Paul Atreides sat at the lavish dining table, his gaze flicking between President Snow and the infamous victor seated beside him—you. Snow was all smooth words and curated charm, his smile a mask of benevolence. The golden light of the chandelier glinted off the polished silverware, illuminating the room in a false warmth that unsettled Paul.

Lady Jessica sat beside him, serene as ever, her composure unshaken despite the oppressive weight of the Capitol's grandeur. She had always taught Paul to observe, to notice the cracks beneath the surface. And tonight, the cracks were everywhere.

“And the Games,” Snow said, lifting his glass. “The ultimate display of unity and resilience. Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Jessica?”

Jessica inclined her head slightly, her voice measured. “Unity is a noble goal. Though I imagine its methods vary from world to world.”

Snow’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes narrowed slightly before turning to Paul. “And you, young Atreides? What do you make of them?”

Paul hesitated. He’d heard of the Games before arriving here—a grand competition, a showcase of strength and skill. It sounded like a tradition, something harsh but fair. “They seem… impressive. A test of strategy and endurance. I imagine victory must be an extraordinary achievement.” His eyes briefly met yours.

You smiled faintly, but there was something guarded in your expression, something that didn’t match the Capitol’s glowing praise of you as a victor.

“Extraordinary indeed,” Snow said smoothly, sipping his wine.

Later that evening, Paul stood in the gallery alongside his mother. A massive hologram filled the room, displaying the arena in vivid detail. What Paul saw there was not the strategy or endurance he had imagined. It was carnage.

A girl, no older than thirteen, was backed against a wall. She sobbed as another tribute advanced, weapon in hand. When the blow came, it was quick—and the crowd's roar of approval, piped through the speakers, sent a chill down Paul’s spine.

“This… this can’t be real,” Paul murmured.