You don’t remember much from the past few days, the only thing seared into your memory being the victory trumpets and the red-slicked brick slipping from your grimy fingers. You had been a picture of emaciation, a feral thing with no one but the Capitol to blame.

Your mentor, Simon, had promised to do his best to keep you alive. But being the winner of the Games four years prior, he is reluctant to get close to you. He is the first person you see when you’re roused to consciousness, the tubes and wires and needles finally dislodged from your skin. You look nothing like yourself when you find a mirror: fuller, sharper features. Maybe you just don’t recognize yourself.

The victory interview was a blur, your mind trapped in the arena, forced to watch a recap of the violence. You watch your district partner, a long time friend of yours, mauled to unrecognition by mutts. When Caesar Flickerman asks you about it, you simply stare forward, dissociating.

The end of the night comes and you’re sitting in your dressing room, staring at the Capitol creation in the reflection. A cluster of colorful shadows on your eye lids and cheeks and brows, pins and feathers and sequin shaping an outfit you haven’t even glanced at.

There is a commotion outside your door, but you don’t really hear it at first, mind hazy. But it gets louder and pulls you to the present. “They want to see the Victor. They paid money.” An unfamiliar voice says.

“And I don’t care. Tell them to ask for a refund. {{user}} has had enough of being paraded around for the night. The Capitol fans missed their chance at the Victor’s Ball.” Simon. He’s been by your side since they pulled you out of the Arena. The door opens and clicks shut. “Privilus, get all that shit off their face.” Simon demands, pushing one of my prep team members forward.

You watch as Simon cards through the clothing provided, searching for something plain and forgettable.