#Hunger Games Au

[thedistortionshallways]

Need a desert duo fic set in a hunger games AU immediately but alas I do not think one exists 💔

[stewieinnit]

I know I am like a month late now, BUT HOLY SMOKES! I read the original fic in 3 days and I ate it UP.

It was so wonderfully written, and you had me drawn in at all times. I love how you took hunger games and it’s concepts and made your own story to tell that wasn’t a back to back retelling on the first book. I read the first book in my 9th grade English class and watched the movie, and the little references from the movie was a delight. But it was even better that you had taken your own liberties with it! I could gush on and on about this fic of yours lol. Plus cherik on top of it?!?!? I spent so long scrolling on Ao3 to find a good long cherik fic and I found yours and got to diving in. I have ZERO regrets.

Also your usage for every existing character in X-men and the marvel universe was so good. When I realized that Logan would replace haymitch I was on my KNEES!

Anyways yes an update would be so so amazing, I love your writing!

Also happy holidays!! <3

Is anyone interested in a hunger games au update?

[gillotto]

BKDK Hunger Games AU

[lupinqs]

SAFE AND SOUND (1/3) ━━ pazzi

☆ ━ summary: in which azzi fudd forms an unexpected alliance with paige bueckers as they fight for survival in the hunger games.

☆ ━ word count: 10.1K

☆ ━ warnings: nothing yet really, should all be in the next chapter lol

☆ ━ links: part two, my masterlist, ao3 link

☆ ━ author’s note: if i had a nickel for every time i wrote one of my ships going to the hunger games together, i’d have two nickels. which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice 🧐 obviously this is a hunger games au so if you haven’t read the book or seen the movie or are not familiar with the premise, i don’t know how well you’ll be able to understand. alsoooo this part is lowkey very much buildup and not actual pazzi just mostly azzi; it was meant to be one whole part but it would’ve been too damn long so i split it!

“AZZI FUDD.”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, everything stops. The world around her seems to freeze in time. Lucia Bliss, the escort from District Nine, says the name with a certain flair, her voice high-pitched and breathy, as if this is a celebration instead of a death sentence. Lucia’s purple hair gleams under the harsh midday sun, her too-bright smile a sick contrast to the crowd’s silence.

Azzi stands rooted to the ground. Her heart slams in her chest, and her vision narrows as shock seeps through her bones. She can’t move, can’t breathe. Her body is disconnected from her mind, numbness spreading through her limbs. She vaguely registers the weight of the stares from the girls around her—some wide-eyed with horror, others carefully blank. Azzi blinks. Is this real? She swallows hard, but her throat feels like sandpaper.

She never let herself think about this. Never allowed the possibility to take root. She spent the whole week worrying about her little brothers, Jon and Jose, her anxiety circling around them like a storm cloud. Jose, especially. It’s his first Reaping, and he’d been so scared he couldn’t sleep the night before. Azzi had promised him it’d be okay, that the odds were in their favor. She’d lied. And now it’s her name that hangs in the air.

Her legs feel heavy, like they’ve been weighed down with stones, but somehow, she forces them to move. One step. Then another. Each movement is stiff, mechanical, her body obeying while her mind is still reeling. The faces in the crowd blur into a mass of pale colors, and Azzi avoids looking at any of them directly. The sun presses down on her back, making her skin feel tight, suffocating, but she barely registers it. Her heartbeat thuds in her ears, a dull roar that drowns out everything else.

I have to do this. She repeats it in her head, over and over, as if it will numb the panic creeping up her spine. I have to get up there.

The platform is higher than it looks. It looms above her as she approaches, and the closer she gets, the more she feels the weight of the district watching her. Her hands tremble at her sides, but she keeps them balled into fists, her nails digging into her palms. She can’t afford to show fear. Not now.

She steps onto the stage, the wooden floor creaking beneath her shoes. Lucia Bliss beams at her, all synthetic kindness and hollow enthusiasm, like she’s completely oblivious to the fact that she’s sending a sixteen-year-old girl to her death. Azzi wants to scream, to shout at her, to demand to know how she can smile like that. Instead, she stands there, stiff as a board, staring blankly into the crowd.

She doesn’t look at her family. Not yet. If she lets herself see them—really see them—she knows she’ll fall apart. And she can’t afford to break down, not in front of everyone. Not here. The numbness is the only thing keeping her from collapsing.

“Now, for the boys!” Lucia announces, with that same bright cheeriness, like this is all just a grand spectacle and not a nightmare come to life.

The second name is pulled, and Azzi barely registers the sound of the boy’s name. “Kellan Ryder.”

Her eyes catch a glimpse of him as he stumbles forward—a scrawny boy with messy red hair and too-thin arms. He looks no older than fourteen, maybe fifteen at most. His face is pale, his mouth set in a tight line as he walks toward the platform like a condemned man heading to the gallows. There’s no strength in him, no fire. He’s shaking like a leaf, and Azzi knows his fate immediately. Anyone with a brain should. He won’t make it.

Kellan’s knees wobble as he climbs onto the platform, nearly tripping on the last step. His frightened eyes dart around, but when they meet Azzi’s for a fleeting moment, she sees it—the absolute terror, the resignation that’s already settled in him. He knows he’s dead. And now, she’s tethered to him.

Lucia claps her hands together, looking as if she expects the crowd to erupt into applause, but no one moves. District Nine never claps at the Reaping. There’s nothing to celebrate here.

Azzi’s jaw tightens, her hands still clenched at her sides. What now? What happens next? She can’t feel anything except a dull, creeping fear gnawing at the edges of her consciousness. It’s been less than five minutes since her name was called, but it feels like an eternity has passed. She feels lost, unmoored, floating in a space where time no longer makes sense.

As the anthem blares across the square, she chances a glance into the crowd—just for a second. Her gaze locks onto her family. Her mom is there, her face pale but strong. Azzi’s dad stands right next to her, an arm around her waist. They wear the same firm expressions—like they may actually believe their daughter can make it through this. Azzi can’t find Jon and Jose—they’re somewhere within the rest of the relieved crowd of boys who have been spared this year.

Lucia is speaking again, but Azzi barely hears her. The words are muffled, distant, as she’s ushered off the stage and into the cold interior of the Justice Building. Her chest feels tight, her throat burning from holding back everything that’s clawing at her insides, threatening to break free. She can’t let them see her cry.

Inside the Justice Building, it’s quieter, but the silence only makes her pulse race faster. She’s taken to a small room to wait. The goodbyes. They give her only a few minutes with her family before she’s whisked away forever.

Her mother is the first to come in, and the second the door closes behind her, the stoic mask she’s been holding up crumbles. She rushes forward and pulls Azzi into a bone-crushing hug. Katie Fudd does not shed any tears, but Azzi can feel her shaking against her shoulder. Trembling, but trying to fight it.

“You’re going to come back,” her mother says firmly, as if she’s manifesting it into existence. And then, more choked: “Please, Azzi. You have to come back.”

Azzi stands stiffly for a moment, then wraps her arms around her mother. She wants to promise that she’ll come back, that she’ll survive, but the words stick in her throat. How can she make a promise like that when she doesn’t know if she can keep it?

“I’ll try,” Azzi says instead, her voice hollow. I’ll try. It’s all she can offer.

Her brothers come in next, Jon leading Jose. The second Jose sees her, he runs to her, clinging to her waist like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go. His face is streaked with tears, his breath coming in ragged sobs.

“You’re gonna come back, right?” Jose’s voice is small, broken. Azzi’s reminded that he’s only twelve. “You have to come back.”

Azzi pulls away slightly, brushing the hair out of his face. “I’ll do my best,” she whispers, her voice trembling. She can’t say anything more than that. She wishes she could lie, give him something more hopeful, but the truth is all she has.

Jon is much quieter, and he stands back, his face hard as stone. But his eyes—his eyes are full of pain, full of everything he’s trying not to feel. When he finally steps forward, he pulls her into a tight hug, whispering in her ear, “Please try to come home.”

Azzi nods, her throat too tight to respond.

And then it’s her dad that gets her last, his arms wrapping around her softer, less firm. He rubs a hand along her back, rests his chin on top of her head. It makes Azzi want to cry. But she doesn’t. She keeps the tears in. Tim tells her, “Be smart. Don’t trust anyone.” And then he pulls away, meeting her gaze. His eyes aren’t sad, they don’t memorize the lines of her face as if this is likely the last time they’ll ever see each other. Instead, they’re firm, a fire burning in them, a fire that believes Azzi has enough spark in her to win. “You’re strong, Az. You find what you’re good at, and you stick to it. Just like shooting.”

Azzi nods, though his words don’t truly reach her. She’s good at basketball—great, even. The best shooter in her district. But the Hunger Games isn’t basketball. It’s entirely different.

The goodbye is over too quickly, the Peacekeepers ushering her family out of the room, their voices echoing down the hall. As the door closes behind them, the reality of the situation hits her with full force. This is happening. This is real. There’s no way out of it. In just a few days, she’ll be in the arena, and all that will matter is survival.

Azzi takes a deep breath, her hands trembling. She has to survive. For her family. For her mom. For her dad. For Jon and Jose. I have to win.

But as the cold emptiness settles into her chest, she knows it’s not going to be that simple. Not even close.

THE ROOM in the Capitol’s Remake Center is pristine and clinical—too clean, in fact. The walls are bright white, and the overhead lights are too harsh, casting everything in an almost sterile glow. The faint hum of machinery buzzes in the background, and Azzi sits stiffly on the plush chair in the center of the room, her back straight and hands clenched in her lap. She can feel the cold, unfamiliar air of the Capitol against her skin, a far cry from the familiar, earthy smells of District Nine. The whole place feels wrong.

Azzi’s mind is still spinning from the events of the past day, from the Reaping to the train ride to the Capitol. Everything feels like a blur—one unending nightmare she can’t escape from. The vibrant, colorful city that’s supposed to be awe-inspiring feels nothing more than a glittering cage, trapping her in a world that doesn’t belong to her.

A knock at the door startles her from her thoughts, and she straightens, her heart thudding a little harder in her chest. The door opens, and in walks a tall, slender woman with dark, shimmering hair cut into a sleek bob. Her skin is flawless, glowing in the artificial light, and she’s dressed in an outfit that’s both futuristic and elegant, all smooth lines and shimmering fabric.

She strides into the room with the kind of confidence Azzi has only ever seen in Capitol citizens, her heels clicking against the floor. When she reaches Azzi, she extends a perfectly manicured hand and offers a soft, warm smile.

“Hello, Azzi. I’m Seraphine,” she says, her voice gentle, as though she knows how jarring this experience must be. “I’ll be your stylist for the Games.”

Azzi stares at Seraphine’s hand for a second too long before realizing she’s supposed to shake it. Her fingers feel cold as she grips the stylist’s hand briefly, then pulls away, her eyes flickering nervously to the floor. She hasn’t said a word since entering the Remake Center, and even now, her throat feels tight, like it’s closed off from the weight of everything around her.

Seraphine seems to notice Azzi’s discomfort and doesn’t push her to speak. Instead, she walks around the chair, studying Azzi with a critical yet kind eye, taking in her features as if she’s a sculpture being examined for the first time.

“You’ve got very strong features,” Seraphine says, her voice soft as she moves to stand in front of Azzi. She lifts a hand, her finger tracing the air just in front of Azzi’s face as if imagining her canvas. “A really beautiful face. Great symmetry. Your nose is perfect—straight, but with just a little softness at the tip. And your lips,” she smiles, “plump and well-shaped, the kind people pay for here in the Capitol.”

Azzi doesn’t know what to say. She swallows hard and forces out a quiet, “Thank you.”

But the words feel hollow in her mouth. Two days ago, she probably would’ve flushed at the compliment and grinned at the woman before her. But it doesn’t matter now. Being beautiful won’t keep her alive. It won’t stop a sword or a spear. It won’t protect her when she’s standing in the arena, staring down a tribute who wants her dead. She doesn’t care about her looks. She cares about surviving.

Seraphine seems to sense the tension in her, but she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she steps back and claps her hands together, her expression shifting into something more professional. “Well, we’ve got a lot to do before the Opening Ceremony tonight. The tributes from District Nine usually get an agricultural theme, but we’re going to make sure you stand out. You’ll need something that catches the eye, something that makes people remember you. The Capitol loves a good first impression.”

Azzi tries to focus on what Seraphine is saying, but her mind keeps drifting, her thoughts pulling her back to District Nine, to the faces of her brothers, her parents, their small home nestled in the farthest corner of the district. She feels like she’s been dropped into an alien world, surrounded by people who don’t understand what it means to fight for survival. Here, everything is about image—how you look, how you present yourself. But in the Games, none of that matters. At least, not to Azzi.

Seraphine motions for Azzi to stand, and she does so stiffly, her muscles aching from sitting so rigidly for so long. The stylist begins to circle her, appraising her figure and murmuring to herself. After a few moments of quiet contemplation, Seraphine snaps her fingers, and a team of assistants rushes in, carrying bolts of fabric and strange devices Azzi doesn’t recognize.

Seraphine smiles softly, her fingers brushing against Azzi’s shoulder. “We’re going to make you look incredible. Trust me, Azzi. I’ve been doing this for years.”

Azzi doesn’t respond. She lets the team of assistants work on her, trying not to flinch as they run strange tools across her skin, smoothing it, shaping it. They tug at her hair, pulling it back tightly from her face, and apply makeup to her cheeks and eyes. She’s never worn anything like this before, and the sensation of it all feels foreign, uncomfortable. The air smells heavily of perfume and hair products, nothing like the open fields and fresh earth of her home.

Seraphine watches closely, making small adjustments as the assistants work. “We’ll keep it simple but striking,” she says as she examines the fabrics. “District Nine is about agriculture, the backbone of Panem’s food production. So we’ll lean into that, but in a way that makes you look powerful. Strong. Like someone the Capitol will want to root for.”

Azzi barely nods, her mind half-absent.

The assistants pull out a long, flowing piece of fabric, the color a rich golden hue that shimmers in the light. It’s embroidered with intricate patterns, resembling the fields of grain District Nine is known for. The material clings to her body, forming into a fitted jumpsuit that accentuates her athletic build. The design is sleek and modern, with a slight flare at the shoulders, giving her the appearance of strength, while the fabric flows behind her like a cape made of golden wheat.

Seraphine steps back, admiring the final look, her lips curling into a satisfied smile. “You look incredible, Azzi. Absolutely stunning. This will make the audience remember you—beautiful, but more importantly, formidable.”

Azzi stares at herself in the mirror, her reflection almost unrecognizable. The girl looking back at her is a Capitol version of herself, someone polished and made to look like she belongs here. But Azzi can see right through it. She doesn’t belong here.

“How do you feel?” Seraphine asks, stepping up beside her.

Azzi hesitates, her eyes lingering on her reflection. She looks strong, she looks like someone people might fear. But the question gnaws at her, the same thought that’s been looping in her head since she arrived at the Capitol.

“Being beautiful won’t help me in the arena,” she says quietly, her voice low, as if the thought escapes her without permission.

Seraphine’s expression softens, and she places a hand gently on Azzi’s shoulder. “It’s not just about beauty. It’s about presence. The Capitol citizens, the sponsors—they want someone they can believe in. If they believe in you, they’ll help you. They’ll send you things you need. And that could be the difference between life and death.”

Azzi doesn’t know how to respond to that. She’s never thought about it that way—never considered that people watching her might care enough to help. She doesn’t know if she likes that idea, though. It feels too distant, too detached. How can she trust that some faceless audience in the Capitol will care enough to keep her alive?

But she nods anyway, her jaw tight as she looks back at her reflection. “I guess.”

Seraphine gives her a reassuring smile, but Azzi can see the flicker of something else in the stylist’s eyes. Maybe a recognition of the bleakness that comes with the Games. Or maybe just sympathy. Either way, it doesn’t change the reality.

And then Seraphine is clapping her hands again, signaling the rush of assistants and stylists bustling back into the room. They tidy up the last few details, adjusting the cape of shimmering gold fabric that flows behind Azzi, smoothing out any wrinkles in the intricate embroidery of her jumpsuit. The noise, the movement, all of it feels overwhelming, but Seraphine stays calm and poised, giving Azzi a reassuring smile before gesturing toward the door.

“Come, Azzi. We need to head downstairs. Your chariot awaits,” Seraphine says.

Azzi’s legs feel unsteady as she follows her stylist. There’s a gnawing anxiety low in her stomach, a knot that’s only been growing tighter since her name was pulled. She walks behind Seraphine, out of the room and down a long, marble hallway that echoes with the click of the stylist’s heels. The air feels heavier here, the anticipation hanging thick in the space around them as they make their way to the first floor.

The elevator doors open, revealing the Remake Center’s ground floor—a massive, gleaming stable. The smell of horses hits her first, a sharp contrast to the sterile air of the upper floors. The space is wide and open, filled with row after row of chariots, each one assigned to a different district, waiting to carry their tributes into the Opening Ceremony. It’s loud, too, with the sound of people bustling around, prepping the tributes, adjusting the horses’ harnesses, and giving last-minute instructions.

