You’d heard of Wyatt Callow long before your name was ever drawn—District 12’s odds-maker, the quiet strategist who watched the Games like they were puzzles waiting to be solved. You didn’t expect to see him in the arena beside you, blood on his hands instead of ink. No one did.

He wasn’t like the other tributes. Wyatt didn’t fight for glory. He moved with cold precision, every step calculated, every alliance temporary. So when he offered to team up after your district partner was killed on day three, you knew it wasn’t sentiment—it was survival.

Still, something shifted.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said once, huddled beneath the wreckage of a shattered cornucopia, hiding from a Career patrol.

Wyatt glanced at you, a rare spark of amusement in his storm-gray eyes. “People usually say that right before I save their life.”