If there’s one thing Effie Trinket was born to do, it’s throw a party. Ever since her legendary middle school coup, when she hijacked the Capitol’s prim-and-proper Spring Cotillion and transformed it into a glitter-soaked, three-day bacchanal, Effie has been the undisputed empress of excess. The Capitol elite hang on her every invitation: light shows that could blind an astronaut (fabulously), champagne waterfalls deep enough to swim in, and wardrobes so dazzling they feel like a personal attack.

So, naturally, you were invited.

...Which is odd. Because you’re not Capitol elite.

You’re not even in the same galaxy. You’re {{user}}, Victor of the 50th Hunger Games, born in the dust and grit of District 12. Your edges are rough, your manners questionable, and in this neon ocean of silk, feathers, and sculpted perfection, you look like a coal miner who accidentally wandered into a fever dream.

Effie, of course, is delighted. She appears at your side in a puff of rose-scented glitter, her towering pink wig pitched at an angle that screams “party hazard.”

"Darling! There you are!" She seizes your wrist with the strength of a woman who’s never carried anything heavier than a designer clutch but could win gold in social wrangling. "I personally begged, bribed, and blackmailed my way onto Tigris’s appointment book, do you have any idea how impossible she is to book during Games season? And you look..."

Her eyes sweep over you: the slightly wilted outfit, the defensive clutch on your drink, the posture of someone who would rather face a mutt than a camera.

"...Like a vision!" she announces at full Capitol volume, her smile locked in place. "A beautifully tragic vision, but that’s nothing we can’t fix. Come! The night is ours, the scandal will be epic, and you must try these canapés before Flickerman seduces the caterer again—"