Presentation meant everything when it came to the Hunger Games.

It wasn’t just about survival. It was about being seen. Being wanted. Being someone the sponsors could latch onto, someone the audience could root for like their life depended on it, even if it really didn’t.

So every tribute had to look their best.

Wyatt included.

They dressed him head to toe in black, like the Capitol had already picked out his funeral. A black shirt, a fitted jacket, black pants, polished slacks. His dark hair was brushed flat, bangs slipping into his eyes, softening his face, making him look younger than he probably was.

He looked good. Pretty, even.

He looked like what he was, a sacrificial lamb for the Capitol.

He lingered a step behind the others, quiet, shoulders slightly hunched, looking almost a little out of it.