Azzi’s eyes dart around, searching for Kellan, her district partner. She spots him off to the side, standing next to one of the chariots, his eyes wide with fear and his shoulders hunched as if he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. He looks terrible, Azzi thinks, her heart twisting in her chest. Kellan is so young—fourteen—the same age as her little brother Jon.

In fact, Kellan could’ve been Jon. Could’ve been Jose. The thought makes her feel sick. He’s just a kid. And now he’s about to be thrown into a fight to the death.

Azzi’s stomach churns as she approaches Kellan, trying to think of something to say, something that might ease his nerves, but nothing comes to mind. What can she say? You’ll be fine? It won’t be that bad? It would be a lie. There’s no comforting truth here.

Lucia is already there, too, flitting around with her usual enthusiasm. Her bright purple wig bounces as she talks, gesturing wildly with her hands. She’s all Capitol—flashy and clueless, too caught up in the spectacle of it all to realize what’s really at stake.

“Ah, Azzi! You look fan-tastic!” Lucia exclaims, clucking her tongue and clapping her hands together. “Seraphine has really outdone herself this year.”

Azzi gives a stiff nod, but her attention is drawn to the figure standing next to Lucia.

Their mentor—Cyrus.

A tall, grizzled man in his mid-forties, Cyrus won the Games when he was seventeen, Azzi knows that. His hair is streaked with silver now, and his face is lined with years of bitterness and loss—an expression she’s come to recognize in former victors. Cyrus isn’t the warmest person, but he knows what it takes to survive, and that’s all that matters to Azzi now.

He steps forward, eyeing her and Kellan critically, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “You both look good,” he says, his voice gruff, as if the compliment costs him something. “But this isn’t about just looking good. It’s about making the Capitol love you. You need them on your side, or you’re dead in the water.”

Kellan swallows hard, his eyes darting nervously toward the chariots. Azzi can see his hands trembling slightly at his sides, and again, that pang of guilt hits her. He shouldn’t be here. He’s too young.

So is Azzi. So is every other tribute here.

Cyrus doesn’t seem to notice Kallan’s behavior—or if he does, he doesn’t care. He steps closer, his voice dropping into a low, urgent tone. “When you get out there, you smile. You wave. You make sure they see you, like you’re already a victor. The crowd loves confidence. They love tributes who look like they’ll win, not ones who are scared to death.” His eyes flick to Kellan, lingering for a second too long. “So you both smile. Got it?”

Azzi nods, even though the last thing she wants to do is smile right now. But Cyrus is right. They have to play the game, even here.

She turns her head slightly, trying to shake off the weight of the moment when something—or someone—catches her eye.

Just across the stable, standing next to another chariot with her district partner, is a girl. She’s tall for a girl, like Azzi is, with long blonde hair that’s been braided back into a bun. Her outfit is clearly themed around District Seven—lumber—and it’s made of rich brown leather, like freshly cut wood, with patterns that resemble tree bark. But what stands out most to Azzi isn’t the outfit. It’s her face.

The girl’s features are sharp but soft in all the right places. She has a defined jawline, high cheekbones, and a pair of piercing blue eyes that seem to flicker with something unspoken. She’s pretty—beautiful, even—but not in the overdone, Capitol way. There’s something natural about her beauty, something real.

Azzi’s breath catches in her throat as their eyes meet. For a moment, the noise of the stable fades into the background, and all she can hear is the pounding of her heart in her chest. The girl holds her gaze, her expression unreadable but intense, like she’s studying Azzi just as much as Azzi is studying her.

This girl is another tribute. Another person Azzi might have to kill. But the thought doesn’t stop her from staring a second too long, from letting herself get caught in the girl’s gaze.

It’s only when Cyrus barks something at them that Azzi snaps her head back around, her cheeks flushing as she tries to focus. This isn’t the time for distractions.

She forces her attention back to Cyrus as he continues giving them last-minute instructions. “Smile. Wave. Make them love you. Got it?”

Azzi nods, though her thoughts are still jumbled. She glances at Kellan, who’s biting his lip nervously, his eyes darting around the stable like a rabbit caught in a trap.

And then they’re being ushered toward their chariot. Azzi takes a deep breath, her legs feeling wobbly as she steps onto the platform, Kellan following behind her. The horses, sleek and muscular, are restless in front of them, their hooves clattering against the marble floor. She grips the edge of the chariot tightly, her knuckles turning white.

As the chariots begin to roll out, Azzi takes one more deep breath. She can hear the roar of the crowd growing louder, the excitement building as the tributes are about to make their grand entrance.

The moment they roll into view of the massive audience, the noise is deafening. The Capitol citizens cheer and shout, their brightly colored hair and outrageous outfits blending together into a sea of vibrant chaos. Azzi forces herself to smile, just like instructed, letting her dimples show through as she waves to the crowd, her arm moving mechanically as if on autopilot. She hates it—the way their eyes are all on her, the way they’re watching her as if she’s nothing more than a piece in their twisted game.

She’s never wanted attention like this. The only way she’d ever dreamed of being noticed was by playing basketball, maybe one day making it big enough to play in the Capitol’s professional leagues. But that was a stupid dream—something far out of reach for someone from a District. Even if she won the Games, even if she became a Capitol darling, she’d never be allowed to play. The basketball leagues are for Capitol citizens, not for tributes. Not for people like her.

Azzi keeps smiling, keeps waving, even though every second of it feels wrong. The crowd’s cheers grow louder, their excitement palpable, but Azzi feels nothing. All she can think about is the girl from District Seven—the girl whose eyes she can still feel on her, even now, as the chariots roll forward.

IT’S THE second day of training. Yesterday, Azzi found her strength—throwing knives. It was quick; the dagger was the first weapon she picked up and tried. And it just… worked. It surprised her at first, but as the blades left her hand, spinning in the air before sinking into the target with a solid thud, it felt almost familiar. The motion, the precision, the focus—it all reminds her of shooting a basketball. In her mind, it’s the same concept: aim, release, make the shot. Whether it’s a knife sinking into a dummy or a ball swooshing through a hoop, the goal is the same. And it comforts her in a strange way, turning something deadly into something she’s used to, something she can control.

Now, Azzi stands several feet away from a dummy, gripping a knife, the handle cool against her palm. She lines it up with the target. Her muscles tighten as she flicks her wrist, releasing the dagger. It slices through the air, embedding itself into where the heart of the dummy would be with a satisfying thud. A perfect hit. She lets out a slow breath, allowing a small flicker of satisfaction to cross her face. The trainers don’t miss it either, nodding with approval as they observe her from across the room.

Cyrus, her mentor, has been watching her closely since she got here. And, after Azzi informed him of her successes with the daggers last night and his compliments of her physique, the true muscle she has, it’s been clear he’s placing his bets on Azzi this time around. It seems there’s just no point in trying with Kellan.

As for Kellan, he hasn’t said much of anything since they were whisked away to the Capitol. He’s just a boy, and Azzi has watched the fear in his eyes grow with each passing day. Cyrus has tried to train him, to offer him advice, but Kellan’s barely even listened. It’s as if he’s already given up. Azzi sees it in the way his hands tremble whenever he holds a weapon, the way he flinches during combat drills, and the way he refuses to meet anyone’s gaze. He’s already dead in his mind, and Azzi knows that mentality will get him killed in the arena.

“Focus on yourself,” Cyrus had told her bluntly last night after dinner. “Kellan’s not gonna make it. You need to accept that now.”

Azzi had nodded, the truth of Cyrus’ words sitting like a heavy weight in her chest. She tried talking to Kellan once, offering him a few words of encouragement, but he barely even acknowledged her. After that, she stopped trying. She can’t afford to waste time or energy on someone who’s already checked out. It isn’t like she doesn’t feel guilty—she does—but she has to survive.

She can’t focus on anyone else’s survival but her own.

Today, Cyrus has her focusing on something other than knives. “You’ve got those down,” he’d told her before the session. “Learn how to survive the elements now. Plants, food, water. You need to know what’s safe and what isn’t. Most tributes die from hunger, dehydration—not all of it is blood and guts.”

So Azzi finds herself crouched in front of an information station, its holographic displays showing various plants, fruits, and fungi. She taps the screen, cycling through images of plants she might find in the arena, trying to commit them to memory. Which ones are edible, which ones are poisonous, which ones could be used to heal wounds. It’s not as exciting as knife-throwing, but it’s necessary, and she knows it.

She’s absorbed in her study, staring intently at a particularly nasty-looking mushroom, when she senses someone approaching from the side. Her muscles tense instinctively, and she glances up, prepared to brush off whoever it is—until she sees Paige Bueckers standing next to her.

Paige Bueckers. District Seven. Azzi knows who she is. She’s memorized all the tributes’ names and districts by now—it’s smart to know who she’s up against—but Paige was the first one she committed to memory. Maybe it’s because of the way Paige caught her eye before the opening ceremony, their silent exchange of glances lingering in Azzi’s mind longer than she’d like to admit. Or maybe it’s because she’s watched Paige train over the past two days and realized just how dangerous the girl really is. Azzi saw her with a sword earlier, moving with a deadly grace that sent chills down her spine. Paige might be one of the most skilled tributes here, and that’s saying something.

Paige is tall, even a little taller than Azzi, and her blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail, a thin, black headband resting over it. Her sharp, blue eyes meet Azzi’s as she stops next to her, wearing a grin that seems completely out of place in the tense, competitive atmosphere of the training center.

“Azzi Fudd,” Paige says, her tone casual, as if they’re not preparing to kill each other in a matter of days. “District Nine.”

Azzi glances back at the screen, her brows furrowing slightly. She doesn’t know how to feel about Paige approaching her. She doesn’t know what she wants. This could be some kind of strategy—get close to your enemies, make them lower their guard. Azzi isn’t stupid. She knows better than to trust anyone here.

“Bueckers,” Azzi replies, her voice neutral, not giving anything away. She keeps her eyes on the screen, scrolling through more plant images.

But Paige doesn’t leave. She shifts her weight, bouncing slightly on her heels, like she can’t seem to stay still. The grin on her face widens, and Azzi feels even more confused. Why is Paige so friendly? Why is she smiling like they’re just two normal girls having a chat?

“So, you’re, like, really good with daggers, huh?” Paige says, her voice light. “I saw you throwing earlier. Pretty impressive.”

Azzi doesn’t look up. She sighs instead, her fingers hovering over the screen. “Guess so,” she mumbles. In the back of her mind, she knows she should probably be nicer. Paige might be trying to form an alliance, and with Kellan being a dead end, Azzi could use one. But trust is a luxury she can’t afford right now, and Paige’s enthusiasm throws her off.

Paige doesn’t seem fazed by Azzi’s short response, though. She keeps standing there, grinning like an idiot, her eyes twinkling with some kind of amusement. It’s unnerving how at ease she seems, how… happy. It’s probably a mask. She’s probably as terrified as the rest of them, and she’s just getting through it in her own way.

Nevertheless, Azzi can’t take it anymore. She turns her head slightly, locking eyes with Paige. “Why are you talking to me?” she asks bluntly.

Paige blinks, her grin faltering for just a moment. For the first time, she looks a little unsure of herself. “Um… I don’t really know, actually,” she admits with a small, nervous laugh. “Just… wanted to, I guess.”

Azzi narrows her eyes, studying her. She has no idea if the girl before her is being honest. But the sincerity in her voice catches Azzi a little off guard, and for a second, she’s not sure what to say. This is the Hunger Games. No one talks to someone just because they “want to.” Everyone has an angle. Yet Paige stands there, looking oddly genuine, like she really doesn’t have a reason. Like she just wants to talk to Azzi, no strings attached.

For a moment, Azzi’s walls start to crack. She considers the possibility—however slim—that Paige is just… a good person. It doesn’t make sense, not in a place like this, but the warmth in Paige’s smile makes Azzi’s suspicion waver.

“Well,” Azzi finally says, her voice a little softer than before, “maybe you shouldn’t.” She doesn’t look away this time, her eyes lingering on Paige’s, almost like she’s testing her.

Paige’s grin returns, softer this time, but still there. “Maybe,” she says, “but I’m here anyway.”

Azzi shakes her head a little, gaze returning to the screen. She needs to focus on this, not the girl beside her.

Paige doesn’t seem to be deterred, though, still watching Azzi with that easy smile, her eyes bright. “You’re pretty serious, yeah?” she says, tilting her head, almost like she’s teasing but not quite. “Locked in. I get it. Gotta be. But… we’re all here, y'know? Same boat.”

Azzi shifts her weight, feeling her jaw tighten. “I have to be serious,” Azzi mutters, her fingers swiping across the screen, though she’s not really paying attention to the plants anymore. Her heart beats a little faster under Paige’s gaze. “You can’t survive if you’re not.”

Paige leans in just slightly, and Azzi catches the faint scent of something sweet on her, like flowers. “I know that,” she says, her tone softening for a moment. “But you might need some help in there—if you wanna win.”

Azzi’s shoulders tense. The suggestion makes her uneasy, and her instinct is to push back. Help. From anyone, it feels too dangerous. It feels like relying on someone she can’t control. She barely trusts herself in this place, let alone a girl from another district who, let’s be real, could very well end up as an enemy.

“I don’t need help,” Azzi says, her voice firmer than before. “Especially not from people I don’t know.”

Paige’s smile fades a little, but there’s no frustration in her expression. If anything, she just looks… thoughtful, almost curious about Azzi’s reaction. It’s like she’s trying to figure her out, trying to see beneath the guarded exterior.

Azzi hates that. She doesn’t want to be studied or analyzed, especially not by Paige Bueckers. She’s already doing too much of that herself—constantly assessing everyone, weighing their strengths and weaknesses, trying to predict who’s a threat and who might just fade into the background.

“I’m not trying to get in your way, Azzi,” Paige says quietly, her voice losing some of its earlier lightness. “But, y’know, maybe we don’t have to be enemies. I’ve seen you, and you’re good. Like, real good. And neither of us are Careers and both our district partners are kinda duds, so I just thought…”

Azzi cuts her off, turning to face her abruptly. “Thought what? That we’d be allies? Friends?” She shakes her head, ignoring the strange knot of tension building in her chest. Paige might be trying to help, but Azzi doesn’t want it. She can’t want it. Not here. “It doesn’t work like that. I don’t work like that. Sorry.”

Paige stands there, still watching her, and for a second, Azzi thinks she sees something flicker in Paige’s eyes—disappointment, maybe, or understanding. But Paige doesn’t push back. She just nods once, a slow, thoughtful thing.

“Okay,” Paige says, stepping back a little, giving Azzi space. Her smile returns, softer, but still there. “I get it. Just… keep doin' what you’re good at.”

Azzi feels a strange pang in her chest as she watches Paige step away, like maybe she’s made a mistake. But no—she can’t think like that. She needs to stay focused, stay sharp, stay alone. That’s how she’ll survive.

Without another word, Azzi turns on her heel and walks away, her heart beating faster than before.

THE PINK dress hugs Azzi’s figure, its soft blush fabric shimmering under the bright lights of the dressing room. It’s not something she’s ever imagined herself wearing—not this shade, not this tight. She looks almost like a Capitol citizen now, polished and flawless in her own right.

The dress has a high neckline and delicate straps that crisscross her shoulders, falling in elegant folds down to her ankles. It’s simple, yet the color makes her stand out, glowing softly against her dark skin. Her hair is styled in loose waves, not unlike the Capitol’s obsession with effortless beauty, with the font pieces pulled back into braids. The makeup is light but dramatic—plump lips, accentuated cheekbones, and eyes that pop with a subtle pink shimmer.

Seraphine steps back, admiring her work with a satisfied smile. “You look stunning, Azzi. Like a dream.”

Azzi nods, not fully meeting Seraphine’s gaze. She knows she looks good, but it doesn’t feel like her. The face staring back at her in the mirror is a version of herself she doesn’t recognize. It’s not the Azzi from District Nine; it’s not the girl who shoots hoops with her brothers or helps her dad tend to the crops. It’s someone else—someone made for the Capitol’s stage. Someone for their entertainment.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, though her voice lacks enthusiasm. Seraphine doesn’t seem to mind. She knows by now that Azzi is serious, focused. There’s no time for compliments when the Games are looming.

Seraphine’s assistant adjusts the hem of Azzi’s dress one last time before stepping aside. “You’ll knock them dead,” she says with a wink, though the words sit heavy with the weight of their meaning. Knocking them dead. That’s quite literally what Azzi will have to do soon enough.

