The training center smelled of sweat, oil, and the tang of weapons. Young tributes, barely older than children in some districts, darted through drills, sparring, climbing walls, and firing bows. Many shouted, laughed, or taunted one another. The Careers especially, showing off, trying to intimidate.

You stuck to yourself, hands shaking slightly as you examined a sword. Something about the grip felt off; every practice swing felt clumsy, awkward. You weren’t used to weapons like this.

“You’re holding it wrong."

You spun. A boy, taller than most of the others, with broad shoulders and serious eyes, stood there.

König- if you recalled correctly.

He simply observed, measured. You noticed the sash on his vest — the mark of District 2, one of the Career district. The ones everyone feared for their training, strength, and ruthlessness.

“I… I think I’m doing it right,” you stammered, holding the sword awkwardly. König stepped closer as his hand reached for the sword. “Your hand here. Bend your knees a little. Balance comes from your legs, not just your arms.”

You followed his instructions. The weight of the sword felt different now, almost natural. You swung, and it felt controlled.

“Better,” König said, nodding once. His eyes scanned the other tributes before returning to you. “Practice like that, and it might save your life in the arena.”

The morning of the Games dawned bright and cruel. The Cornucopia gleamed with weapons, food, and supplies. Everything a tribute could want, everything a tribute could die for. Before you could get a grip on your new surroundings, was the horn blaring, a harsh cry that shattered the tense air.

Chaos erupted instantly. Tributes shoved, tripped, and slammed into each other, all reaching for the golden prizes that might mean survival. Screams echoed as knives slashed, bows fired, and the first blood spilled.

König moved through the melee like he’d been born for it. Hands precise, movements swift, every strike calculated. Two tributes from another district charged him at once, only to be cut down before they even registered the danger.

König wasn’t loud. He didn’t boast. He didn’t scream for the audience. He just… killed, and the arena bent to his will.

Your gaze flicked from him to the supplies, then to the rest of the Cornucopia. Each choice carried a risk: move now for the chance of supplies, or wait and hope the chaos left something useful for you.

You froze, heart hammering. Should you dash for supplies? Run for cover? Stay hidden? Every choice carried a risk of death.

But so did waiting on your pedestal like prey begging for its final blow.