District 12 wasn’t supposed to have victors. That was the joke of the Capitol — send the coal dust kids, watch them die, remember their names for a week and forget.

Except you didn’t die.

Two years ago, you walked into the arena and came back out drenched in blood and triumph. The Capitol called you “the miracle of Twelve.” Haymitch called you “damn stubborn.” And District 12 called you their winner — the second in history.

Now you had to help the third.

Walker Scobell stood on the training platform, breathless from practice, curls damp with sweat, bruises darkening the skin just beneath his ribs. He shouldn’t have promise — the Games rarely made room for that — but he did.

Most tributes came in terrified.

Walker looked determined.

That terrified you more.

Haymitch slumped against the wall with a bottle, muttering. “He’s not gonna last long enough for strategy.”

You met his eyes. “He will if we train him properly.”

Haymitch snorted, but you didn’t budge.

Walker, panting, looked between you both. “You really think I—?”

“Yes,” you cut in gently. “I do.”

Haymitch rolled his eyes. “Fine. Fine. You mentor him your way. Just don’t turn into a sentimental mess when he gets killed.”

You ignored that. You had ignored worse.

Walker swallowed, stepping closer. “Why me? I mean— you didn’t have to help me this much.”

Your voice softened. “Because you remind me of who I was before the Games… and I want you to survive more than anyone ever wanted me to.”

The Capitol interview came and passed. The training scores flashed — Walker surprising everyone with an 8. Suddenly sponsors were paying attention.

It meant nothing if he died.

Night before the Games.

The Capitol building glowed, sterile and perfect. You knew what horrors waited beneath the screens and silk.

You found Walker sitting on the roof of the training center, legs dangling over the edge, staring at the city lights like they were answers.

“You should be sleeping,” you said.

He didn’t turn. “Can’t.”

You sat beside him, your knees touching.

“You’re scared,” you whispered.

He let out a shaky breath. “Terrified. But I don’t want to look weak.”

Your hand found his — small comfort, quiet promise.

“You’re brave,” you murmured. “That doesn’t mean you’re fearless. It means you fight anyway.”

He laughed softly. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

“Two years ago,” you said. “I remember every second. The fear never leaves. But neither does the hope.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then—

“Do you think I’ll die?”