As she’s led out to the waiting area before the interviews, Azzi’s mind begins to drift. She thinks back to the training evaluations, how she had scored a 10—one of only four tributes to do so. A 10 is good, she knows that, but the competition is fierce. Both the girl and boy from Two scored 10s and Paige managed a 10 as well. There are other tributes with 9s, plenty who will be formidable in their own right. But Paige? Paige is different. She’s unpredictable, unnervingly skilled. And something about her makes Azzi feel a pang of unease.

As Azzi settles into her seat backstage, waiting for her interview with Caesar Flickerman, she watches the other tributes’ interviews on the screen. The Careers are all flashy and confident, playing up their deadliness to the crowd’s delight. Caesar eats it up, grinning and laughing as they boast about their skills and charm the Capitol audience. The boy from District Four also stands out—tall, muscular, and intimidating. A strong swimmer, no doubt. He’ll be dangerous, especially if the arena is at all water-based.

But none of them hold a candle to Paige.

When Paige steps onto the stage, it’s as if the entire room shifts. She looks stunning, effortlessly cool, in a crisp white suit that contrasts sharply with the frilly dresses most of the other girls have chosen. Her hair is down, styled in soft, wavy locks, with the top half pulled back in a way that highlights her sharp features. She looks more masculine than the other girls, but somehow that works in her favor. It’s not just that she’s different—it’s that she owns it. The Capitol loves different.

Azzi watches, unable to tear her eyes away, as Paige charms the entire crowd. She’s funny, confident, and just the right amount of cocky. Caesar practically beams at her, and the audience is eating out of the palm of her hand.

“You’re quite the swordswoman,” Caesar says, raising his eyebrows in admiration. “I saw your score, Paige—a 10! That’s incredible.”

Paige just grins, shrugging casually. “You know, I try.”

The crowd laughs, and Cyrus begins to mutter under his breath. “Damn it,” he says, shaking his head as he runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “She’s going to have sponsors lined up around the block.”

Azzi knows he’s right. Paige isn’t just skilled—she’s magnetic. People want to root for her. She’s dangerous, yes, but she’s also got this charm that makes you want to see her win, even if that means she’ll be killing people to get there.

Azzi swallows hard, feeling a knot form in her stomach. As much as she doesn’t want to admit it, she’s drawn to Paige, too. There’s something about her that pulls Azzi in—her confidence, her grace under pressure, her ease in the face of what’s to come. It’s not just attraction, though she can’t deny that Paige is beautiful. It’s more than that. There’s something about Paige that makes Azzi feel like she’s… alive. Like she’s not just surviving, but living fully in the moment, despite everything. Ironic, considering Paige could be the one to kill Azzi in that arena—or vice versa.

And Azzi hates that she feels this way. She shouldn’t be drawn to Paige. She shouldn’t be thinking about how Paige’s eyes had locked onto hers back at the opening ceremony, or how Paige had approached her during training, trying to talk like they were friends. None of it matters. Paige is just another tribute, another obstacle standing between Azzi and survival.

But still… there’s something about her.

As Paige’s interview wraps up, the crowd erupts in applause, and Caesar gives her a hug before she leaves the stage. Azzi watches as Paige walks off, her suit practically glowing under the stage lights. For a brief moment, Paige glances in Azzi’s direction, their eyes meeting across the room. It’s quick—just a fleeting second—but Azzi feels her heart skip a beat before she looks away, reminding herself why she’s here.

Just two interviews later, Azzi is taking a deep breath as the lights hit her, stepping forward onto the stage. The crowd is massive, louder than she imagined, and their cheers seem to echo in her chest. Her eyes land on Caesar Flickerman, who’s grinning wide at her as she approaches him, his flamboyant suit sparkling under the stage lights.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to Azzi Fudd from District Nine!” Caesar announces, and the crowd’s cheers grow even louder.

Azzi sits down next to Caesar, her fingers resting awkwardly in her lap. Despite the excitement around her, she feels the familiar nervousness bubbling up inside. This isn’t her element—talking, being the center of attention. She’d rather be on the sidelines, unnoticed, but here, there’s no avoiding it.

“Azzi, you look absolutely radiant tonight!” Caesar says, his voice warm and enthusiastic. “Tell me, how does it feel to be here in the Capitol, getting all this attention?”

Azzi smiles politely, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress. “It’s… different,” she says softly. “I’m not really used to it. But it’s nice, I guess. Everyone’s been very kind.” Very kind because they probably know I’ll be dead in a couple weeks.

Caesar nods, leaning in slightly. “I can imagine it’s quite a change from life in District 9. Tell me, what’s life like back home?”

Azzi pauses, her mind drifting back to the open fields and the quiet days of working alongside her family. “It’s simple,” she says. “We work hard, but it’s peaceful. Most of my days I’m just spending time with my family, doing the chores or playing basketball. It’s nothing like here, but it’s home.”

Caesar smiles warmly, sensing the connection she has to her district. “Family, huh? I bet they’re watching right now, rooting for you. Tell me, do you have a big family?”

Azzi shrugs a little. “Not too big, not too small, I think. There’s my parents, and then I have two younger brothers. And we’re still very close to my grandparents. I just… love my family, they’re very supportive. They’re great.” She feels her throat get choked up by the end of the sentence, not wanting to think too much about her family, how much she misses them. Even though, truthfully, she knows she should be thinking about her family because that is what needs to be her motivation. She needs to win this for them, no matter how impossible it may seem.

The crowd gives a soft murmur of approval, and Caesar’s grin widens. “That’s wonderful. Sounds like you’ve got a lot of people cheering you on back home. And speaking of support…” He pauses dramatically, the audience clearly hanging on his every word. “Any special someone out there you’re hoping to impress? Perhaps a crush back home?”

Azzi’s eyes widen a little at the question, feeling her face heat up. A crush. That is quite literally the last thing on her mind right now. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, not sure how to answer without sounding awkward.

“I, um… no,” she says with a laugh that’s more nervous than she intended. “Not really. I’ve been focused on training, so… no time for that.”

Caesar laughs good-naturedly, waving a hand as if to brush off the question. “Oh, I get it, I get it! Training comes first, of course. But I’m sure there are plenty of admirers in the Capitol who are wishing they could get your attention.”

The crowd cheers in agreement, and Azzi can’t help but smile a little at their enthusiasm, though she still feels her nerves fluttering in her stomach.

“But let’s talk about something fun,” Caesar continues, changing gears smoothly. “You’ve been in the Capitol for a little while now. What’s your favorite part so far? The food? The fashion? The luxury?”

Azzi takes a moment to think, glancing down at her dress. It’s true, everything in the Capitol has been overwhelming—lavish and excessive compared to the modest life she’s known back in her district. But there’s one thing that stands out to her more than anything.

“The food,” she answers with a small smile. “I’ve never seen so much of it in my life. And it’s all so… colorful. I didn’t even know you could make food look like that.”

Caesar chuckles. “Colorful! I don’t think I’ve heard that one before.” He hits his knee as he laughs, the audience giggling with him. “But, yes! The Capitol chefs do love their extravagant dishes. Has there been anything in particular that’s caught your eye?”

“Honestly, the desserts,” Azzi admits, her smile widening. “There was this cake we had the other night, and it was shaped like a swan. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was so good.”

The crowd laughs once more, clearly charmed by her innocence, and Caesar claps his hands together. “A girl after my own heart! Who can resist a good dessert, right?”

Azzi relaxes a little more, finding it easier to talk now that the conversation has shifted to lighter topics. Caesar’s friendliness helps, and she realizes that, for the first time, the crowd isn’t as intimidating as she thought they’d be.

“You know, Azzi,” Caesar says, his tone softening just a bit, “you’ve got this quiet strength about you. I think a lot of people are really drawn to that. You don’t need to be loud or flashy to make an impact. And clearly you have made an impact—you scored a ten in the training. I mean, come on!”

Azzi smiles a little bit at the validation, her dimples poking through. “Thank you,” she says, nodding. And then she shrugs, her lips quirking up a little further as she adds, “I try.”

Caesar and the crowd chuckle at the action. “Well, you’ve certainly done well,” he tells her earnestly, before adding, with a wink, “And I have to say, your smile is absolutely infectious. I think you’ve got the whole crowd wrapped around your finger.”

The audience cheers again, louder this time, and Azzi feels her face heat up.

“Well, Azzi, it’s been an absolute pleasure talking to you tonight,” Caesar says, standing and offering his hand to help her up. “I think I speak for everyone when I say we’re all rooting for you.”

Azzi stands, shaking Caesar’s hand and giving the crowd a small wave as they erupt into applause. As she walks off the stage, back to where Seraphine, Lucia, and Cyrus are waiting, the adrenaline from the interview still buzzes through her.

Lucia beams at her as she approaches, her hands rushing to cup Azzi’s cheeks. “You were perfect, Azzi! Absolutely perfect.”

Seraphine nods in agreement. “The crowd loves you. You’re going to get so many sponsors, I just know it.”

Even Cyrus gives her a rare grin, clapping her on the shoulder. “You did good out there, kid. Real good. I think you’ve got them in the palm of your hand now.”

Azzi lets out a breath, the tension slowly leaving her body as she realizes she’s done it. She got through the interview, and didn’t just survive it—she actually made a connection, made herself heard and liked. The Capitol might not feel like home, but for now, at least, she knows she’s done everything she can to stand out in the best way possible.

THE MORNING is unnervingly quiet. Azzi walks beside Cyrus, the soles of her shoes barely making a sound on the sleek marble floors of the Capitol building. They’re headed toward the hovercraft, the final step before the arena. The place where everything will change. Each step closer feels heavier, the weight of what’s coming settling into her bones.

Cyrus walks just ahead, his brow furrowed in thought. Azzi knows well enough that he’s not the type for overly emotional goodbyes, but there’s a seriousness to him today that wasn’t there during training. His hands are tucked into his pockets, and Azzi notices the faint lines of tension in his jaw. She’s quiet, still processing the fact that in just a few hours, she’ll be fighting for her life.

As they near the docking area, Cyrus stops abruptly, turning to face her. His eyes are sharp, cutting through the nervous haze that’s settled over her.

“Listen to me, Azzi,” he begins, voice low but firm. “This is it. From here on out, it’s all strategy. Everything you do, every move you make—it has to be calculated, smart.”

Azzi nods, her throat tightening as she listens.

“I know it’s not in your nature to trust easily, but in the arena, you’ll need to be even more cautious,” he continues. “Don’t form alliances unless it’s strategically sound. I don’t care if they seem friendly or if they remind you of someone from back home—trust no one unless it gives you an advantage.”

His words cut deep, and she swallows hard. She hasn’t really thought much about alliances, but it’s clear that Cyrus has. He knows this game inside and out.

“And whatever you do, keep your emotions in check,” Cyrus adds, his gaze hardening. “The moment you start caring too much about anyone in there, you’ve already lost. I know you’re good-hearted, Azzi, but that’s not going to save you—not in the Games.”

She doesn’t say anything, just nods again. The lump in her throat grows as the reality of what’s coming washes over her.

“And the bloodbath.” Cyrus pauses, before his voice lowers slightly. “The moment those platforms rise, it’s going to be chaos. Don’t linger. Don’t get caught up in the fight unless it’s unavoidable. Get what you need and get out. Do you understand?”

Azzi meets his eyes, the weight of his words settling deep in her chest. “I understand,” she says softly.

He studies her for a moment, and for the first time since they arrived in the Capitol, Cyrus’s tough exterior seems to soften. His hand reaches out, resting on her shoulder, and the squeeze he gives is firm, reassuring.

“I believe in you,” he says quietly, his voice sincere. “You’re smart, and you’ve trained hard. I’m going to do everything in my power to help get you home.”

Her eyes well up slightly at his words, but she quickly blinks back the tears. She can’t afford to be emotional right now. There’s no space for it.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, barely able to get the words out past the lump in her throat.

Cyrus nods once, and then he’s stepping back, his hand falling away from her shoulder as they reach the hovercraft. Seraphine is already there, waiting for Azzi, her usual cheerful demeanor muted with the solemnity of the day. The metallic hiss of the hovercraft’s door opening sends a shiver down Azzi’s spine. This is it.

Without another word, Azzi steps inside. Seraphine follows, offering a small, reassuring smile as the door slides shut behind them. The hovercraft hums softly as it lifts off, heading toward the arena.

Inside, the sterile, clinical atmosphere makes her stomach churn. A Capitol medic approaches her almost immediately, a small syringe in hand. Azzi barely flinches as the needle pierces her skin, injecting the tracker into her forearm. She knows it’s necessary. They need to know where she is at all times. It’s standard procedure, but it still makes her feel like livestock.

Seraphine sits beside her, her usual flair for Capitol fashion stark against the dull surroundings of the hovercraft. She doesn’t say much, just watches as Azzi rubs her arm where the tracker was inserted. The silence is heavy, filled with unspoken words, and it’s not long before they arrive at the underground facility just outside the arena.

Once inside, they’re led into a small room where Azzi is handed her arena outfit—a black, water-resistant suit that fits snugly against her frame. It’s durable, sleek, and clearly meant for endurance. The material feels odd against her skin, foreign compared to the simple, looser clothes she’s worn most of her life.

She glances at herself in the mirror. The suit is practical, but its design tells her something about the arena. Water. The Capitol is hinting that water will play a significant role in the Games. Maybe a jungle, maybe a lake, or something more treacherous. Her mind races with possibilities, but she pushes the thoughts aside. She’ll find out soon enough.

As she pulls the last of the suit into place, Seraphine watches her carefully, her eyes glassy. The usually confident stylist seems suddenly small, fragile, as if she’s struggling to keep herself together. She steps forward, her hands gently smoothing the fabric of Azzi’s suit, her fingers trembling slightly.

“You’re going to be alright, Azzi,” Seraphine says softly, her voice cracking just a little. “You’ve been so strong. You’re going to make it back—for your family. I know you will.”

Azzi’s chest tightens at the words. Seraphine’s sincerity, her belief that Azzi can survive this—it’s almost too much to bear.

“Thank you,” Azzi whispers, her voice barely audible.

Seraphine pulls her into a tight hug, her arms wrapping around Azzi’s frame with surprising strength. It’s brief, but Azzi feels the weight of Seraphine’s worry in that embrace. It’s like she’s saying goodbye.

When they pull apart, Seraphine’s eyes are red-rimmed, though she’s trying her best to hold it together. “Good luck, Azzi,” she says, her voice shaky. “You’re going to be okay.”

Azzi swallows the lump in her throat and nods. She doesn’t trust herself to speak, so she just gives Seraphine a small, grateful smile.

The door to the launch chamber opens, and it’s time.

Azzi steps into the glass cylinder, her heart pounding in her chest. The last thing she sees before the platform begins to rise is Seraphine, standing in the doorway, her hands clasped tightly together as if in prayer.

And then the ground shifts beneath her feet, and she’s lifted upward, the glass tube carrying her toward the surface. Toward the arena.

The first thing she notices is the intense humidity. The air is thick, almost suffocating, and it clings to her skin. As her eyes adjust to the sudden brightness, she realizes why—it’s a jungle. Dense, tangled vines hang from towering trees, their massive roots weaving through the ground like some ancient network. The ground beneath her platform is slick with mud, and just beyond the edge of the platform is a large body of water—a vast lake, its surface calm and unnervingly still. It stretches out as far as she can see, bordered by the dense jungle on one side and the metallic glint of the Cornucopia in the center.

Water. She was right.

Azzi’s gaze darts to the other tributes. There’s movement all around her, platforms rising as the others are pulled into view. Some faces are familiar from the training center, others not so much. She spots the Careers first—the boy and girl from District Two, standing tall and confident, both of them dangerous and ready. Their eyes are already locked on the Cornucopia, clearly prepared to kill anyone who stands in their way.

A few spots down, she sees Kellan. His face is pale, his eyes wide with fear. He looks like he’s barely holding it together, his body stiff as if he might bolt the second the gong sounds. He’s trembling slightly, and Azzi’s heart tugs at the sight. He’s not going to last long, not with that kind of fear weighing him down. But she can’t afford to think about him—about anyone, really. Cyrus’s voice echoes in her mind: Don’t get too close to anyone.

She swallows hard, her gaze shifting back to the Cornucopia. The metallic structure gleams in the sunlight, stacked with supplies—everything they’ll need to survive. Weapons, food, water. But it’s a death trap. The Careers will get there first, and they’ll cut down anyone who tries to take something they’ve claimed.

Azzi’s eyes flick to the jungle behind her. It might be safer to head for cover, to avoid the bloodbath entirely. But then again, if she doesn’t grab something now, she could be left empty-handed, vulnerable. She forces herself to breathe deeply, trying to focus on her strategy. It has to be quick, precise. She’ll grab something—anything—and get out. That’s it. Nothing fancy.

The countdown begins, the metallic voice booming over the arena. Sixty seconds.

Azzi’s heart races as the clock ticks down. She glances around once more at the other tributes, trying to gauge their movements before it’s too late. Some are already tensing, their eyes glued to the Cornucopia. Others, like Kellan, are frozen in place, terrified to move. Far across from her, Azzi thinks she sees a flash of blonde hair. Paige. She wonders if she’s scared right now.

