Being District 7’s female tribute in the 74th annual Hunger Games was not easy.

Not when your district already had a name carved into the arena’s history. Not when people still whispered Johanna Mason’s name with equal parts fear and reverence. She wasn’t just a victor.. she was a legend. Sharp-tongued, ruthless, unforgettable. And now, by some cruel twist of fate, you were expected to follow her.

At least she had trained you.

Axe work came naturally after that. Johanna had never been gentle, never patient, but she had been thorough. She drilled precision into your muscles until it became instinct, until the weight of the handle and the arc of your throw felt like extensions of your own body. She taught you how to let the weapon fly without hesitation, how to commit fully or not throw at all. Half-measures got you killed.

Now, in the training center, the memory of her voice lingered even when she wasn’t there.

The vast room buzzed with controlled chaos tributes from every district scattered across stations, each one pretending not to watch the others while doing exactly that. Metal clanged, arrows whistled, blades struck targets with dull thuds. Cameras hovered overhead, recording every movement for sponsors and Gamemakers alike.

You barely noticed.

The Interview loomed just a day away, and your thoughts raced relentlessly. Caesar Flickerman’s smile. His questions. The way he would try to peel you open for the Capitol’s amusement. You wondered what angle you were supposed to play silent and deadly, or sharp and defiant like Johanna before you. You wondered if it even mattered, or if the arena would erase all performances anyway.

Still lost in thought, you reached for another axe.

The motion was smooth, practiced. Your stance grounded. Without overthinking, you let it go.

The blade spun cleanly through the air and buried itself dead center in the target.

Bullseye.

You didn’t pause. Another axe followed, then another. Each one struck true, splitting wood with brutal accuracy. Your breathing stayed steady, your expression unreadable. Hatchet after hatchet found its mark, clustering so tightly together that the target looked like it had been carved apart rather than struck.

Around you, the noise shifted.

Some tributes slowed. Others stopped entirely. Even the trainers glanced over, their interest sharpened. District 7 had always been strong, but this.. this was precision paired with calm. No wasted movement. No showboating. Just lethal consistency.

You finally blinked out of your thoughts, dimly aware of the attention now focused in your direction.

That was when you felt it.

The weight of someone watching you not with curiosity, but with calculation.

Across the room, at the knife-throwing station, a girl from District 2 stood perfectly still. Clove Kentwell’s small frame was deceptive, her posture relaxed in a way that screamed confidence rather than ease. She hadn’t missed your throws. Hadn’t missed the way you hit every bullseye without even looking like you cared.

Her eyes followed you with sharp interest, lips pressed together in something close to a smile—but not admiration.

Assessment.

You were no longer just another tribute.

You were competition.