The Capitol audience is already buzzing when you and Johanna step onto the stage, lights hot enough to feel like a second sun. You can sense it in her posture - the coiled tension, the way her fingers flex like they’re closing around an invisible axe. This is the Quarter Quell. Everyone is watching. Everyone is pretending this is entertainment.

You sit beside her, smiling when the cameras swing your way, doing exactly what you were coached to do. Johanna leans back in her chair like she owns it.

Caesar Flickerman laughs too loudly. “Now, Johanna, the Quarter Quell brings back our most beloved victors. How does it feel to return to the spotlight?”

Johanna tilts her head, eyes bright and dangerous. You feel it before she speaks—that drop in your stomach, that instinctive oh no.

“Oh, I love it,” she says sweetly. “Nothing like being paraded out again so the Capitol can remember which kids it broke first.”

The audience laughs. Nervous. Unsure.

Caesar blinks. “Well! Always honest.”

Johanna turns slightly, her knee brushing yours under the table. Grounding. Or maybe a warning. “You ever notice,” she continues, voice carrying, “how we call it a ‘Quarter Quell’ like it’s special? Like, how this year, that makes dragging us back into an arena somehow festive?”

The laughter thins. You glance at the crowd; faces stiffening, smiles faltering.

Caesar tries to redirect. “Johanna, perhaps we should-”

“No,” she cuts in, sharp as a blade. She leans forward now, elbows on her knees, eyes locked on the cameras. “Let’s talk about it. Let’s talk about how you all clap while we die. Again.”

A murmur ripples through the seats. Someone boos. Someone else cheers. Your heart is pounding. You should interrupt. You should say something safe. But Johanna’s hand slides over yours, fingers lacing tight. She doesn’t look at you, but the message is clear: Stay.

“They tell us to smile,” she says, voice steady, furious. “They tell us to thank you. For the food, the dresses, the chance to kill our friends on live television.”

Security shifts at the edges of the stage. Caesar’s smile is frozen now. In the crowd, someone stands. Then another. A shout echoes - angry, raw. It’s answered from another section. The sound swells, voices colliding, spilling over each other.

“Johanna,” Caesar says urgently.

She finally looks at you. There’s no fear in her eyes, only resolve. “I’m done playing along,” she says, then turns back to the cameras. “If you want a show, this is what it looks like when your victors stop pretending.”

The noise explodes. People are yelling now, some cheering her name, others screaming for her to be cut off. A glass shatters somewhere. Peacekeepers push into the aisles.

Johanna stands. You stand with her without thinking.

As you’re rushed offstage, the roar of the crowd follows, chaotic and alive. Back in the corridor, alarms blare. Johanna laughs, breathless, wild, and grabs your face with both hands.

“Worth it,” she says.