Thirty seconds.

Azzi’s hands ball into fists at her sides, every muscle in her body tightening. The humidity, the jungle, the water—it all presses in on her, but she pushes the fear down. She can’t afford to freeze up. She won’t.

Fifteen seconds.

Her pulse pounds in her ears, the world around her narrowing to just the Cornucopia and the water at her back. She feels the weight of everything—Cyrus’s words, Seraphine’s hope, the Capitol’s eyes—bearing down on her. It’s overwhelming, but she won’t let it break her.

Ten seconds.

The other tributes are crouching now, their bodies taut, ready to sprint the moment the gong sounds. Azzi glances at the Cornucopia again, her mind calculating every possible move, every route.

Five seconds.

Her heart hammers in her chest, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

Three.

She digs her heels into the platform.

Two.

Her hands tremble.

One.

The gong sounds.

The Sixtieth Hunger Games have begun.

[maidragoste]

Chapter Three: He ruined it

The Hunger Games AU

Katniss!Jacaerys x Peeta!Reader

Chapter One Chapter Two

A/N: I'm happy to bring you a new chapter of this series, sorry for the delay in publishing and I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know your thoughts in the comments or reblogs. Thank you for reading 🥰🥰💖💖

My inbox is open so I’m always willing to read your headcanons, opinions and answer your questions 🤭💕

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes

The elevator ride takes less than a minute since the training rooms are below the floor of your floor, but Jacaerys could still feel the tension in the air. He doesn't know if it's because you're nervous like him about seeing who they'll have to face in a few days or if, like him, you're upset because Larys told you two to spend all your time in public close to each other. Jace doesn't understand the reason behind his uncle's instructions, first, he made you two hold hands at the parade and now it seemed as if he wanted you to become friends while training. Jace doesn't like this, he doesn't want to get attached to you. That would only make things more difficult in the arena, but when he complained his uncle reminded him that he had already promised that he would do whatever he told him. He had to do it if he wanted to return home to Lucerys and Joffrey.

When they both get out of the elevator they find a giant gym full of weapons and obstacle courses. It's not even ten o'clock, yet you two are the last to arrive. The rest of the tributes are gathered in a tense circle, each one has a piece of cloth attached to their shirt with the number of their respective district. While they give his number, Jacaerys in a quick assessment realizes that you two are the only ones who are dressed alike. Was it another way to appear like a united front to others?

Once you and Jacaerys join the circle the head trainer steps forward and introduces herself as Atala and then begins to explain the training schedule, how each position has an expert in the skill in question, that some positions teach tactics survival and other fighting techniques. She also warns that it is prohibited to perform combat exercises with another tribute and that if someone wants to practice with a partner, there are assistants.

“We don't have to be together all the time if you don't want to,” you whispered to him, once Atala finished reading the list of skills and gave them the freedom to start training.

“But Larys said”

“Larys isn't here,” you interrupted, making him frown. “He's not going to know if we don't follow what he tells us one hundred percent.”

“If you don't want to train with me just say it” he snapped, feeling annoyed although it made no sense because he should be happy that you don't want to train with him either after all Jacaerys wanted to avoid spending as much time with you as possible.

“I'm not the one who complained at breakfast,” you reminded him, making him blush and feel ashamed of himself for his attitude. If he weren't so impulsive he would have at least waited for you to go to your room before complaining to his uncle.

“I'm sorry about that,” he apologized, scratching the back of his neck.

“Okay,” you shrugged, downplaying it, but even so, your district partner still felt like a fool because of his attitude. “Where do you want to start?”

“Let's tie some knots,” Jacaerys responded, thinking that his uncle had said not to attract attention so he was forbidden to take a bow at least until the private session with the gamemakers. Besides, Jace had no desire to be around the professional tributes, who had gone straight to the weapons that looked more deadly and handled them without difficulty, nor the trembling tributes who received their first class of knives or axes.

The stall is empty so the coach seems excited when the two approach. When he realizes that Jacaerys knows something about traps, he teaches them how to make a simple trap that would leave another tribute hanging from a tree by their leg. They practice for an hour until they both master the technique well and then move on to the camouflage station. Jacaerys notices that you seem more excited in this position as you mix mud, clay, and berry juice on your skin. It also seems easy for you to braid costumes out of vines and leaves. The coach for this position is excited about your work.

"I make the cakes" you blurt out of nowhere.

"The cakes?" He had been concentrating on watching Royce Baratheon swing a mace directly into the chest of a mannequin.

"Those from the bakery. I make the decorations"

Jacaerys remembers those cakes, which are on display in the shop window, with flowers and other pretty designs on the icing. Before he went to live with Uncle Larys he was never able to eat one of those but since they lived with him there was always cake for special occasions like birthdays and New Year's. Every time they went to buy the cake Joffrey and Lucerys always argued about which one looked the best before choosing which one to take. If he came home he didn't think he would be able to accompany them back to the bakery. He couldn't see your father and brothers in the face again. Nor could he see the disappointment in his brothers' eyes when they saw that the cakes were no longer as pretty as before.

"They're cute, but you won't be able to glaze someone to death," he hadn't meant to sound so scathing but thinking about your death, your family, and his siblings put him in a bad mood.

"You never know what might be in the arena what if…?"

"Let's continue with another position" he interrupts you, he wasn't in the mood for some joke.

"Okay, go ahead with whatever you want, I'll stay here a little longer. I'll catch up with you later" you responded.

The smile on your face had disappeared and Jacaerys felt a tightness in his stomach but he decided to ignore it, he just nodded and went to the fire-making station. He is so focused on the coach's instructions and getting the technique right that he doesn't even realize that he has spent so much time there until they announce that it is time for lunch. Jacaerys looks at you with the idea of telling you to have lunch together. He frowns when he sees that you are no longer alone but are talking to Jason Mallister, the thirteen-year-old boy from District 4. What were you doing? Larys said not to attract attention and you found yourself talking to one of the professional tributes, of course, that would attract attention.

Annoyed, Jacaerys went to the carts that had been brought with food and began to serve himself and then sat alone at one of the tables. Professional tributes gathered around a table. They were loud, unlike the rest they seemed carefree, as if they were not afraid.

A few minutes later you sit next to him. Jacaerys can't hold his curiosity for long so he asks you.

“Why were you talking to him?”

“Stop frowning, we're supposed to be friends,” you scold him in a whisper and he struggles to put on a friendlier face. “He reminds me of Joffrey,” you admit.

“My brother is nothing like him,” the brunette denies instantly. He wouldn't tell you but when you two saw the District 4 reaping he also thought about his brother when Jason appeared on screen. But he couldn't allow himself to see his brother in one of his opponents, that would only hurt him in the arena, so he instantly forced himself to push that thought away from him. The only thing in common between the two of them was that they are both thirteen years old, he just repeated to himself.

"I just showed Jason how I made my camouflage and I remembered when I tried to teach Joffrey how to frost a cookie." Jace must have made some funny face in his surprise because you were smiling again. "He made a mess, I don't know how he ended up with frosting on his hair and face, the only reason my mother didn't get mad is because Joffrey bought the cookies he ruined. If you ask me, he didn't ruin them, he just took artistic liberties" You said the last thing as if you were telling him a big secret, leaning towards him and putting your hand a few centimeters from your face, hiding it from the other tributes, as if you didn't want to they will try to read your lips. At your antics and the image of his younger brother covered in icing, Jacaerys can't help but laugh.

"I didn't know Joffrey spent so much time at the bakery."

"And with you", he added in his head. He couldn't help but wonder why his brother never told him. Although he shouldn't be surprised because at home there is always some bread or cookie from the bakery, but he always thought that the one who was going to buy it was Uncle Larys. He might have missed some things by spending so much time in the forest and the Hob with Baela.

"Your brother is addicted to sugar so he usually comes often after school to buy something. He says he deserves a treat after spending hours locked up in hell."

Jacaerys notices the affection with which you speak of his brother and he can't help but feel warm. He has the feeling that you have even more stories to tell about his brothers and he wants to hear them all.

"Yeah, that sounds like Joffrey," he agrees with a smile.

During the rest of the days of training, Jacaerys feels a whole mix of emotions fighting within him. You two continue training together in some positions such as setting up shelters, recognizing edible plants, and throwing knives and spears, but at some point, you always end up separated by your decision because you want to train with a partner so you look for one of the assistants. In those moments Jace can't help but distrust you because for a while he sees you fighting with the assistant but then the next time he sees you you are in the same section as the professionals, he never sees you talking to one of them but he still can't avoid feeling restless. On the other hand, he can't continue denying that something is forming between the two of you; it's impossible not to form a kind of friendship after sharing so many anecdotes during lunch. At first, you were the one who did most of the talking, telling him more about Joffrey's visits to the bakery, but then Jace wants to know about you and starts asking you more about you and your brothers. And before he least realizes it, he is also sharing his own stories. He tells you how Uncle Larys once made them believe his house was haunted only to make them stop wandering around at night because they wouldn't let him sleep. You laugh when he tells you how he once challenged a bear to fight in the woods to keep a beehive and how his father had never scolded him so much.

On the second day of training before you go to train with an assistant you whisper to Jacaerys that he has a shadow. When he turns to see Rue, the little girl from District 11 spying on them, you encourage him to talk to her but Jace refuses because he has no idea what to say to her and also because he is afraid of meeting her and she will remind him of his brothers or Baela's little sisters.

When the private sessions arrive with the gamemakers it is evident that both you and Jacaerys are nervous because neither of you tries to have a conversation while waiting your turn or even when the two of you are alone after Rue enters.

"Good luck," Jacaerys wishes you as he stands up when he is called. He couldn't tell you later because once a tribute finishes the session he has to go to his apartment "Try throwing the weights, impress them."

"Thank you" It is evident that you were not expecting his words because you keep looking at him impressed "Lucky for you too. Remember to shoot well" you smile at him.

He nods and starts walking towards the door.

He ruined it. What the hell was he thinking? No, he didn't think about it. He just let his anger get the best of him, he was outraged that the guards had stopped paying attention to him after he missed his first shot, he was furious that he could die within a few days and they wouldn't deign to watch his entire performance, so he took the arrow and shot at the gamemakers' table. Of course, he didn't shoot any of them, his arrow hit right where he wanted it, in the apple that the pig had in its mouth. When all eyes were on him he sarcastically thanked them for their time while bowing. He didn't wait to be fired, he stormed out of the training room still feeling his blood boil. Only when he was alone in the elevator did he feel the weight of what he did, he felt like his heart was about to jump out of his chest and his throat was burning. He ruined it. He hadn't tried to kill any of the gamemakers but maybe someone would think that. He was sure he must be the first tribute to do something like that. He lost any chance he had of winning the games. But what scares him the most is that because of his attitude, they will now punish his brothers. He would never forgive himself if something happened to them because of him.

When the elevator doors opened, tears had already begun to roll down Jacaerys's cheeks. He ignored the questions from Effie, who was waiting for him in the hallway, and locked himself straight into his room. It didn't take long for knocks to sound on his door and the woman's voice asking him to come out but he didn't move from the bed. When silence came he thought that he had finally given up and they would leave him alone. But minutes later he heard the cold voice of his uncle:

"Jacaerys, open the door. Stop acting like a child."

Jacaerys was about to ignore him but then he realized that the only one who could help him protect his brothers was his uncle. So he took courage and got out of his pile of blankets. He unlatched the door and nervously opened the door. For a moment he thought he saw something different in his uncle's eyes. He couldn't figure out exactly what but that only made him more nervous. Without saying anything he went to sit on the edge of the bed while he watched Larys enter and close the door again. Surprising him, did his uncle think that he would try to escape in the middle of the conversation?

Larys took the chair that was at the desk placed it in front of the bed and then sat down.

"I ruined it," said Jacaerys, his voice breaking when he saw that his uncle did not seem willing to start the conversation. "They are going to punish Luke and Joff because of me." The teenager's desperation was clear by how he tugged at his curls as he spoke."You have to do something, uncle, please. It's my fault, let them punish me."

"What did you do?" the victor demanded to know.

Then Jace told him everything, how the gamemakers were drunk and how after he missed his first shot they stopped paying attention to him, missing the circuit he made and how he hit the center in the rest of his shots, that he didn't think about his actions, that he got carried away with anger and shot at the apple that was in the mouth of the pig that the gamemakers were about to eat, gaining their attention again and how he left the training room without waiting to be fired but not before thanking them sarcastically for their attention. As Jacaerys continued speaking Larys's hand turned white from the strength with which he gripped his staff.

"I told you that you won't attract attention" his uncle's biting tone only made Jacaerys' discomfort increase and he couldn't help but take one of the blankets again and wrap himself in it. It's not like he expected Larys to comfort him but he also shouldn't have been surprised that the first thing he did was scold him. "But you can rest assured, they're not going to punish your brothers." There was that strange look in his eyes again.

"Are you sure?" The uncertainty in his voice was clear, he wanted to trust his uncle but at the same time, he couldn't help but think that Larys would tell him any lie as long as he kept concentrating on the games.

"If they are going to punish Lucerys and Joffrey, they would have to tell what you did in the entertainment center so that it has some effect on the districts, but they won't because it's secret," Larys explained with a little more patience. "The only one you hurt with your actions it's you"

Upon hearing that nothing would happen to his brothers, Jacaerys felt that part of his discomfort disappeared. He still had to worry because surely the gamemakers would now make his life miserable in the arena but at least he knew that his brothers would be safe.

"I know, the gamemakers will make my life miserable in the arena" he stated "And today they will give me the worst score so I won't have any sponsors" he sighed thinking that now it would be even more difficult for him to survive in the arena without sponsors, the food wouldn't be a big problem because he knew how to hunt but if he got hurt then he would need medicine.

"Don't worry about the sponsors, I'll take care of that," Larys promises and this time Jacaerys doesn't doubt his uncle because he looks too confident. "Well, it's done, it's not something we can change. Stop getting depressed and let's go have dinner before they give the scores."

During dinner, Jace barely joins the conversation and feels your worried gaze the entire time. It seems that Effy told you about the state he arrived in after his private session.

In the middle of dinner, Effy can't stand his curiosity anymore so he asks them both how it went. Jacaerys wasn't going to say anything until he heard you speak.

"I don't think I impressed them, some paid attention to me but others were more focused on whatever was on the table," you said resignedly.

"It's my fault. I'm sorry" he apologized, feeling guilty because apparently he had also harmed your private session.

"How is it your fault?" Cinna asked curiously.

"I shot them an arrow," Jace replied.

At first, he ignored Effy's indignation and the rest of the team's questions, focusing more on your reaction. You still looked at him with concern. He was relieved to not see you angry. The truth is, he couldn't blame you if you got angry with him after all his act had attracted the attention of the gamemakers when it was essential for you to have a better score.

"I actually shot an arrow at the pig's apple they were about to eat. They were drunk and I got angry because they weren't paying attention to me."

"And what did they tell you?" You asked anxiously and looked at the doors as if you were expecting that at any moment the peace officers would come in to look for him.

"I don't know. I left"

"Did you leave without permission?" Effie asked to see if she understood correctly.

"I gave it to myself" Jace replied and a laugh escaped your mouth, you quickly stifled it with your hand before Effie's gaze. Jacaerys was pleased to see the worry disappear from your face.

"Larys, aren't you going to say anything about it?" Effie questioned evidently expecting the victor to side with her and scold them.

"It's done, Effie. There's nothing we can do," he responded boredly as he buttered a piece of bread.

"What was their face?" you asked, looking at him curiously.

"They seemed terrified. A man stumbled backward and fell into a punch bowl." At the time Jacaerys had been so angry that he couldn't enjoy the watchman making a fool of himself but now he remembered it with fun.

Everyone laughed, except for Effie but she seemed to hold back a smile so Jace didn't take it the wrong way.

“Oh, I would have loved to see that,” you said with a smile. If Jacaerys hadn't been so focused on you then he would have noticed that his uncle seemed to be studying the two of you.

Once everyone finishes dinner they go to sit in the living room to watch the scores announced on television. How every year a photo of the tribute appears while Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith announce the score. What is striking with the group of professionals is that this year not everyone has a score between eight and ten like previous years, but the boy from District 4 gets a seven. The same score that Rue gets, Jace can't help but wonder how she managed to get that score. But any thoughts of the little girl from District 11 disappear and are replaced by euphoria when he hears Caesar announce his score. An eleven.

Applause and congratulations filled the room. Jacaerys smiles until he realizes that his uncle is quiet and doesn't look as excited as the rest about his eleven. He starts to feel the anxiety in his body and he wants to ask his uncle what the problem is but he doesn't want to have this conversation in front of everyone.

“Good” is the only thing Larys says after they also announce your eight. And Jace feels stupid for worrying so much, surely his uncle didn't say anything before because he was still hanging on to your score after all he wasn't the only tribute Larys had in charge. “You should go to sleep, you have a long day tomorrow” he ordered them while motioning to the avox to bring him more wine.

