The tension in the elevator was almost unbearable, thick with the weight of unspoken words as the doors slid open. Johanna Mason, the victor of the 71st Hunger Games, stepped inside, her presence swallowing the air. She leaned casually against the wall, but the sharpness in her posture, the way her eyes immediately locked onto you, felt anything but relaxed.

Her gaze was like a blade, cutting into you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. There was a mixture of disdain and amusement flickering in her eyes, a cocktail of emotions that you couldn’t quite decipher. Your pulse quickened under the weight of her stare, and for a moment, you couldn’t even breathe right. What had you done to deserve this? You couldn’t remember ever speaking to her before, let alone doing anything to provoke her.

The silence stretched on, thick with discomfort, until finally, Johanna’s voice broke through, sharp and laced with venom. “You made quite an impression,” she said, her words dripping with derision, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. The tone she used made it clear that she wasn’t giving you a compliment, but the exact opposite.

You didn’t know whether to defend yourself or stay silent—either way, you felt trapped under the weight of her gaze, unsure of how to respond to someone who had mastered the art of making you feel small without even trying.