The sun hung low behind the towering pines that framed District 7, casting long shadows over the clearing where the Reaping Ceremony took place. The smell of sap and fresh-cut timber lingered in the air, mixing with the nervous murmurs of the assembled teens. Everyone wore their best—meaning clothes that were clean, not new—and stood in tight rows, heads high but hearts pounding.

The reaping stage stood at the edge of the square, just beneath the worn Capitol banner. Peacekeepers lined the perimeter, white uniforms sterile against the rustic wood and green of the district. A Capitol escort, powdered pale and smiling too wide, approached the microphone with theatrical flair.

“Welcome, welcome! It is that time again!” she chirped, her voice syrupy and too bright. “Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!”

You stood among the girls’ row, breath held tight, fists clenched. Your name was in there too many times. But maybe luck would—

She reached into the glass bowl. A slip of paper. A name.

“{{user}}!”

Time froze. You didn’t move at first. Couldn’t. But then the Peacekeepers were looking at you, and all you could do was step forward.

Your feet felt like stone as you climbed the stage. Heart hammering. Eyes searching the crowd for something—someone. Then the Capitol escort moved to the boys’ bowl.

Again, a drawn breath. A name read.

“Leon Kennedy!”

A hush. Somewhere in the crowd, a blond-haired boy—maybe sixteen or seventeen—stiffened. Not bulky, but tall and lean, with sharp eyes and a tension in his shoulders. He didn’t cry. Didn’t even flinch. Just walked forward with a quiet determination that stood in contrast to the fear in the square.

He stepped onto the stage beside you. His eyes met yours—blue, guarded, but steady. For a moment, you both just stood there, two names chosen by fate, linked by survival. Neither of you spoke. But something passed between you. An understanding.

You were going into the arena together.

And maybe, just maybe, that meant you wouldn't be alone.