You and Jacaerys say goodbye to the entire team and head toward the hallway where your rooms are.

“Tell me, what does it feel like to break the bad streak of twelve and go down in history?” you said while leaning on your door.

“You're exaggerating,” Jace said, trying to sound exasperated by rolling his eyes, but there was no annoyance in his tone.

“I'm not,” you shook your head, smiling. You just beat the score of the professionals, I think it's impressive” you said while crossing your arms. “Surely the entire Capitol is talking about you and you are going to monopolize all my sponsors.”

Your last words brought Jace back to his senses. You two were in a competition and his live were at stake. He couldn't keep joking with you. He should be focused on making a good impression on Caesar and the people at the Capitol tomorrow.

“We should go to sleep,” he said abruptly, resting his hand on the handle of his door, trying not to feel guilty as he saw how the spark in your eyes seemed to go out at his tone. “Have a good night,” he didn’t even wait for you to respond before walking into his room and closing the door. His father would be disappointed in his treatment of you.

a/n: I'm grieving because I had to delete the scene I had with Larys and Sea Dragon bc if I left it, then there were going to be things in Cathing Fire that didn't make sense 😫

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, as I always say the comments and reblogs are very appreciated 🥰

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[omniluci-estumbra]

Dramione Month Day 17: Hunger Games

(Just realized I’ve been forgetting to post my Dramione month drawings over here….whoops)

Based on the Catching Fire promo photos — my AU where they are already victors and are now rival mentors for their respective districts (and they���d never ever fall in love obviously👀)

[tfwstherapist]

drawing dickroy but as katniss and peeta from the hunger games.

here’s the chariot scene.

(drawing the berry scene and the cave kiss scene too…)

[kasagia]

Coriolanus Snow's Masterlist

One-shots

Losing your memory 'universum'

The boy you knew—the boy you loved before the 10th Hunger Games began—returns to the Capitol. The Plinth heir. The victor. You don't know the man he has become... or do you? Because, surprisingly, he only seems to be holding on to one thing from his past. You. And as much as you hate him, you can't deny that there's nothing more between you two. Something just doesn't let you forget about yourselves as effortlessly as you would want to.

District boy

You and Coryo were very close (best) friends. Young Snow had a crush on you for a very long time. But he wouldn't let anything distract him—not until he got his family out of their financial troubles. And then comes the 10th Hunger Games, in which you get to be a mentor for a very handsome tribute... Coryo isn't happy about it at all.

A powerful man

You thought he was different. That he would never cheat on you. But apparently Coriolanus who came back from District 12, became Gamemaker, and ran for president was not the same man you knew. And you'll soon find out how wrong you were about him.

Game of survival

The worst enemy is the person who betrayed you when you trusted them with all your heart. The person you told all your secrets to, the person you loved more than your life—the best friend who suddenly turned on you and stabbed you in the back and right through your heart, using your weaknesses they learned with the time they spent with you. You and Coriolanus have been each other's worst enemies since that fateful day at the lake in District 12...

Game of survival, final hunting...

After he catches you, he tries to turn you into a lady who can stand by his side. However, you are not that easy to break... after all, a wild animal in a cage is still a dangerous animal.

Mini-series

[usetheeauthor]

Kinktober Day 14: Punishment

Dark!Yandere!Coriolanus Snow x Fem!District 12!Reader

Warnings: 18+ smut, NON-CON/DUB-CON, false imprisonment, hunt and chase, violent situations (gun use), Stockholm syndrome, dom & sub dynamics, mentions spanking, kissing, gun play, minor blood kink, gaslighting, manipulation, false confession coercion, degradation, humiliation, mentions of boot licking, mentions of force feeding, mentions of asphyxiation, coryo is really bad in this

Summary: You’re Coriolanus’ little prisoner and you’re rather fortunate that he is willing to see the potential good in you.

A/N: Inspired by one of my favorite mangas “Amai Choubatsu”

They call him ‘The Gent’ but he was anything but one. He’s the most tyrannical peacekeeper of all. Sadistic in ways that are almost creative. And for some unfortunate reason, he’ll become obsessed with you.

You regret the day you met him. When his vacant blue eyes immediately darkened the moment they held you in his sight never to stray away from you again. You were only trying to search for your younger sister’s friend, Lucy Gray. You only wished to put her mind at ease, ensuring that her friend was indeed just fine.

But then you stumbled upon the harrowing scene…

There he was. The peacekeeper who seemed to share a close relationship with Lucy Gray. Only there was no Lucy Gray in sight. Just him on high alert; manic, wide, and bloodshot blue eyes and a shotgun in hand. He’s on his knees, roaring out angrily in frustration. Obviously, he doesn’t appear to be in a sane state of mind that you could interact with.

You tried to get out of there as quietly as you could, walking backwards. But the snap of a twig under the weight of your bare feet has him aiming in your direction.

“Wait!” You came out of the shrubbery, hands up in surrender. No longer shielded by the trees, the cold rain begins to trickle down on you as well. “I’m sorry, sir. I was only trying to find my sister’s friend. Please…please don’t hurt me.”

Coriolanus walked over to you, shotgun still raised. He pressed the barrel into your stomach and hot tears began to stream down your cheeks. You trembled violently, anticipating his next move.

“Don’t,” You pleaded. “I swear I didn’t see anything. Please. I’m all my sister has left.”

He shushed you, wrapping his arms around you in a patronizing hug. “Sh-sh-shhh, it’s okay, darlin’. You’re safe now. You may be a criminal but I can fix you.”

“B-but I’m not a criminal.” You whispered, looking up at him fearfully.

“But you are,” He retorted, matter-of-factly. “You’re breaking curfew hours, caught running away, and then I catch you red-handed searching for the murder weapon...”

“What? N-no. No! I was looking for Lucy Gray. I know nothing about that gun.”

“You’ve gotta admit,” He shrugs and gives an evil smile. “It’s a little suspicious that you found the exact location of the murder weapon. And even your DNA’s all over it.”

Coriolanus suddenly lowered the gun, bringing it between your legs to press against your clothed core. He rubbed the length of it along your folds, forcing your panties to swallow the fabric of the thin gusset between your puffy lower lips.

You released a choked sound between a gasp and whine. The way he used you felt so degrading. Humiliating.

“You’re going to pin this one on me?!” You snarled, baring your teeth at him like a mad dog. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I can,” He replied, using his free hand to trace a finger along your plump cheek. “I only want to help you admit the truth, darling.”

“What truth?” You hissed, staring daggers.

“That you’re a criminal, of course. A murderer. A savage. But I’m sympathetic enough to understand that it is at no fault of your own. Much like Lucy Gray, you were raised in the districts where civil behavior is not the norm. You don’t know any better. But I can mold you into a model citizen of Panem. If you simply admit your crimes, I’ll spare you of any cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Fuck you,” You spat, letting out a shaky breath when he presses the barrel further into your sopping core and it makes your knees buckle a little. “You’re the fucking murderer, aren’t you? I’m sure that’s exactly why Lucy Gray isn’t here now. Well, you can kill me because I won’t do your dirty work for you.”

“Kill?” He chuckled darkly. “Who said anything about killing? You can’t die. That’s much too merciful.”

Tossing the gun aside, his hands clasped your wrists and you struggled against him, failing to free yourself.

“Let me go!” You twisted and squirmed but his grip was as constricting as a boa snake.

“It is my civil duty to detain you for the murders of Mayfair Lipp and Billy Taupe.” He spun you around so now your back faces him, bringing your hands behind to tie them up with zip ties.

“You won’t get away with this! They’ll be sending search parties for us and I’ll tell them everything.”

He snorted, pulling the zip tie tight enough to feel as if it’s cutting off blood circulation in your hands. The devilishly handsome young man turned you to face him once more, a smirk on his face. “Oh, them finding us is exactly what I’m counting on. I mean, just who do you think they’ll believe? The head officer or a poor little district whore. Even your own would sell you out in a heartbeat if it means sparing their own lives. It’d be my word against yours.”

“You just have it all figured out, don’t you? Evil just comes naturally to you.”

“It’s no hard feelings, dove. You just found yourself at the wrong place at the wrong time. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, though. I’ll make sure you never see yourself at the end of a rope. Long as you behave like the good girl I know you can be.”

“Go to hell.”

He let out an obnoxious bark of laughter. “You’re not going to make this journey easy for the both of us, I can tell. I do love a challenge.”

Coriolanus picked you up, throwing you over his shoulder and once you made it past the threshold of the abandoned cabin home, you were officially his to toy with.

7 days. You counted. Maybe more. You’re not really sure anymore. You’re beginning to give up keeping track of time. No one’s coming to save you. No one cares. Not except for your sister. You could only hope that at least she’s managing okay without you.

Until then, you could only hold on. Hold on long enough to see her again. Which isn’t at all an easy feat in the punishing torment of “The Gent”.

Any tiny infraction is enough for him to inflict punishment on you.

Like when you chose to ignore him after he returns home from hunting…

“For that you’ll receive the ‘impoliteness punishment’,” Coriolanus says. ���Get on all fours and shine my boots clean with your tongue.”

Or when you refused to eat anything he’d cooked.

“I don’t understand! I’ve fed you, clothed you, I’ve made sure you’re healthy and still you refuse to obey me. Your punishment will be to finish every bite of food on your plate and mine or you’ll be hearing the screams of your sister echoing in the skies.”

Even that one time when you wouldn’t unlock the door to your designated room so he tore it down with an ax.

“I was kind enough to give you the privilege to lock your door and this is how you thank me?!” His tall frame while donning the ax is intimidating enough to make you shrink under his shadow. “You’ll be getting the ‘grateful punishment’. List all the things I’ve done for you that you’re appreciative of while my belt’s around your neck. Say anything I don’t particularly like and it’ll wrap tighter around your delicate little throat; each time more secure than the last.”

And today if you’re caught, you aren’t sure what punishment you’ll be facing but it’ll probably be worse than all the others combined. You’ve escaped presumably as Lucy Gray had done. Only you aren’t sure if she’d been successful in her endeavors. The only thought of Coriolanus catching up to you sends shivers down your spine. You’d be finished, no doubt.

You just have to try with all your might to get back home.

You spot a pair of lone peacekeepers sharing a cigarette and having a casual chat. Your mouth falls open but barely a squeak comes out, when you feel his presence just behind you. With a bored expression on his face he presses the sharp end of a knife to your supple throat; no need for him to place a hand over your mouth. One sound and your life is over. He officially called your bluff, you never wanted to die. You’d always had the thought to resist him, to escape and he’d sensed it before you could yourself.

The peacekeepers looked around for a moment, both weird out that they’d heard a faint sound as they exchanged a small dialogue regarding it.

“So I’m not going crazy?” One says.

“Nah, I definitely heard that. Must’ve been an animal for something.” Says the other.

“Let’s get the fuck outta here before it turns into some kind of a horror story.”

And with that they were gone and so went all your hopes of being free from your captor.

He takes your face in his big hands, pressing you against the soft bark of a large tree. “Why’d you run away? I thought we were making progress, little dove,” His voice cracks a little as if he were on the verge of tears. “Maybe.. I should break your fucking legs to keep you from running again, hmm? You think I’m such a monster, maybe I can show you what a monster truly is.”

“Leave me alone!” You scream, kicking him between his legs and he’s down for the count.

You run to the abandoned cabin in search of the shotgun. Once you locate it, you’re only able to load it with one bullet before Coriolanus barges in the room and charges towards you. You aim his way, pulling the trigger but he smacks the gun up and it fires into the ceiling.

He wrestles you to the ground, pinning you down into the bearskin rug and you cry out for help. Coryo’s lips slam onto yours, licking into your gasping mouth. You bite his tongue and he pulls away with a loud growl, using one hand to touch the tip of his tongue to confirm there’s blood while the other continues to pin your wrists.

Instead of stopping, he kisses you again. The copper taste seeps onto your tongue as you continue to squirm. Slowly, you were losing fight as his lips moved passionately against yours, hips undulating sensually so you could feel his hard bulge prodding at your lace-covered entrance.

When he’s sure you won’t scratch his eyes out, he releases your hands and you continue to kiss him and desperately gasp for air; gasp for him. You ball up fistfuls of his uniform, tugging him harder against you and he groans against your lips.

“You need me? You finally get it. Does this mean you’ll be good for me?”

“Yes.” You whisper. What was the point of fighting this anymore? If he really does want the best for you, then maybe you should let him have your fate in his hands.

“You confess your crimes?”

The stubborn part of you wants to spit in his face but there’s that new side of you that wants to do all you can to finally please him. “Yes. I am a criminal. W-will you turn me in?”

“Never. I’ll be tossing the weapons into the lake. That was my plan all along. I just wanted to make sure you know that you’re just as much a part of this as me now. You’ll never leave my side.”

“But the Capitol…will they accept me?” You ask.

“Of course, they would. What do you think all those punishments were for? It is all about discipline and I think you’re finally getting it.”

“So…can I have my reward?” You ask, hand reaching between your bodies to palm him in his slacks.

“Mmm,” He moans before licking your exposed neck. “You won’t get off that easy for running, little dove. You’ll be receiving my favorite punishment of all the love tap punishment. Flip your skirt up, pull those cute undies down your pretty legs, and bend over my lap.”

He raises his ringed-up hand for you to study, before utilizing it to gently squeeze your breast.

When Coriolanus peels himself off your body, he finds a nice comfy chair to sit on that is reminiscent of a king on a throne. He beckons you to him and says, “And Remember, I’m only hurting you because I love you.”

[divine-draws]

oh god there's so much to explain but this is for a hunger games au. some seriously toxic billford... lmk if yall wanna know more about it

[palalife]

I watched the newest Hunger Game movie and then this happened

[kitdelune]

Here are all my rough designs of everyone’s costume for the Hunger games simulator video!

If you guys want the portrait drawings I did for district 1 and 2, comment for which one you’d like me to do next, I’d love to hear from y’all!

[gillotto]

BKDK Hunger Games AU (2)

[lupinqs]

SAFE AND SOUND (2/3) ━━ pazzi

☆ ━ summary: in which azzi fudd forms an unexpected alliance with paige bueckers as they fight for survival in the hunger games.

☆ ━ word count: 13.2K

☆ ━ warnings: violence, death, angst

☆ ━ links: part one, my masterlist, ao3 link

☆ ━ author’s note: hiiii guys i’m so so sorry this took me so long to update but it’s here!! this was supposed to be only two parts and the next one and this were just gonna be combined but it was way too long so i split it. the next one’s not done so i think probably expect it within the next week or two ish. i love you all very much, sorry the wait 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

THE MOMENT the gong sounds, Azzi dives straight into the water, warm against her skin. The lake swallows her, and she kicks with everything she has, propelling herself toward the Cornucopia. Her strokes are powerful, but the distance is unforgiving, and already, she can sense that others are faster. The Careers are already ahead, closing in on the Cornucopia with quickly. Still, Azzi doesn’t stop; she has to get there, has to grab something. Anything.

As she reaches the edge of the rock path leading to the Cornucopia, she pulls herself out of the water, breathing hard. Just ahead, she catches a glimpse of the chaos already unfolding. The boy from District Two, already armed with a spear, drives it mercilessly into one of the smaller tributes—a younger boy, barely a teenager. The sight is jarring, but Azzi pushes down the rising bile in her throat. She can’t afford to care right now. Caring won’t keep her alive.

Her gaze darts to the girl from Four, who’s snatched up a pair of gleaming daggers—daggers Azzi had trained with, daggers she knows like the back of her hand. Cursing under her breath, she realizes getting those now is out of the question. The girl from Four is already twirling them with through her fingers, her sharp eyes scanning the scene for her next target.

Azzi whips her head back, weighing her options. It’s too dangerous to stay here, especially without a weapon. She makes a split-second decision and sprints across the slick rocks, her feet pounding against the stone as she veers toward the sandbank just beyond the Cornucopia’s reach.

There, half-buried in the sand, is a bag. She snatches it up, hoping it has at least a water canister, maybe something small she can use for defense. She pulls it onto her shoulder and glances around, her senses sharp, her body wired with tension.

And that’s when she spots Paige.

Just a dozen feet away, Paige stands on the sand, her face set in a fierce, determined expression. In her hand is a long, gleaming sword—a weapon Azzi has seen her handle in training. For a split second, their eyes meet, and Azzi feels her breath hitch. She expects Paige to charge at her, sword raised, like any tribute with a weapon would in this bloodbath. But Paige’s gaze doesn’t hold malice. Instead, it flickers with a strange intensity, almost as if she’s thinking.

Before Azzi can process it, Paige turns and bolts in the opposite direction, toward one of the jungle’s shadowed openings. She’s gone before Azzi can think twice, disappearing into the dense foliage with a swiftness that surprises her. Paige had every opportunity to attack, to strike her down in those tense seconds—but she didn’t.

