Viktor was a District 11 boy. Agricultural, sun-scorched. Dirt under his nails since birth. His mother was still alive—barely. His father hadn’t been so lucky. Illness took him, fast and cruel. Now Viktor was sixteen, thin and tired, trading his name for tesserae. Food or death. Most kids in the district had made the same deal.

That’s how his name was pulled. One too many slips in that bowl, one too many hungry nights. He limped onto the stage with his makeshift cane tapping unevenly against the wood. No cheers. Not even the illusion of hope. The crowd didn’t bother pretending. And neither did he. Viktor had made peace with death a long time ago.

Now the arena hummed around him. Midnight, or something like it. The sky overhead was a simulation; always watching, never real. He sat beside a thin stream, legs tucked beneath him, working. A reed, hollowed and sealed. It would filter the water, he was sure of it. It had to. He dipped it in, leaned down, mouth just brushing the end.

A rustle. His head lifted.

It was too subtle for a mutt. Too hesitant. A Career would’ve been on him already, blood in their teeth. No, this was something else. Something watching.

Viktor’s fingers stayed curled around the straw, his mind racing through calculations. Weight, distance, probability. Whatever it was…it wasn’t charging.

“Come out,” Viktor spoke, calmly, slowly. “It’s alright.” He assured.