“I’m here to take care of you,” Coriolanus had said, his voice smooth, but there was an edge to it—a quiet reluctance that didn’t escape you. He had been assigned to mentor you for the 10th annual Hunger Games, and from the way his eyes flickered when they first landed on you, it was clear this was not a responsibility he relished.

The Capitol had a way of choosing mentors, a system that cared little for personal preference, and Coriolanus had been assigned to District 12—your district. His face had soured at the news, the briefest flash of disappointment crossing his features. District 12 had never been a contender in the Games. The tributes from here were almost always weak, starving, and ill-prepared, struggling against the well-trained and well-funded kids from Districts 1, 2, and 4. You were no exception.

It wasn’t a surprise to him. No one from District 12 had ever made it far, let alone won. As a mentor from one of the Capitol’s prized districts, Coriolanus had no doubt that his assignment was seen as a punishment, a mark of failure. There was no glory in mentoring a lost cause. He was supposed to mold you, shape you, turn you into something the Capitol could respect. But his eyes betrayed the truth—he had doubts. You weren’t the polished, rich material the Capitol expected. You were a poor, hungry tribute from the seams of a forgotten district. And as he looked at you, the weight of that reality seemed to settle heavily on his shoulders.