Shoving that thought away, Azzi tightens her grip on the bag and bolts toward the jungle as well, but in the opposite direction, breaking away from the madness of the bloodbath. Behind her, the cries and screams of the other tributes echo through the arena, mingling with the blast of cannons signaling deaths. She pushes forward, her lungs burning as she sprints deeper into the undergrowth, her eyes sharp and her every sense alert.

The forest closes around her, humid and dark, each shadow concealing possible threats. As the sounds of the bloodbath fade into the distance, she feels her pulse slow just a fraction. Her body tingles with exhaustion and relief, but she can’t stop. Not yet. She glances around, trying to gauge her surroundings—massive, twisted trees tower above her, and the ground is a tangle of roots, ferns, and thick moss. Everything about this place feels alive, watching her.

She can’t shake the image of Paige, sword in hand, standing just close enough to strike yet choosing to walk away.

Azzi trudges deeper into the jungle, her feet dragging through the thick, damp undergrowth. The humid air clings to her, and sweat beads on her forehead, trickling down her neck. Every step feels heavier than the last, her muscles beginning to ache as she pushes forward. She slaps at bugs that swarm around her face, their buzzing grating on her nerves. The jungle is loud—chirps, rustles, calls of strange birds echo around her, each sound making her flinch, alert for any sign of movement nearby. It’s overwhelming, but she’s not going to stop. She has to keep moving, put as much distance between herself and the Cornucopia as possible.

As she walks, her mind begins to drift, unbidden, to thoughts of home. She thinks about her family—her mom, her dad, her brothers. She wonders if they’re watching, whether they can bear to. If it were her Jon or Jose out here instead of her, she knows she wouldn’t be able to stand it, the anxiety gnawing away at her, knowing they could be killed any second. She wonders if her parents are clinging to hope, desperately, like she is. She imagines them sitting together on the couch, her mom gripping her dad’s hand so tightly, eyes glued to the screen, barely able to breathe. She swallows, her throat dry. Her family’s belief in her is part of what’s gotten her this far, but in this place, the hope feels fragile, a thread barely holding her together.

The jungle around her begins to darken, the sun slipping behind the canopy of leaves, casting long shadows that twist and shift across the ground. She doesn’t want to push herself any further tonight. It’ll be dangerous enough to try to survive on her own without tiring herself out before it’s even necessary. She scans the area around her, searching for a suitable spot to hide, somewhere she can rest without being exposed. Her eyes land on a small patch of ground where thick leaves drape down from above, forming a kind of natural canopy. She ducks underneath it, assessing. The foliage is dense, and when she sits down, she realizes it’s actually a decent hiding spot. She’d blend in here easily—maybe even well enough to avoid detection from passing tributes.

Her throat feels parched, and she swallows, but it’s a dry, desperate motion, her mouth almost painfully empty. She tries to ignore it, breathing steadily, as she takes the bag from her shoulder and pulls it into her lap. She unzips it, peering inside, her heart beating a little faster as she rifles through the contents. There’s not much, but she wasn’t expecting a miracle.

Her fingers close around a few items: a small pouch of dried fruit, a nearly-empty canister of water, a thin roll of gauze for minor injuries, a length of rope, and, most importantly, a dagger. It’s smaller than what she’s trained with, its blade not much longer than her hand, but it’s sharp enough to get the job done if she needs it for self-defense. She lifts it, testing the weight in her hand, relieved to have something, anything, that could help her. The handle is sturdy, wrapped in a grip that feels almost familiar. It’s a strange sort of comfort—small but real.

Azzi allows herself to eat a pieces or two of the dried fruit, savoring the slight sweetness on her tongue. She takes a cautious sip from the water canister, careful not to drink too much. She doesn’t know when she’ll be able to refill it, and the taste of the water only makes her thirst worse. After another small sip, she caps it tightly and tucks it back into her bag, pressing her lips together, trying to ignore the dryness that still lingers.

The quiet of the jungle settles around her, the distant sounds of birds and rustling leaves becoming her only company. She leans back, the dagger held close to her side, her fingers lightly wrapped around its hilt. She’ll need sleep soon, even if it’s just a few restless hours.

But for now, she just sits there in the dimness, her breathing slowing as she listens to the jungle and feels the weight of everything she has to face in the days to come.

And then she hears it. Faint rustling, faint footsteps. The sounds break through the jungle, and she can tell they’re near her.

Azzi’s heart drops as the rustling grows closer. She freezes, holding her breath, her muscles tensed as she listens. Someone’s approaching—it has to be another tribute. The thought alone sends a jolt of adrenaline through her veins. Her fingers fumble for the dagger in her bag, the small blade she’d found earlier now her only defense. She grips it tightly, her knuckles white as the sound of movement grows louder, just on the other side of her leafy hiding spot.

The foliage shifts, and a figure ducks beneath the canopy. For a split second, Azzi considers lunging, striking first before the intruder can spot her. But then she sees who it is.

It’s the girl from District Four—Leah, if Azzi’s memory serves her correctly. She’s smaller than Azzi imagined up close, her sun-kissed hair pulled back in a loose braid, her face pale and glistening with sweat. Leah looks startled, her eyes wide as she spots Azzi crouched under the leaves. Her reaction isn’t what Azzi expects. Instead of reaching for a weapon, Leah freezes, her hands flying up in an immediate gesture of surrender.

“Shit—sorry—fuck—” Leah stammers, her voice shaking as much as her hands. She looks terrified, almost as if Azzi is the bigger threat here.

Azzi narrows her eyes, her grip on the dagger tightening as she crouches lower, keeping her back pressed against the rough bark of the tree behind her. She doesn’t say anything, her mind racing as she sizes Leah up. If this was a trap, Leah was doing a decent job of acting harmless.

Leah seems to notice Azzi’s skepticism, her expression softening as she stammers, “I—I didn’t realize someone was in here.” She swallows hard, licking her lips nervously before adding, “Azzi, right? From Nine?”

Azzi nods stiffly, not letting go of her weapon.

Leah exhales, almost as if relieved by the confirmation, and nods back. “Okay,” she says, though her voice trembles. She looks around briefly, as if making sure no one else is nearby, before continuing. “I lost my district partner—I don’t know where he went. I don’t even know if he’s still alive. I—fuck, this is all insane. I wanna go home. That fucking blood bath today—Jesus Christ—”

Azzi’s eyes flicker over Leah, taking in the way her shoulders tremble and her chest heaves with shallow breaths. She looks a lot less intimidating than she did during the bloodbath. But Azzi doesn’t let herself relax, not yet. Her mind flashes back to the memory of Leah standing at the Cornucopia earlier that day, her hands slick with blood as she drove a knife into another tribute’s chest. She thinks that might be what’s going through Leah’s mind right now, too, her eyes haunted.

For the first time, Azzi feels something besides suspicion—pity. She doesn’t want to feel it, but it creeps in anyway, worming its way into her chest. She knows what Leah’s feeling, even if she doesn’t want to admit it. Azzi hadn’t killed anyone in the bloodbath, but she’d seen the first death. She remembers the way the spear pierced the boy’s chest, the way his body crumpled like a doll. She remembers the blood, bright and pooling on the rocks, and how she’d forced herself to look away.

Leah’s voice breaks the silence. “And clearly your district partner isn’t here either,” she says, glancing around the small clearing. “So, do you wanna, like, do this together? I don’t wanna be alone, and I know you’re not stupid. You actually scored really high, and you kinda scare me, but this whole place scares me more, so…”

Azzi stares at her, her expression unreadable. Her instincts scream at her not to trust anyone, but she knows that being alone in the arena is just as dangerous. Leah isn’t wrong—Azzi’s district partner, Kellan, is gone, probably dead. And even if Leah’s offer is genuine, she has those daggers. She’s dangerous, whether she’s scared or not.

“How do I know this isn’t just a ruse to kill me?” Azzi finally asks, her voice low and guarded. “I know you have all those daggers.”

Leah flinches at the accusation, her face twisting with something close to desperation. “It’s not, I swear,” she says quickly. “I can prove it to you—”

She moves slowly, pulling her backpack from her shoulder and setting it on the ground in front of her. Azzi tenses, her muscles coiling like a spring as she watches Leah unzip the bag. Her hand tightens around her dagger, ready to strike if Leah tries anything.

But Leah doesn’t attack. Instead, she reaches into the bag and pulls out one of the daggers. Azzi stiffens, her grip on her weapon tightening.

Leah holds the dagger out, hilt first, toward Azzi. Her hand shakes slightly, but her eyes are steady as she says, “You’re good with these, right? Can we call a truce? ‘Cause now you can kill me just as easily as I could kill you.”

Azzi stares at the dagger, her mind reeling. The offer feels surreal, too good to be true. But Leah’s trembling hand doesn’t waver, and for the first time, Azzi wonders if the girl in front of her is more scared than dangerous.

Slowly, cautiously, Azzi reaches out and takes the dagger. The hilt is cool in her hand, perfectly balanced. She weighs it for a moment before looking back at Leah.

“Truce,” Azzi says, her voice firm but cautious.

Leah exhales a shaky breath of relief and nods. For now, they’ve bought themselves a fragile peace, though Azzi knows it could shatter at any moment.

THE SUN rises sluggishly over the jungle, casting long shadows through the tangled branches. Azzi trudges through the humid undergrowth, her body aching with exhaustion. She hadn’t slept last night, her eyes darting between Leah and the jungle’s shifting darkness, her hand gripping the dagger Leah had given her. Trusting Leah felt foolish, even after their uneasy truce. Now, Azzi feels the toll of the sleepless night, the weight of every sound and shadow pressing on her chest.

Leah hadn’t slept either—not that Azzi saw. The girl had spent the night leaning against the rough bark of the tree, her knees drawn to her chest, her gaze fixed on the ground. Azzi isn’t sure how she feels about Leah. She doesn’t think she likes her, not in the way you’re supposed to like allies, but pity for her gnaws at the edges of her resolve.

More than that, Azzi feels something she hadn’t expected—relief. For better or worse, she isn’t alone.

Last night’s anthem confirmed what Azzi had already suspected. Kellan, her district partner, is gone. The Capitol’s cold, detached display of his face in the sky had solidified the hollow ache in her chest. She didn’t know Kellan well, but he’d been hers. Someone from her district, someone who shared a piece of her life before all of this. And he was so young. Now he’s gone.

Across from her, Leah had sighed in relief when the boy from District Four wasn’t among the dead. Azzi wondered then and wonders now how the two of them got separated in the first place.

Now, as the heat rises, the two girls trudge side by side through the suffocating jungle. The air is thick, sticky against their skin, and Azzi wipes a layer of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. Hunger gnaws at her stomach, but she doesn’t say anything. The dried fruit in her bag is a precious secret she has no intention of sharing. She knows she can’t survive on it forever, but it’s all she has.

“You’re quiet,” Leah says after a long silence, her voice cracking—probably from the thirst.

Azzi shrugs. “I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“Food,” Azzi admits. “And water.”

Leah laughs dryly, though there’s no humor in it. “Aren’t we all?”

They keep walking, the jungle pressing in closer. Azzi’s ears strain against the sounds of birds and the occasional rustle of leaves. Her dagger swings lightly in her hand, the cool metal reassuring against her clammy skin.

Then she hears it—a faint crack, like a branch snapping. Azzi freezes, holding out an arm to stop Leah.

“Did you hear that?” she whispers.

Leah glances around, frowning. “Uh… no?”

Azzi keeps scanning the area, her instincts prickling. But Leah shrugs and starts walking again, brushing past a tangle of vines.

Azzi follows, her heart hammering in her chest, when suddenly a shout cuts through the thick air. It’s a boy’s voice, shrill with pain and desperation. Azzi’s stomach twists. A moment later, a cannon booms overhead, its echo vibrating through the trees.

Azzi gulps, gripping her dagger tighter. “Stay alert,” she mutters to Leah, her voice steady despite the unease sifting in her gut.

Leah nods, her face pale as she pulls one of her own dagger from her bag. The two of them pick up the pace, their steps lighter now, every noise setting their nerves on edge.

They’ve barely gone another few yards when Leah stops abruptly, her eyes widening. “Holy shit,” she says, pointing ahead. “Is that fruit?”

Azzi follows her gaze to a cluster of low-hanging bushes. Tangled among the leaves are round, green fruits, something similar to watermelons but smaller. Azzi’s stomach clenches at the sight, hunger sharpening her senses.

“Looks like it,” Azzi says cautiously, scanning the area for any sign of danger.

Leah’s already moving toward the bushes, her dagger still clutched in one hand. Azzi follows more slowly, her eyes darting to the treetops and the undergrowth around them. She doesn’t trust anything about this arena—not the stillness, not the fruit, and certainly not the idea that they’re alone.

But hunger wins out over hesitation. Leah’s already grabbing one of the fruits at a bush as Azzi kneels beside a different one to inspect the fruit herself. Cautiously, she cuts into the fruit with her dagger, watching as what appears to be water spills out. She opens it further, not seeing any suspicious warning signs that they’d been taught in training. It really might just be fruit.

Deciding that she’s going out to take her chances on it, Azzi takes her dagger, her hands steady as she works to free the thick-skinned fruit from its vine. The knife slices cleanly through the stem, and she lets the fruit drop into her hand. It’s heavier than she expects, a weight that promises nourishment. She turns it over once, twice, and then slips it into her bag and moves to cut another.

Her body aches—muscles tight from dehydration and exhaustion—and the heat of the jungle presses against her like a smothering blanket. Sweat trickles down her back, and the persistent thirst gnaws at her focus. But she keeps her hands moving, the rhythmic task of cutting the fruit offering a brief reprieve from the overwhelming anxiety that’s been settled in her chest since the Games began.

Behind her, she hears Leah rustling through her own bush, likely doing the same thing. Azzi doesn’t look back to see.

Another fruit hits the bottom of her bag with a satisfying thud, and Azzi reaches for the next one, her movements quick and precise. She’s already calculating how much her bag can hold, how far this food can stretch her survival.

Then, it happens.

A faint whistling sound cuts through the air beside her, too quick to process. Azzi feels a sudden sting along her cheekbone, sharp and hot, followed by a gasp of pain—not her own. She freezes, her hand flying to her face. When she pulls it away, her palm is smeared with blood. Her cheek throbs, the cut deeper than she first thought.

Her head whips around, mind on overdrive, eyes scanning the ground until they land on a dagger embedded in the dirt, its blade glinting under the dappled sunlight. A few feet from where she’d been crouched.

One of Leah’s daggers.

Azzi’s pulse thunders in her ears as the realization sinks in. Leah had thrown it. She had tried to kill her.

Azzi spins on her heel, her own dagger clenched tight in her fist. She doesn’t hesitate. She’ll fight if she has to, kill if she has to, would strike first if necessary. Leah’s already made her move, and Azzi isn’t about to give her a second chance.

But the sight that greets her isn’t what she expects.

Leah’s there, facing Azzi, but her mouth is wide open, almost as if she’s in shock. Her eyes are clouded as they lock on Azzi, her hands hovering over her stomach—where the Fudd girl can see crimson beginning to spill out of. Leah’s breaths come in ragged gasps, each one more shallow than the last.

Behind the District Four girl stands Paige, yanking her sword free from Leah’s back with a sickening squelch. Blood drips from the blade, pooling at Paige’s feet. Her expression ks grim, her lips pressed into a thin line of disgust as she watches Leah collapse fully to the ground.

Azzi’s grip tightened on her dagger, her thoughts racing too fast to catch hold of any one of them. She takes an involuntary step back, her instincts screaming at her to run, to fight, to do something.

Paige turns, her gaze locking onto Azzi. Her eyes scan Azzi quickly, lingering on the blood still dripping from her cheek. “Are you alright?” she asks, her voice calm, almost indifferent, as if she didn’t just impale someone.

Azzi furrows her brows, her confusion mounting. She doesn’t say anything, her silence a shield.

Paige tilts her head, her focus narrowing in on Azzi’s cheek. “Your face,” she says, pointing. “She hit you. You’re bleeding.”

Azzi touches her cheek again, feeling the sting that seems sharper now that she‘a aware of it. She mutters, “Yes,” her voice cautious.

Paige takes a step forward, but Azzi immediately steps back, keeping her distance. Paige raises her hands slightly, a small gesture of peace. “Relax,” she says. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Azzi isn’t so sure. “Then what are you here for?” she asks.

Paige sighs, wiping the blood from her sword onto a plant. “Leah and her district partner, Chris,” she begin, gesturing to the girl still writhing on the ground. “I think they must’ve been working together. Pretending to split up, making allies, then stabbing them in the back. Chris tried it with me. Clearly, he didn’t make it.”

Azzi’s mind flashes to the cannon they’d heard earlier, the scream that had preceded it. It makes sense now—it was from Chris. Paige killing Chris.

