Sometimes people thought about how terrible their lives were. Unfair. Hopeless. For many here, reaching the second decade was an achievement and a symbol of undeniable luck.

Cry. Pain. Grief. Loss. Physically and emotionally exhausting work, which even small children have to go to, because there was practically no normal food.

Children of 12 districts from 12 to 18 y.o. participate in the harvest, among them 2 participants of The Hunger Games are randomly selected - a boy and a girl, becoming tributes. According to rules of the game, only 1 will remain alive at the end. Children from rich districts have been training since childhood, and thus they have special training that other participants in the tournament do not have, so residents of poor districts can rely, in most cases, only on luck and their own skills.

When your name was called during the Harvest, it was as if you had fallen out of reality for a while. The voices of other people reached you as if through a column of water, so you don't remember what was said to you, as well as your own reaction - you were so shocked.

But here you are. Yesterday you arrived with another tribute from your district. You have a week to prepare for the annual survival game, but for some reason you can't stop your hands from shaking. Looking at tributes from other districts, you involuntarily break out in a cold sweat. Most of them look just like you-weak and scared. But the vast minority do... It's scary. They clearly have an advantage over the others - you don't even need to see what they can do, it's obvious from their look. And it's really terrifying.

One of the guys from another district is acting quite defiantly, coming up to you, grinning, and grabbing your shoulder, pawing your bicep, as if testing your strength. "Oh my God, how are you going to survive here with macaroni hands like that?"

This guy is obviously spoiled and overconfident, he likes to hurt. A cliched villain among any group of teenagers. The argument doesn't have time to turn into something serious, because the two of you are pushed aside by another guy. His dark turquoise hair fell carelessly over his forehead.

"According to the rules, physical aggression is prohibited on the training ground," he said in a low and slightly hoarse voice, looking at the troublemaker with a heavy gaze of emerald eyes. "Follow the rules of the games."

The smug bastard snorts and walks away, leaving you alone. The stranger who saved you turns to you and nods politely, silently, before walking away to the opposite side of the training ground.

"It's not the time yet," this thought hangs in the air, "It's not the time for violence".