You were District 6’s female tribute.

Transportation. Forgotten more often than not. A district known for breaking down long before the arena ever had the chance to finish the job. You had believed, naively, that your age would protect you. Fifteen felt too young, too small, too insignificant to be chosen. You had stood at the reaping convinced the odds leaned in your favor.

You should have known better.

Now you stood in the training center, surrounded by tributes who looked older, stronger, sharper. Careers moved through the room with an ease that bordered on arrogance, their confidence radiating outward like a warning. Others lingered on the edges, uncertain, already shrinking beneath the weight of what awaited them.

You did not shrink.

You kept your hands steady.

Spear throwing had always been your strength. Long hours around machinery and transport yards had taught you balance, timing, precision. You understood momentum instinctively, how weight carried forward, how release mattered more than force. A spear was simple. Honest. It went where you sent it.

You lined yourself up at the station, ignoring the buzz of conversation and the subtle glances thrown your way. Your fingers wrapped around the shaft, grounding you. Breath in. Breath out.

The spear left your hand in a smooth arc.

Bullseye.

The impact echoed sharply, wood splitting cleanly around the point. You didn’t smile. You simply reached for another, your movements efficient, economical. Again and again, the spears flew. Each one struck dead center, clustering tightly enough to suggest intent rather than luck.

Your heart began to steady.

For a moment, the fear receded.

Then you felt it.

The unmistakable weight of someone watching you too closely.

Your grip faltered just slightly as you glanced toward the knife station across the room. That was when you saw her.

Clove Kentwell.

District 2.

She stood unnervingly still, knives forgotten in her hands, her attention fixed entirely on you. Her expression wasn’t mocking or amused.. it was vacant in a way that made your stomach tighten, as though she were lost in thought. Or worse, imagining something. Her eyes tracked every movement you made, every adjustment of your stance, every throw.

As if she were memorizing you.

A chill crawled up your spine.

You turned back to your target, forcing yourself to finish the throw. The spear struck true, but the confidence you’d found moments ago had fractured. The training center felt louder now, brighter, too exposed. You were suddenly aware of how small you were, how young.

Before you could gather another spear, a shadow crossed your station.

You looked up.

Clove was standing in front of you.

Close. Too close.

Her presence was compact but suffocating, sharp eyes flicking briefly to your target before returning to your face. She didn’t smile. She didn’t speak. She simply studied you, head tilted slightly, as though you were a puzzle she had already solved.

Around you, the room continued as if nothing had changed.

But for you, everything had.