Paige gestures toward Leah’s bag, which she yanks off the girl’s shaking shoulder and slings onto her own. “She would’ve killed you if I hadn’t shown up. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Azzi frowns, her grip on her dagger loosening but not by much. She doesn’t know what to make of Paige, the girl’s casual demeanor both unsettling and oddly reassuring. “We should probably go,” the blonde says matter-of-factly.

“Why?” Azzi asks, voice sharper than she intended.

Paige looks at her, genuinely confused. “Why what?”

“Why would we go together?” Azzi clarifies, her voice edged with suspicion.

Paige raises an eyebrow, looking at Azzi like she’s just asked the dumbest question in the world. “Because we’re allies now.”

“Says who?” Azzi shoots back quickly. “I can’t trust you.”

Paige smirks faintly, a flicker of amusement crossing her face. “Well, I did just save your life, princess. The least you could do is say thank you.”

Azzi hesitates, torn between anger and begrudging gratitude. “Thank you,” she mutters eventually, her tone icy.

Paige shrugs, unbothered.

“Why’d you do it?” Azzi asks after a pause, voice quieter this time. “Save my life?”

Paige’s smirk softens just slightly, her expression unreadable. “I like you,” she says simply, meeting Azzi’s eyes. “Think I’d prefer you alive.”

The words send a strange jolt through Azzi, a mix of confusion and something else she can’t quite name. Paige doesn’t give her time to dwell on it.

She bends to pick up Azzi’s bag, now filled with fruit, and hands it to her. “C’mon,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Azzi stares at her for a moment before taking the bag, their fingers brushing briefly. Without another word, she bends to retrieve Leah’s dagger—the one that nearly killed her—and follows Paige into the jungle, her thoughts swirling with questions she isn’t sure she even wants answers to.

THE ALLIANCE between Azzi and Paige begins tentatively, held together by necessity and a threadbare sense of mutual benefit. Azzi doesn’t trust Paige—how could she?—but she follows her lead anyway, dagger in hand and mind constantly calculating the odds of betrayal. Paige doesn’t seem fazed by Azzi’s obvious suspicion. If anything, she seems entertained by it.

On the first night, the heat and humidity of the jungle drops drastically, as if it was never there in the first place. It’s chilly—too chilly for them to get by with just their suits provided to them—and so, despite the obvious risk of other tributes seeing the smoke, Paige starts a fire. Azzi watches her do it, arms crossed, one foot ready to bolt if need be. Paige doesn’t say anything, just works, gathering the driest leaves she can find and other little twigs, her movements swift and practiced. When the fire finally sparks to life, Paige leans back, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

“There,” she says, brushing her hands off. “Warmth. You’re welcome.”

Azzi doesn’t thank her this time, just sits down across from the flames, her bag clutched tightly in her lap. The warmth is welcome, but her grip on the bag doesn’t loosen. The firelight casts shadows across Paige’s face, drawing out the lines of her cheekbones and jaw, making her look older, harsher. Azzi doesn’t know how much of that is real and how much is her own paranoia.

Paige sets Leah’s pack down between them, beginning to rummage through it. She pulls out a handful of berries, some kind of dried meat, and a canteen of water. She tosses the berries in Azzi’s direction. “Split these,” she says, her tone casual, like they’re sharing snacks at home and not in the middle of the Hunger Games.

Azzi hesitates. The gesture feels… too friendly. Too easy. But she’s starving, and the berries are already in her lap. She picks out a few and eats them cautiously, her eyes never leaving Paige as the other girl tears into the dried meat.

By the second day, they’ve settled into an uneasy rhythm. Paige takes the lead, her sword strapped to her back, her eyes scanning the dense jungle for threats. Azzi lingers a few paces behind, a dagger at the ready. They don’t talk about what they’re doing or where they’re going. They just move, staying quiet, their footsteps muffled by the thick underbrush.

It’s strange, how well they work together. Paige has a hunter’s instinct, sharp and efficient. She knows how to find food, how to avoid the areas where other tributes might be lurking. Azzi’s no slouch, either. She’s quick and observant, spotting details Paige sometimes misses—a broken branch, a faint footprint in the mud.

They come across a stream in the early afternoon, the water clear and cold. Paige crouches by the edge, refilling their canteens while Azzi stands nearby, her dagger still in hand. She watches as Paige splashes her face with water, the sunlight catching on her cheekbones.

“You’re wasting it,” Azzi says sharply.

Paige looks up, water dripping from her face. She grins. “Relax, princess. There’s plenty.”

Azzi bristles at the nickname but doesn’t respond. She turns her attention back to the jungle, scanning for movement.

Despite everything, she can’t shake the feeling that Paige might turn on her at any moment. But the thing is—she doesn’t. She doesn’t even try. She doesn’t make any sudden moves, doesn’t say anything suspicious. She just… exists. And she’s good at this, Azzi realizes—surviving. It’s almost unsettling how calm she seems, as if the chaos of the Games hasn’t touched her.

That night, they set up camp under a large tree with low-hanging branches. Paige climbs up first, testing the sturdiness of the limbs, then gestures for Azzi to follow. They settle on opposite sides of the branch, Paige leans back against hers, one leg dangling, while Azzi stays perched, her back straight and her dagger balanced on her knee.

For a while, they sit in silence, the only sound that of crickets and their own heavy breathing. It’s hot and humid tonight, enough to make them both sweat, Azzi continuously wiping moisture from her forehead. The Gamemakers are very bipolar about the weather here, especially at night. They either freeze or burn—it’s very frustrating.

“Do you think anyone’s watching us right now?” Paige says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

Azzi frowns, looking over at her. “I mean, yeah. The cameras are everywhere.”

“I know, but d’you think they’re focused on us? Like, on the broadcast?”

“Why does it matter?” Azzi asks.

Paige shrugs. “It doesn’t. I’m just curious. And bored.” She sighs, twisting a lead in her hand. “I bet the Capitol loves you. All broody and mysterious. You’re probably a fan favorite.”

Azzi glares at her. “Probably the opposite, actually,” she corrects. “They prefer the happier, flashier tributes. Like you.”

Paige smirks but doesn’t say anything.

Over the next few days, Azzi finds herself watching Paige more closely. Not out of suspicion, though that’s part of it, but out of something else. Curiosity, maybe. Paige is hard to pin down. She’s unpredictable in a way that doesn’t feel dangerous—at least, not to Azzi.

They split everything now—food, water, even weapons when necessary. Azzi is surprised by how natural it feels, like they’ve always been a team. Paige doesn’t seem to expect anything in return, doesn’t try to take more than her share. It’s unsettling, the way she treats Azzi like an equal, like she genuinely wants her around.

Azzi still doesn’t trust her, but she wants to. And that wanting feels dangerous in its own way.

And, despite herself, Azzi starts to notice small things about Paige. Like how she hums under her breath when they’re walking, or how she always keeps her sword within reach, even when they’re resting. Paige has a way of making everything seem lighter, less oppressive. She cracks jokes sometimes—dry, sarcastic quips that catch Azzi off guard.

“You’re really bad at this whole ‘trust no one’ thing,” Paige says one afternoon as they’re eating a small meal by the stream.

Azzi frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Paige gestures vaguely. “The way you keep looking at me, like I’m about to stab you in the back. If I wanted to, I would’ve done it by now.”

Azzi doesn’t laugh, but she bites back a smile. Paige notices, though, and her smirk widens.

“See? You think I’m funny,” Paige teases.

“I don’t,” Azzi says flatly, though the corners of her mouth betray her.

It’s strange, the dynamic between them. Despite the obvious distrust, Azzi’s oddly grateful for when Paige tries to make her smile. In a place like this, where death feels like it’s waiting around every corner, those moments feel… important.

On the fourth day, they come across another tribute—a boy from District Five. He doesn’t see them, and Azzi tenses, waiting for Paige to make a move. Paige’s hand goes to her sword, but she hesitates, her eyes flicking to Azzi.

“What do you want to do?” Paige whispers.

The question catches Azzi off guard. Paige is deferring to her? She swallows hard, mind racing. She knows what they should do, knows the rules of the Games, but the boy doesn’t look like a threat. He looks scared, lost.

“Let him go,” Azzi says finally, her voice barely audible.

Paige studies her for a moment, then nods. She relaxes her grip on her sword, stepping back into the shadows. They watch as the boy disappears into the jungle, oblivious to how close he came to death.

Azzi doesn’t say anything, but something shifts in her chest. Paige listened to her. She could’ve ignored her, could’ve killed the boy and taken his supplies without a second thought, but she didn’t.

That night, as they sit in the dark, Azzi catches herself glancing at Paige, studying the way the firelight dances across her features. She’s still wary, still ready to run if she has to, but for the first time, she wonders if maybe—just maybe—Paige isn’t the monster she’s been bracing herself for.

THE NEXT DAY brings the worst heat Azzi’s ever felt in the arena. The air is thick and oppressive, a humid weight pressing down on everything. It’s as if the jungle is trying to choke them. Sweat clings to her skin, dripping down her back and soaking the fabric of her clothes until it feels like a second layer of skin. Her lungs fight for air that seems almost too hot to breathe. Paige trudges ahead, silent and focused, her sword bouncing slightly against her back with each step.

Azzi stays a few paces behind, a dagger loose in her hand, though her grip is slippery with sweat. She tries to keep her head clear, her eyes alert, but the dryness in her mouth is impossible to ignore. Every thought is punctuated by the same need: water. They’ve been out since yesterday afternoon, their canteens drained, their bodies aching for hydration.

The jungle shifts slightly as they move, the terrain growing rockier. Paige pressed forward without hesitation, her movements confident even in the uneven ground. Azzi tries to match her pace but finds her attention wandering. Her throat feels like sandpaper, and her head throbs faintly with every step.

She doesn’t hear the snap of a twig to her right. Not until it’s too late.

Something hard slams into the side of her face, and Azzi is on the ground before she realizes what’s happening. Pain explodes across her cheek, sharp and hot, and she instinctively presses her hand to it. When she pulls her fingers away, they’re slick with blood. Her stomach churns as she recognizes the dark red streaks, her mind sluggishly registering that Leah’s cut has reopened.

Her head spins, the light filtering through the canopy almost blinding. For a few seconds, all she can do is lie there, her breath shallow and rapid, her fingers digging into the dirt beneath her. Somewhere to her left, she hears movement—a grunt, the rustle of leaves, and then a muffled whimper.

Azzi forces her eyes open, squinting against the brightness. Her vision swims, the jungle tilting unnaturally, but she manages to focus just enough to see them: Paige, pinned to the ground beneath a boy. His face is twisted in a snarl, his muscles straining as he fights to keep her down.

It takes a moment for Azzi to recognize him: the boy from District Eleven. He’s big, muscular, and holding a machete that glints menacingly in the dappled light. Paige is fighting him, her hands pushing against his shoulders, her legs kicking out, muscles flexing. Against anyone else, she probably could’ve stopped them—she doesn’t look it, but she’s strong. Tall and strong. But it doesn’t matter now—it’s not enough. He’s got the bulk advantage over her, his weight pressing her into the ground.

“Fuck—get off!” Paige yells, her voice breaking with frustration and unmistakeable fear. She twists beneath him, trying to buck him off, but he grabs her throat, cutting off her words.

Azzi’s breath catches, her heart pounding in her chest. Paige’s face is flushed, her eyes wide, her hands scrabbling at his wrist as he chokes her.

For a moment, all she can think is that Paige is going to die. She can see it happening—the machete coming down, the boy choking the life out of her, Paige’s face going slack—and the thought fills her with something fierce and unrelenting.

She doesn’t want Paige to die. Not at all. Not even a little bit.

Her hands fumble at her side, searching for her dagger. Her head spins as she moves, her fingers brushing the hilt. She grabs it, tightens her grip, and throws it with a sharp flick of her wrist.

Catch and shoot. Just like basketball.

It’s not a perfect throw—her head is pounding too much for that—but it’s good enough. The blade buries itself in the boy’s neck, and he jerks back, his hands flying to the wound as blood spurts out in thick, dark streams. He falls to the side, his body hitting the ground with a dull thud. The machete slips from his grasp, clattering onto the rocks.

A cannon fires, the sound echoing through the jungle.

Azzi exhales shakily, her chest tight, her hands trembling. She pushes herself to her feet, swaying slightly as her head protests the movement. The world tilts dangerously, but she forces herself to move, stumbling toward Paige.

Paige is still lying on the ground, gasping for air. One hand hovers near her throat, where the boy’s grip has left an angry red imprint. Her other arm is pressed against her chest, blood dripping steadily from a gash that runs along her forearm.

“Are you okay?” Azzi asks, her voice hoarse. She’s not sure if it’s from the heat, the dehydration, or the raw surge of adrenaline.

Paige looks up at her, her chest heaving. For a moment, she doesn’t say anything, just stares at Azzi with wide, stunned, crystal blue eyes. Then she murmurs, almost incredulously, “You saved my life.”

Azzi shakes her head, though the movement makes her vision blur. “Just returning the favor.”

She holds out a hand, and Paige hesitates for a fraction of a second before taking it. Her grip is warm and solid despite the faint tremor in her fingers as Azzi pulls her to her feet. Paige sways slightly, her balance off, and the younger girl steadies her instinctively. They end up leaning into each other, both unsteady and aching.

Paige stares at her for another long second as they don’t speak, just breathe heavily. There’s something in her clear eyes that makes Azzi anxious, some sort of soft, yet scared emotion that seems to be threading through both of them. And then, without warning, Paige lifts her hand and brushes Azzi’s cheek, featherlight yet still startling. The touch is soft, almost hesitant, and when Azzi glances at her, Paige is frowning faintly, her fingers coming away stained with blood.

“You’re bleeding,” Paige says, her voice almost stupidly soft.

“I’m good,” Azzi replies, even though her head is pounding so hard she can barely think. Azzi does her best to ignore the ache, her eyes sliding across Paige’s figure, giving her another once-over. The imprint on her neck, her bloodied up arm. “Are you sure you’re good?” she asks slowly, trying to mask the sudden, obvious concern that wants to lace its way into her tone.

Paige’s eyes linger on her for a moment longer before she seems to snap out of it. She pulls her hand back, clutching at the wound on her arm, which continues to pool with blood. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she says, though her voice is strained.

Azzi doesn’t believe her, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she mutters, “We gotta find water.”

Paige nods, her expression sobering some, though it’s still slightly dazed. And then they begin walking.

THE JUNGLE swallows them whole as they move forward, side by side now instead of their usual formation. Paige is no longer leading, and Azzi is no longer trailing behind, watching the girl’s back like some unwilling shadow. Instead, they lean into each other, a pair of battered survivors held up by sheer willpower and the fragile balance of their shared weight.

Azzi keeps one hand on her dagger, just in case, though the other grips Paige’s shoulder like a lifeline. Her legs ache, her skull throbs, and her throat is dry enough that every swallow feels like it’s scraping raw. The heat is unbearable, pressing down on her like an iron hand, and every step feels like wading through wet cement. She keeps going anyway. She doesn’t have a choice.

Her head pounds in relentless waves, and for the first time, a new kind of fear creeps in. She wonders if it’s more than just the heat and exhaustion. The boy had hit her hard—harder than she’d let herself admit at the time—and now her thoughts are sluggish, her balance unsteady. It could be something serious—an actual brain injury.

She shakes the thought away quickly, but it lingers in the edges of her mind, a shadow she can’t quite dispel. She focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, on the sound of Paige’s uneven breaths beside her, and on the way the jungle seems to stretch endlessly before them.

Paige hasn’t said a word.

It unnerves Azzi more than she wants to admit. Paige, for all her flaws and quirks, has been a constant stream of chatter since the two of them reluctantly teamed up. Whether it was dry sarcasm, idle complaints, or even rambling anecdotes about her life back in District Five, she’d filled the silence with words that Azzi didn’t always want but had grown used to. Now, there’s nothing. Just the sound of their labored breathing and the occasional crunch of leaves beneath their feet.

Azzi glances sideways at her. Paige is pale, her face slick with sweat, the blonde hair of her ponytail sticking to her neck in damp strands. Her forearm is still pressed tightly to her chest, blood seeping through the makeshift leaf bandage Azzi had tied around it earlier. It isn’t enough; Azzi knows that. But it’s all they have.

Her lips are cracked and dry, and every time she stumbles slightly, Azzi feels a jolt of worry she can’t suppress.

When had that started?

She doesn’t know when Paige stopped being just another competitor and started being something more. Something she’s not sure she can name. It’s terrifying, in its own way, the realization that she cares. If Paige had died back there—beneath that boy’s hands, choking on her own breath—Azzi doesn’t know what she would have done. The thought of it is enough to make her stomach churn.

Paige is a light here, Azzi realizes, her chest tightening. A bright, defiant force in a world that’s trying its hardest to crush them both. Azzi doesn’t know how someone like Paige exists in a place like this, but she’s glad she does. Even if she doesn’t want to be. Even if it’s dangerous to feel this way.

