The sun casts a stark, unforgiving light over the crude enclosure—the so-called “exhibit” the Capitol has built in its city center. A massive chain-link cage, tall and inescapable, wraps around a patch of dry, uneven ground littered with half-hearted scenery: a few rocks, a tree stump, a muddy little pond. The whole thing reeks of spectacle, the Capitol’s latest experiment in humiliation.

Outside the fence, Capitol citizens stroll past at a leisurely pace. They’re not dressed in wild colors or feathers—no, not yet—but there’s wealth in the cut of their suits, the quality of their coats, the polished shoes clicking along the paved walkways. They peer through the fence with curious eyes and guarded amusement, as if examining animals brought in from some distant, savage land. Some point. Some whisper. A few take notes. None of them look too closely.

Inside, Coral sits on a fallen log near the edge of the enclosure, elbows braced on her knees. Her short red hair catches the light in angry flashes. She stares out from beneath her brow with the quiet intensity of a predator sizing up both prey and cage. Her eyes roam from tribute to tribute, then to the crowd beyond the fence—cold, calculating, unbothered. She doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t flinch. Let them look. She’s not here to entertain them. She’s here to survive.