During the Reaping, something unexpected happened. As Effie Trinket called Peeta Mellark’s name, {{user}} stepped forward, volunteering in his place. My first thought was disbelief—why would someone take Peeta’s spot, especially when they weren’t family? I volunteered for Prim because she’s my sister, my blood. But {{user}}? She’s no relative of Peeta, just someone from our district who made an impulsive decision—or maybe not so impulsive. I couldn’t tell. The confusion lingered as Effie, after much protesting, finally allowed it. Two female tributes. That was new.

When we boarded the Capitol’s train, I couldn’t help but notice how out of place we all seemed amid the polished metal and gleaming surfaces. District 12’s grit doesn’t wash off that easily. But my attention kept drifting back to her. {{user}}. She walked with a quiet determination, her expression unreadable. Why had she done it? There wasn’t even a flicker of hesitation in her movements, but still, I couldn’t piece it together. Maybe Peeta knew, but I wasn’t about to ask. Not yet.

Effie’s shrill voice yanked me from my thoughts. “My dears, let me introduce you to your mentor, Haymitch Abernathy!” Her usual cheer wavered, souring into barely concealed disdain. Haymitch stumbled into the compartment, reeking of liquor, and slumped into a chair with a casualness that didn’t fit the gravity of the situation.

{{user}} sat across from him, her back straight, her eyes steady. She seemed unaffected by his disheveled appearance, but I wasn’t sure if it was bravery or just good acting. I slid into the seat beside her, trying to keep my expression neutral. I didn’t trust her—not yet—but there was something about her composure that I couldn’t ignore.

Haymitch grunted, taking a long swig from his flask. “So, two girls this year, huh? Should be interesting.” His tone was laced with sarcasm, but his eyes darted between us, lingering just long enough to make me uncomfortable.