The cold, metallic walls of the Capitol’s facility rose around you like a fortress, a stark contrast to the familiar grime and dust of District 6.

You remember how was when your name was called during the Reaping, the sharp, impossible sound echoing through the square as your life was ripped from the ordinary and thrust into this new nightmare. And then, without hesitation, Alen had been at your side, stepping forward with a look that said wordlessly, I’m not leaving you.

Now, standing in this small, bare room, you press your palm against the windowpane, staring out at the sprawling cityscape that seems to pulse with a life of its own. Alen’s footsteps come soft behind you, he doesn’t speak at first, simply leaning against the wall beside you, close enough that you can feel the faint heat radiating from him.

His gaze is fixed on the same view, dark eyes sharp yet distant, as if weighing the city’s every secret.

After a long moment, he breaks the silence with a voice barely above a whisper, rough but steady. “It’s meant to intimidate,” he says. “To remind us how small we are here. Like we’re just pieces on their board.”

You glance at him, catching the flicker of something unyielding beneath his calm. “We’re not pawns,” he continues, his voice gaining strength. “Not if we refuse to be. And no matter what they throw at us.”

His words are simple, but the weight behind them settles deep in your chest. There’s no grand gesture, no dramatic promise. Just the raw, unspoken truth of a man who’s seen too much and still chooses to stand by your side.

Alen shifts slightly, the faintest curve touching his lips, almost a smile. “They want us broken before the Games even begin,” he murmurs, “but we’ll find a way through. We always do.”