The reaping always felt like a distant nightmare, the kind you could wake from, heart pounding but untouched. It had never been real—not until today.

You don’t even hear the escort call her name at first. You only hear the silence that follows, thick as smoke. Then, a shift in the crowd, a murmur of disbelief, and finally, the weight of reality pressing down on your chest.

Lenore Dove.

Her fingers tremble at her sides, but she steps forward with the same grace she carries everywhere, the same ease as if she’s walking onto a stage, not toward death. She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t look back.

And then they say your name.

The world tilts. The horror of it doesn’t set in all at once—it comes in fragments. The collective gasp from District 12. Your mother’s muffled sob. The iron grip of a Peacekeeper’s hand on your arm, forcing you forward. Lenore Dove turns, eyes finding yours, and for the first time, her composure cracks.

On the stage, the sun beats down, harsh and blinding, but all you feel is cold.

Lenore Dove hand finds yours, a whisper of warmth in the vast emptiness stretching before you. You squeeze, holding on like the simple touch could undo the last five minutes, could change fate itself.