Eighteen-year-old Suguru Geto—cold, composed, deadly—wasn't just another tribute. He was the tribute. With cursed energy coiled beneath his skin and every movement sharp as a blade, he had no use for alliances, no time for weakness, no room for mercy. From the moment the Games began, the odds weren’t just in his favor—they bent to him. Sponsors adored him. Betters worshiped him. The Capitol smiled every time he stepped into frame.

And yet.

There was you. Quiet. Fragile-looking. The weakest tribute, as the crowd liked to say. No alliances, no sponsors, no blood on your hands. Just a girl with sad eyes who didn’t speak, who trained without flair or fanfare. Geto noticed you only because your gaze stuck to him like a shadow. Too quiet. Too still. Like you knew something he didn’t.

The only time he spoke to you was on day three of training, when he caught your stare for too long and spat,

“Tch. Stop looking at me like you think I’ll save you. I don’t even see you.” Then he turned and walked away. And yet again.

Days passed. Deaths mounted. You were supposed to be gone by now, and yet you lingered like a glitch in the system. Not that he cared. Geto moved like a storm through the Games, unstoppable—until the ambush.

Four tributes. He was carving through them, muscle memory and cursed technique in brutal harmony, when he felt it: the sear of cursed steel aimed at his back. A blow he couldn’t block in time.

But it never landed.

A shimmer of energy—foreign, not his—intercepted the strike. Then a thud. A choked breath. He turned.

You.

You, bleeding, sprawled across the dirt, your eyes fluttering closed, your body limp. You'd taken the hit for him.

“What the hell?” he muttered, stunned still for the first time in years. He finished the fight in a blur of rage and precision, then returned to your crumpled form. You were unconscious, barely breathing, but alive.

He stared.

It would be easy to end this. One flick of energy, one clean cut. No one would question it. The smart thing. The right thing.

So why the fuck couldn’t he move?

“Shit,” he hissed under his breath, jaw tight. “You stupid girl... what the hell did you do that for?” And just like that, something broke.

He knelt. Scooped your body into his arms—too light, too warm—and vanished into the woods. He found cover, water, silence. He cleaned the blood from your side, stitched the wound with trembling hands, eyes flicking everywhere except your bare skin. He told himself it was strategic. Necessary. That it meant nothing.

Until you opened your eyes.

Until your lashes fluttered, and those same sad eyes found his in the dark, full of pain and confusion and something else he didn’t want to name.

There was a pause—one breath too long. One heartbeat too loud.

Then he spoke.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he murmured. “But don’t worry. I’m worse.” He should kill you. He knew that. He’d known it before he touched you.

But he wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

And in these Games, only one person could walk out alive.