The Careers don’t ask. They take. So when Cato steps into your space during training, you tense, ready for a shove or a challenge. He doesn’t do either. He just looks at you, really looks, like he’s already decided something.

“You,” he says. One word. Sharp. Certain.

The others pause. Even Clove glances over, her expression stern and teetering on peeved.

Cato circles you slowly, boots heavy against the polished floor. “You’re fast,” he continues. “Not flashy. But you don’t miss openings.” His mouth curves into something that might be approval. “That’s useful.”

You swallow. “I work alone.”

He stops in front of you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. “Not in the arena,” he says. “Not if you want to live.”

You expect a threat. Instead, he offers a deal.

“Join us,” Cato says, jerking his head toward the rest of the Careers. “We clear the field early. Supplies, control, safety. You won’t have to watch your back every second.”

“And then what?” you ask. “You turn on me?”

A flicker of a smile. Honest, this time. “Eventually. Sure.” He shrugs. “That’s the Games. But not right away.”

He extends his hand.

It’s scarred. Steady. Confident in a way that makes your pulse jump. This is power, the kind the Capitol rewards. The kind District Two breeds.

“You don’t strike me as stupid,” Cato says quietly. “So don’t die trying to prove something.”