fast, Reo thought. He looked fast. They were forming some kind of alliance already, beauty and brawn. Hero and princess.

Cute.

And then there was the white-haired one.

District 12.

Reo had only caught a glimpse as the last tributes arrived, just before Adam dragged him away again. Pale, expressionless. Towering, but quiet. His hair was messy in a way that didn’t look styled, and his posture slouched like he didn’t care about anything at all.

Reo hadn’t paid him much attention. Not really. There were bigger threats. Shinier ones. Still, something about the boy’s vacant stare lingered in the back of his mind like static.

He didn’t dwell on it.

The real threats were clearer.

Barou. Kunigami. Rin. Kaiser, of course.

The tributes were lining up like chess pieces now, and Reo had every intention of staying several moves ahead. His goal wasn’t just survival. He had an empire to build from ashes.

But for now…

He pulled the covers up, not that they helped, and let the Capitol lights pulse around him like a false lullaby.

Tomorrow would be training.

And soon, the killing would start.