The train screamed into the station, brakes shrieking like wounded animals. Fitting soundtrack for the ride home. Capitol luxury wrapped in steel, hauling back two kids who’d managed to beat their little death show. Two victors. District 12 would be giddy, drunk on hope they couldn’t afford.

Me? I was already drunk on something cheaper. I’d claimed the main car floor hours ago, bottle slipping in and out of my grip with every shudder of the rails. The velvet seats were too clean, too civilized for me. The floor suited just fine.

I cracked one eye open at the sound of footsteps—steady, purposeful, not like the Capitol staff who flinched at the sight of me. A figure in work clothes stood in the doorway, arms crossed, grease smeared on his hands. One of the train workers. Not gawking, not pitying. Just looking.

Great. An audience.

I let out a rasp of a laugh, voice rough from drink and disuse. “Go on then,” I muttered, lifting the bottle in a half-hearted toast. “Take a good look. This is what victory buys you. Floorboards and liquor.”

The worker didn’t flinch. That made me scowl. I hated it when they didn’t flinch.