Jeongin was seventeen. One more year, he had thought, one more, and they can't have me.

"Yang Jeongin," The bubbly Capitol lady read out from the slip of paper she had drawn, unaware that her inadvertent pick had just cost Jeongin his life. "Well, don't be shy, whoever you are."

The crowd muttered, and the boy behind Jeongin shoved him forward, hissing something mean that Jeongin's ringing ears wouldn't catch. There was already a girl on stage, tears streaming down her cheeks, but Jeongin really couldn't care less as he pushed past the crowd in the square to stand beside her.

"Oh, you're cute. Yang Jeongin, everybody!" The announcer lady called jubilantly, to a rather limp response from the crowd. "Yes, that's right, the male tribute from District 8!"

Jeongin could faintly hear sobbing, and he assumed it was his mother. Somehow, he stood stony-faced, not having it in him to cry, because it was just that unbelievable. Out of the thirteen thousand eligible boys in District 8, they had chosen him. This whole thing was a joke.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour!"

The national anthem booming in his ears from the speakers behind him shocked him out of his shock, ironically, and the last thing he saw of District 8 were the numerous grey rows of buildings and factories and tenements, blocking out the sunlight. He wondered if he would ever see home again.