𝔸𝕝𝕝 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕃𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕎𝕖 ℂ𝕒𝕟𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕊𝕖𝕖- 𝕄𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕠𝕣𝕪 𝕆𝕕𝕒𝕚𝕣

ᏖᏂᏋ 69ᏖᏂ ᏂᏬᏁᎶᏋᏒ ᎶᏗᎷᏋᏕ

Celeste continues to ramble, peering into my disinterest. Once I heard the starting line I knew there wasn't much to be missed.

The video they play, same as every year, lost my attention at war, terrible war. What a bore. Still, I remain poised. Last year, my focus would have been nobody's concern. Now, all of Panem will watch my face. Career Tributes stared longingly at the screen, probably imagining themselves in the Hunger Games as each segment played.

"This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future."

"Isn't that just beautiful?" Celeste asked District Four in her cheerful Capitol voice, receiving smiles from the group of Career Academy Tributes huddled in one area. "Now," Her expression turned serious. "As always, ladies first."

Celeste swayed across the stage. Her curls gracefully move with each step taken. District Four's Escort reached her hand into the bottom of the bowl, twirling her arm around and mixing the slips of paper up. Then she had a slip.

"The female tribute for the 69th Hunger Games," Our escort grins with each unwind of the paper. "Lyla Keeting."

Oh.

Lyla's name slipped off her tongue like an everyday conversation. Rowan and Noah's faces turn into something of my nightmares. They watch their other best friend stumble toward the stage.

I know the steps by heart.

Lyla takes them slow and hesitant, like walking to her own execution. But where I had kept her head high, unreadable, Lyla wavers. Her fists tremble. Her lips press together like she's holding back a scream.

The crowd is silent. Too silent.

Lyla dares to glance at me, eyes wide, pleading—not for help, but for strength. And this time, I can't do it. There is nothing left for me to give.

Snow is using Lyla against me.

Grace looks heartbroken, her face puffy just as it was last year. This cycle is becoming repetitive for her. I can't help but wonder if it will soon be her turn to partake.

My face remains one of stone, not daring to look Lyla in the eyes. Her hands shook violently, clasping onto each other trying to disguise the movement. However, she gave a smile to District Four and the cameras on her face. Celeste looked over my friend's body, her aura wreaking anxiety and tension. For a half second, Celeste's smiley expression was replaced with something deeper. She recollected herself, and a second later, her Capitol persona returned.

There is nothing I have done to be seen as 'out of line' in Snow's eyes. My voice has been a whisper in this past year, at most a mumble to fellow Victors. What awful crime have I committed?

Celeste pulled a slip from the boy's bowl, simply plucking one off the top. The bright woman surveyed boys in the crowd, smiling for the cameras genuinely before ripping the paper containing one boy's name. She discarded the wrapping to the stage's stone before reading.

"Salvius Sokolov,"

Young boys and girls looked at each other, searching for one unfortunate name. They found him in the fourteen-year-old section. Salvius had a lean frame but was deceptively strong-looking, built for speed rather than brute force. His skin is pale with a cool undertone as if he's spent more time in the shadows than in the sun. A dusting of freckles stretches across the bridge of his straight, narrow nose, though they're subtle against his otherwise smooth complexion.

Savlius walked to the stage, nobody cried out for him. Nobody complained. His eyes were a mud brown, with no sprout of emotion behind them. Framing them is a head of tousled, golden-blond hair, thick and slightly unkempt, falling over his forehead in uneven waves. Salvius wore an emotionless face, his sharp features enhancing the expression. He had high cheekbones and a defined jawline that would only grow more angular with age. His fingers are long and dexterous, calloused at the tips. Lyla and Salvius turned toward each other, Lyla's skin much darker than Salvius's as they shook hands- the tradition that marks the end of this year's Reaping.

Finnick and I- this year's Mentors as we are the most recent Victors of District Four board the fancy train with its hanging chandeliers. Salvius and Lyla don't seem to get along too well. Lyla is anxiously fidgeting while Salvius sits still, his deep brown eyes observing every detail of each person in the room.

Noah and Rowan said their goodbyes to Lyla, likely saying the same words spoken to me a year ago today. Since I'm a Mentor, visiting a tribute is seen as 'disrespectful' because it displays favoritism. Lyla's mom sobs while her dad sniffles. Salvius's older brother entered his room a few minutes ago.

* * *

It never gets easier being in the company of this train. Remembering everything I wish to forget. More specifically, who. The shadow of Arien and Gilbert hangs over me like a pendulum itching to raise hell. Perhaps one day I'll get my revenge. Where their names aren't reduced to nothingness. My speeches of them during the Victory Tour keep their sparks alive when they no longer kindle a flame. And for now, that is enough. Late nights feel lonely without Gilbert on the opposing side of my phone line. Now, the only sound is a brain-scratching static.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Then, there is nothing at all.

a/n: again so sorry its taken so long for this short chapter, I'm having the WORST writing slump