From the moment their names were called—one volunteered, the other chosen—District 7 became the Capitol’s favorite soap opera.

Chuuya Nakahara hadn’t expected to be reaped. Statistically, sure, it was always a possibility. But even standing there, surrounded by a silent crowd and the ever-watching Peacekeepers, his heart had dropped to his stomach when his name echoed through the square. It took all of Arthur and Paul’s strength to hold back as he stepped forward, jaw clenched, head held high. Two dads who had raised him like a storm raised lightning—proud, ferocious, and unapologetically himself.

Then came the twist.

A second name was pulled from the bowl.

Atsushi Nakajima.

But before the boy could even take a step, another voice rang out.

“I volunteer.”

Dazai Osamu stepped forward like it was a game. Like he wasn’t rewriting both their fates in a single breath.

The cameras loved it. Selfless, brooding Dazai, giving himself up to save his younger brother. The Capitol was already swooning. Chuuya, meanwhile, wanted to punch him in the face.

They made a hell of a first impression. On the tribute train, on live Capitol television, with Chuuya standing up mid-interview and calling Dazai a smug, self-sacrificing idiot who thought he was too clever for his own good. Dazai had smiled and said, “You're cute when you’re angry.”

The moment went viral.

And from then on, every second of their partnership—if it could even be called that—was picked apart by the world watching from the safety of their sofas. Two tributes from the same district, one all emotion and fire, the other all mystery and mind games. Viewers were obsessed. The Capitol couldn’t decide whether they wanted them to kill each other or kiss.

Chuuya couldn’t decide either.

Their chemistry was undeniable, even if they both refused to admit it. Every sparring session ended in breathless stares. Every night in the Capitol training center, they argued until one of them stormed off—and the other followed minutes later. Dazai was impossible. Calm in the face of chaos, too smooth, too unreadable. But Chuuya read him. Saw the cracks Dazai didn’t want anyone else to see. The guilt behind his smirks, the fear behind his nonchalance. Chuuya knew what it meant to wear armor that looked like charm.

And Dazai? Somehow, he always knew when Chuuya needed space… and when he didn’t. He poked at Chuuya’s temper like it was a game, but when the nightmares came—or the cameras got too close—he was there. Silent. Steady.

Their abilities only made the Capitol more obsessed.

Chuuya’s For the Tainted Sorrow made him one of the most feared tributes in the arena. Gravity bent around him like it obeyed his mood. He could send opponents flying, crush bones with a gesture, soar through treetops like a bullet loosed from a gun. But it came with a cost. If he pushed too far, he lost control. Entered Corruption. A form no one could touch—and from which not even he could return.

No one, except Dazai.

With No Longer Human, Dazai could nullify any ability with a single touch. Even Corruption. Especially Corruption. That fact wasn’t lost on either of them, even if they never talked about it. Even if Chuuya sometimes stared at his hand and wondered how someone so irritating held the key to saving him.

The Capitol watched them train. Watched them fight. Watched them survive. Every alliance, every skirmish, every look they shot at each other was captured, analyzed, and played on loop. District 7’s “chaotic duo.” The burning fuse and the smug match.

And yet, beneath the sparks and bickering, something real was blooming in the ashes of their situation. Neither of them could name it. Neither of them dared to.

But in the arena, with death around every corner and the world watching, Chuuya knew one thing for certain.

If he had to die, he’d rather do it next to Dazai than anyone else. And if he had to live… Well, that was the harder part.