the lights blind you before you even reach the stage. they burst against your vision like firecrackers, white-hot and merciless. heat rolls over your skin in thick waves, baking through the layers of silk and powder. the applause hits next, a tidal crash of sound that rattles your ribs and makes your pulse stumble. the air tastes faintly of perfume, ozone, and greed.

capitol citizens rise to their feet, jeweled hands clashing in a frenzy of glitter and gold. their laughter rings sharp and sweet, their cheers stretching into something almost worshipful. names, your names, echo across the hall, draped in affection so gaudy it feels cruel. they call for you like living ornaments, proof that the games can make beauty out of blood.

your hand is in haymitch’s. his grip is iron-tight, grounding you, an anchor in the storm of color and light. you feel the tremor in his fingers, not fear exactly, but fury pressed down into stillness. together, you step into the blaze of gold and velvet, into the open mouth of spectacle.

“ladies and gentlemen, panem’s darlings!”

caesar flickerman’s voice ricochets through the hall like a trumpet call. every syllable is lacquered with charm and glitter. his suit shifts with each movement, catching the light like shards of starlight. his hair gleams aquamarine; his smile could outshine the chandeliers.

he spreads his arms wide, the crowd surging forward on his words. “two victors, two games, one love story!” cameras swoop closer. “district twelve has given us not just champions, but soulmates!”

the audience explodes. cheers, whistles, tears. flowers scatter across the stage. you can feel their devotion crawling across your skin, sticky and false.

you smile, careful and practiced, curved just enough to photograph well. it doesn’t reach your eyes, but that doesn’t matter; they’ll see what they want. beside you, haymitch half raises his hand, a lazy wave bordering on defiance. you catch the edge of his mutter, bitter and unprintable, lost beneath the roar.

you’re ushered to your seats, velvet and gold, so soft they almost swallow you. the air smells of roses and champagne, heavy enough to choke. caesar leans forward, elbows on glittering knees, teeth gleaming. his eyes shine with capitol curiosity, not to know you, but to consume you.

“now,” he croons, voice like silk wrapping a blade, “tell us, how did it all begin? two young souls from a coal-dust town, finding love before the fire of the arena. was it… love at first sight?”

the crowd reacts, gasps, giggles, a collective sigh. the lights flare brighter, pressing against your face. haymitch stiffens beside you, jaw tight, eyes fixed far beyond the stage.

caesar tilts his head, eyes glittering like a predator catching scent of prey. “tell me,” he says, voice low and sweet, “who said it first? was it you, haymitch? or was our radiant new victor the brave one?”

laughter ripples through the audience, polished and artificial. the air hums with hunger. they want a story, the version that flatters them, justifies everything. they want your pain turned into poetry, your scars into souvenirs.

you feel their eyes like fingertips, tracing your face for cracks, for proof, for performance.

your pulse thunders. the lights are too bright; the air too thin. it’s the arena all over again, the same suffocating spotlight, the same invisible watchers. only this time, there’s no blood, no weapons.

this time, they don’t want your survival.

they want your love.

and that might be the crueler death.