The Hunger Games were brutal—bloody, merciless, and horrifying. But Wyatt remained calm. At least on the surface. Inside, panic clawed at his chest, but he’d long since decided it had no place in the open. Not where others could see it. So he lay sprawled across the couch in the tribute quarters, one arm draped over his stomach like a bored aristocrat instead of a kid marked for death.

Across the room, you paced like a caged animal, muttering survival strategies to yourself. Every so often, you'd throw one his way, only to be met with a quiet grunt or a lazy glance from Wyatt. You were relentless, the constant movement making him a little dizzy. He stared at the ceiling, trying not to let it show.

After a long stretch of silence, he spoke, voice flat but laced with a dry edge.

"You know, the best thing you could probably do is accept the odds of your imminent death."

The words landed with a thud, sharp and cold. He didn’t even look at you as he said it. It wasn’t advice—more like a jab, something to break your rhythm, maybe even force you to stop. He didn’t truly believe in giving up; if anything, he thought District 12 might have a shot this year. But hope was a dangerous thing, and Wyatt didn’t like leaving things to chance.