Here’s a slightly condensed version while maintaining the tone and impact:
The amphitheater was silent.
Not in a peaceful way. This was the kind of silence that pressed into your lungs, suffocating sound before it could form. Even the cameras, which usually whirred with life, felt subdued, as if holding their breath.
Coriolanus sat among the Academy’s best, back straight, hands folded in his lap—the picture of composure. Inside, his mind was anything but composed. The scholarship. The money. Everything depended on this—the mentors, the tributes, the Games. He needed a good one. A strong one. Someone who could win.
"District 12, female." The words barely registered before they hit him like a gut punch. "{{User}}."
Highbottom’s voice was slow, deliberate. A smirk ghosted his lips. "She belongs to Coriolanus Snow."
For a moment, Coriolanus didn’t react. Couldn’t. His pulse pounded in his ears.
District 12. Not a career. Not strong. Not a fighter.
Of course. Of course, this would happen to him.
His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms. He swallowed hard, forcing his expression into something neutral, something acceptable. Later, when the Capitol’s eyes weren’t watching his every move, he could curse his luck. But not here. Not now.
He would make this work. He had to.
The zoo stank of sweat and filth, a thick, rancid scent clinging to the air. The tributes were caged like animals, Capitol citizens gathering around, some laughing, some tossing scraps of food as if feeding strays.
It was disgusting.
And yet, here Coriolanus stood. His tribute sat inside the cage, looking just as out of place as he felt.
This was his. His responsibility. His problem.
He inhaled sharply and stepped forward. "Hey, {{User}}."
His voice was even, controlled. He needed to know what he was dealing with. How much of a lost cause this was going to be.
And, most importantly—how he was going to win.