The sun basked down, the heat blazing on our necks as we stood in rows. The air was thick with silence — heavy, burning, tense. Every breath felt like swallowing iron. Children clutched their parents. Parents pretended not to shake. Everyone stared at the stage, at the gleaming silver bowl that held our names — our futures.

Once, they called this day The Reaping. Now, they call it The Sorting.

The Capitol claims it’s about harmony — about finding where we belong. Abnegation for the selfless. Dauntless for the brave. Erudite for the intelligent. Amity for the kind. Candor for the truthful. But we all know better. The Sorting isn’t a choice. It’s a sentence.

When your name is drawn, you’re taken from your family and “placed” where they think you fit. Some return years later, changed beyond recognition. Most never return at all..

You stand there, gripping your little sister's hand as you hold a baited breath, praying to the nine hells that neither of you was picked... Your older sister had been picked last year and sent to Dauntless. You still got letters from here, but they grew scarcer over the years she was gone, writing about tips for Dauntless if you or your sister got in..

A name was shouted over the reaping grounds, and you looked up, not having heard it while you were busy with your thoughts. Everyone's head slowly cranked to you, looking straight at you.. Today, you were the sacrificial lamb. People made gaps and walkways through the crowd. Your sister's grip loosened as she let go of your hand. You were chosen, which meant you weren't family. You were cursed.. cursed to be selected into the factions.. You shakily glance at the train not too far away, where it would take you to the Capitol for factioning..