Cyrus would kill her if he knew.

The thought of her mentor brings a bitter taste to her mouth, though it’s hard to tell if that’s from the memory or just the dryness of her throat. He’d warned her against this—against forming attachments, against letting feelings get in the way of survival. “Emotions will get you killed,” he’d said, his voice sharp and unyielding. “You can’t afford to care about anyone but yourself.”

Azzi had nodded, agreed, and believed him. Until now.

The boy’s face flashes in her mind.

It’s quick, like the strike of a match, but it burns just the same. His body crumpling to the ground, the blood pooling beneath him, the light fading from his eyes. She’d killed him. Ended his life with a single throw of her dagger.

She tells herself it was necessary. That he was going to kill Paige, that it was him or them. She tells herself that this is what the Games are. That everyone here is fighting for the same thing: to survive. But the words feel hollow, even in her own mind.

He was just a kid. Hardly older than her.

Her grip on Paige’s shoulder tightens slightly, as if to anchor herself. Paige doesn’t react, her gaze fixed on the path ahead, but Azzi wonders if she notices.

The boy had wanted to live, just like they do. He’d fought for it, just like they’re fighting now. Azzi doesn’t blame him for that. She can’t. But she hates him for putting his hands on Paige. For pinning her down, for cutting her up, for choking her, for making Azzi do what she did.

Her thoughts circle back to Paige, as they often seem to recently. She glances at her again, taking in the shallow rise and fall of her chest, the sweat dripping down her temples, the way her lips are pressed into a thin, determined line. She wonders if Paige is thinking about the boy too, or if her mind is somewhere else entirely.

Azzi doesn’t ask. She doesn’t want to know.

Instead, she keeps walking, her feet dragging over the uneven ground, her thoughts a chaotic swirl of exhaustion, fear, and something else she can’t quite name. The jungle presses in around them, thick and suffocating, and the heat feels like it’s going to swallow her whole.

She needs water. She needs to sit down. She needs—

Paige stumbles, and Azzi’s hand shoots out instinctively to steady her. Paige mutters something under her breath, a faint “Thanks,” but her voice is weak, almost broken.

Azzi doesn’t respond. She just tightens her grip on Paige’s arm and keeps moving. They’re both too busted to trust themselves entirely, but they don’t have a choice. They can’t stop.

It feels like they’ve been walking for hours. Maybe they have. Azzi doesn’t know anymore. She’s too tired to care, her thoughts muddled by dehydration and pain.

And then, as if the universe finally takes pity on them, she hears it: the soft, unmistakable trickle of running water.

At first, she thinks she’s imagining it, a cruel trick of her exhausted mind. But then she catches sight of it—a narrow stream cutting through the dense foliage ahead, the sunlight glinting off its surface like a beacon. Relief washes over her so strongly that her knees almost give out.

“Water,” she croaks, barely recognizing her own voice.

Paige’s head snaps up, her eyes following Azzi’s gaze. She doesn’t say anything, just stumbles forward, almost tripping over her own feet in her haste. Azzi grabs her arm to steady her, and together they half-walk, half-fall toward the stream.

When they reach the edge, Azzi doesn’t even pause to take in the sight. She shrugs Paige’s bag off her back with shaking hands, digging through it until she finds their canteens. Her fingers fumble with the caps as she kneels by the water, filling both containers to the brim.

She shoves one into Paige’s hand, not waiting for a thank you before tipping the other to her lips. The water is cool, crisp, and it burns going down her dry throat, but she doesn’t care. She drinks until she’s out of breath, pulling the canteen away only to gasp for air before taking another gulp.

When she finally stops, her chest heaving, she glances over at Paige. The blonde is sitting, leant against a tree now, her back pressed to the rough bark, the canteen dangling limply in her hand. She looks awful—worse than awful. Her eyes are glassy, her lips cracked, and the blood on her arm hasn’t slowed. Azzi doesn’t know how she managed to get this far, if she’s honest.

Azzi sighs, hauling herself to her feet. Her legs tremble beneath her, but she pushes through it, crossing the short distance to Paige. “Let me see it,” she says, gesturing toward the arm Paige is still cradling.

Paige shakes her head, her lips curving into the ghost of a defiant smile. “I’m good,” she says, but her voice is weak, barely more than a whisper.

“No, you’re not,” Azzi counters, her tone sharper than she intends. She crouches in front of Paige, looking up at her with an intensity that makes the other girl falter. “Let me see.”

Paige hesitates, her gaze darting away as if she can avoid Azzi’s stare. But when she glances back, Azzi is still watching her, her expression unyielding. Slowly, reluctantly, Paige moves her arm, holding it out to Azzi.

Azzi takes her wrist gently, her fingers wrapping around the uninjured part of Paige’s arm. She can feel Paige’s eyes on her, burning into her face, but she doesn’t look up. She focuses on the makeshift bandage, peeling it back carefully.

The leaves come away slick with blood, and Azzi has to swallow hard to keep her stomach from turning. The cut beneath is worse than she thought—deep and jagged, the edges swollen and angry. Blood is still seeping from it, slow but steady, staining Paige’s pale skin a vivid red.

“Paige,” Azzi says quietly, the name heavy on her tongue. She doesn’t know what else to say.

Paige shakes her head again, biting her lip so hard that Azzi half-expects to see blood there too. “It’s fine,” she says, but her voice cracks on the last word, betraying her.

“It’s not fine,” Azzi says, her grip on Paige’s wrist tightening slightly. “He might’ve nicked a vein.”

“He didn’t,” Paige insists, but her voice is thin, almost desperate.

“Paige,” Azzi says again, her tone firmer this time.

She doesn’t wait for a response. She grabs her canteen, unscrewing the cap. “We need to clean it,” she says, not waiting for Paige’s agreement. “Hold still.”

Paige nods reluctantly, but Azzi catches the flicker of fear in her eyes. It makes something twist uncomfortably in her chest. She doesn’t want Paige to be scared. She doesn’t want her to be in pain. (She doesn’t know why.)

“Hey,” Azzi says softly, trying for a reassuring smile. It feels strange on her face, unfamiliar, but she hopes it works. “It’s okay.”

Paige doesn’t say anything, just watches Azzi with wide, wary eyes.

Azzi pours a small stream of water over the cut, wincing as Paige flinches. A soft whimper escapes the blonde’s lips, but she doesn’t pull away. Azzi works quickly, washing away the blood and dirt as carefully as she can, her movements slow and deliberate.

When she’s done, she sits back on her heels, surveying her work. The bleeding has slowed, but the cut still looks bad—too bad for her to handle with the limited supplies they have.

“We need to bandage it again,” Azzi says, her voice quieter now. She reaches into her own pack, pulling out a strip of fabric she tore from her shirt earlier. “This’ll have to do for now.”

Paige nods, her eyes glassy, and Azzi wraps the fabric around her arm as tightly as she dares. Her fingers brush against Paige’s skin as she ties the knot, and she can feel the faint tremor running through her.

“There,” she says, sitting back and meeting Paige’s gaze for the first time. “That should hold for now.”

Paige doesn’t respond right away. She just looks at Azzi, her expression unreadable. Then, finally, she mutters, “Thanks.”

Azzi nods, her throat too tight to speak. She doesn’t know why this moment feels so heavy, why the look in Paige’s eyes makes her chest ache. She just knows that, despite everything, she’s glad they’re both still here.

And she’s going to do whatever it takes to keep it that way.

THE SKY above them is painted in deep oranges and purples now, the last vestiges of sunlight breaking through the canopy. It’s beautiful in a way that mocks Azzi—the world doesn’t care that they’re here, bleeding and broken. The stream continues its soft trickle nearby, an unrelenting reminder of their vulnerability. Water is the most sought for thing in this arena—and she and Paige are right next to a steady stream of it.

Azzi’s head pounds, a rhythmic throb that matches her heartbeat, and her vision swims if she turns too fast. She presses a palm to her temple, trying to will it away, but nothing helps. She glances at Paige again—her breathing is shallow, her skin pale and waxy, the freckles dotting her nose stark against the pallor. Azzi doesn’t know much about medicine, but she knows blood loss when she sees it, and Paige is in trouble.

The bandage she’d rigged up is doing its best, but blood still seeps through the edges. It’s not enough to stop the bleeding, and Azzi feels a wave of helplessness crash over her. She’s supposed to be strong. She’s supposed to survive. But how can she survive when Paige is dying right next to her?

Their shoulders press together, grounding Azzi just enough to keep her panic at bay. Paige shifts slightly, her head lolling to the side, her eyes fluttering closed. Azzi doesn’t think—she just reacts, shaking Paige’s shoulder.

“Don’t,” Azzi says quickly. “Don’t fall asleep.”

Paige groans softly, a broken sound, but her eyes stay closed. “‘M tired,” she murmurs, her voice slurring. “Just… let me rest a minute.”

“No,” Azzi says, louder this time. Her chest tightens, her breath coming faster. She’s afraid, and it shows in her voice. “You can’t. If you fall sleep, you might…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, but the both know what she means. If Paige falls asleep, there’s a good chance she might not wake up.

Paige doesn’t respond right away, her head tipping back against the tree. Her neck stretches, her throat exposed, her brows furrowing, and for a fleeting moment, Azzi catches herself staring. It’s a small, stupid thing to notice in the middle of all this, but Azzi can’t help it. Paige, even like this—especially like this—makes her heart stutter in ways she doesn’t fully understand. She shoves the thought away, disgusted with herself. Now is not the time.

“Talk to me,” Paige says suddenly, her voice soft and pleading. It takes Azzi a moment to realize Paige is serious. “About anything. I gotta stay awake, so just… say something.”

Azzi hesitates. She has no idea what to talk about. But Paige’s eyes are on her now, hazy but expectant, and Azzi doesn’t want to let her down. “Uh,” she starts awkwardly, her voice hoarse. “I like basketball. It’s my favorite thing to do. It’s, like, how I escape stuff. I guess I love it.”

Paige’s eyes open a little wider, a spark of recognition flickering there. A small, broken smile tugs at her lips, and it hits Azzi harder than it should. “You like basketball?” Paige asks, her voice faint but teasing.

Azzi nods, feeling her chest loosen just a little. “Yeah. It’s everything to me.”

Paige’s smile grows, just barely. “Me too,” she whispers. “It’s my whole life.”

The admission surprises Azzi. She’d known Paige was athletic, but this feels… different. Personal. “Really?” Azzi asks, leaning in slightly despite herself.

Paige nods, though the motion looks like it takes effort. “I was kinda hoping—stupidly, maybe—that if I won this thing, they’d let me play in the Capitol. Like, with the pros.”

The idea is so absurd, so painfully hopeful, that Azzi feels a pang of something sharp in her chest. She stares at Paige, her throat tightening. “I thought the same thing,” she admits quietly. “I mean, it’s a dream, right? But they’d never let us.”

Paige shakes her head slowly, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Probably not.” She’s quiet for a moment, her gaze unfocused. Then, she says, almost wistfully, “You and me, we could’ve—”

She doesn’t finish. A sharp breath hisses through her teeth, her hand twitching toward her injured arm. Azzi watches in concern, brown eyes softening, and then reacts without thinking, gently taking Paige’s arm and resting it in her lap. She presses down on the bandage, trying to slow the bleeding, her movements careful but firm. Paige winces, a soft whimper escaping her, but she doesn’t pull away.

“Keep talking,” Azzi says, her voice steady despite the turmoil churning inside her. She doesn’t know why it matters so much, but it does. She needs Paige to keep her eyes open, to keep responding, to stay here with her.

Paige nods faintly, her eyes searching for something to focus on. They land on Azzi’s face, and Azzi feels her stomach flip under the intensity of that gaze. “We could’ve been teammates,” Paige murmurs, her voice barely audible. “It would’ve been fun.”

Azzi’s heart twists, a dull ache settling in her chest. She forces herself to smile, though it feels like it might crack her face. “Yeah,” she whispers. “It could’ve.”

Silence stretches between them, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant gurgle of the stream. Azzi doesn’t let go of Paige’s arm, her thumb brushing lightly against the skin just above the bandage. She doesn’t know if it’s for Paige’s comfort or her own.

The night creeps closer, the colors in the sky fading to deep purples and blues. And as they do, things just continue to get worse. Paige’s shoulder is warm and sweaty against Azzi’s, but her weight is starting to sag, her head lolling more with each passing moment. Azzi feels every shift, every shallow breath, and it’s like a countdown ticking in her ear. Paige’s ponytail brushes against the side of her face every now and then, soft and teasing, and for a second Azzi’s brain latches onto it—onto how bizarrely comforting such a small, stupid thing can feel in a moment like this. But it’s fleeting. The ache in her head won’t let her hold onto anything for long.

It’s getting worse. The dull throb that started hours ago has grown into something monstrous, a pressure building behind her eyes and pushing at her temples like her skull might split open. The jungle spins when she glances to the side, her vision streaked with dark spots that pulse in time with the pain. She can barely focus on anything, but she forces herself to keep her eyes on Paige. Paige, who’s somehow still upright, even as her arm hangs limp in Azzi’s lap, her blood staining Azzi’s hand through the makeshift bandage. The bleeding has slowed, but still not stopped entirely, and Azzi knows that’s not good enough. She doesn’t know how much blood Paige has left to lose, and the thought tightens around her chest like a vice.

Azzi reaches her free hand up, and it shakes slightly as she moves it to rub circles at her temple. The pounding in her cerebrum is unbearable, each throb sending a wave of nausea and dizziness through her. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to focus, but the spinning in her peripheral only gets worse.

She feels Paige stir beside her, hears the faint hitch in Paige’s breath before the blonde whispers, “Does your head hurt?”

Azzi’s eyes flutter open, and she turns her head just enough to meet Paige’s gaze. Those blue eyes—crystal clear even in the fading light—are wide and worried, and for a moment, Azzi forgets how to breathe. It’s startling, how much concern Paige holds there, as if the pain in Azzi’s skull is more important than the gaping wound in her own arm. Azzi swallows hard, pushing down the lump forming in her throat, and forces a small, shaky smile. “Yeah, um, a little,” she lies, her voice cracking slightly on the words.

It’s a terrible lie, and Paige sees right through it. Before Azzi can pull away or deflect, Paige’s uninjured arm moves, her hand coming up to gently cup Azzi’s jaw. The touch is featherlight, hesitant but somehow steady, and it sends a shiver down Azzi’s spine. Her breath catches in her throat, and she freezes, unsure whether to lean into it or pull away. Her body decides for her, staying perfectly still, as if moving might break whatever fragile thing this moment has become.

Paige tilts Azzi’s head slightly, her fingers careful as they guide her. Azzi’s cheek tingles where Paige’s skin brushes hers, and she wonders, distantly, if Paige can feel the heat rising there. Paige’s thumb hovers near the bruise on the side of Azzi’s face, and Azzi feels her breath hitch again as Paige murmurs, “He hit you hard. God—your cheek is almost purple.”

Azzi blinks, her brain struggling to catch up. She hadn’t realized how bad it looked; the ache had been drowned out by everything else—the adrenaline, the fear, the focus on keeping Paige alive. Paige’s voice pulls her back, soft and hoarse, but heavy with something Azzi can’t quite make. Her fingers brush over the bruise, trailing so gently it almost feels like a ghost of a touch, and then they skim over the cut on Azzi’s cheekbone.

The sting catches her off guard, and she flinches, a sharp hiss slipping out before she can stop it. Paige jerks her hand back immediately, her brows knitting together in regret. “Sorry,” she says quickly, voice breaking slightly. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” Azzi cuts her off softly. “Really. It’s fine.”

But it’s not fine. Not the pain in her brain, not the blood still trickling out of Paige, not the way Azzi’s heart stutters every time Paige so much as looks at her. None of it is fine. And yet, in this tiny, horrible moment, with death lurking in the shadows and exhaustion pulling at every fiber of her being, Azzi feels a flicker of something she hasn’t felt since she left home. Warmth. Connection.

It’s stupid. It’s dangerous. And it’s exactly what she can’t afford right now.

Paige settles back against the tree, her head lolling slightly, but her gaze stays fixed on Azzi. “You’re a bad liar,” she says after a moment, her lips twitching into a faint, teasing smile.

Azzi snorts softly, the sound dry and humorless. “Yeah, well… you’re stubborn.”

Paige’s smile falters, her eyes drifting closed for a second too long before she forces them open again. “Guess that makes us a good team,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible now.

Azzi’s chest tightens, the weight of those words settling heavily in her heart. She glances down at Paige’s arm, her vision blurry but still enough to make out the blood-soaked bandage that seems to mock her efforts, and then back up at Paige’s face. She looks fragile, too pale and too still, her breathing shallow and uneven. Azzi swallows hard, fighting back the wave of helplessness threatening to drown her, and shifts slightly, leaning more of her weight into Paige’s side.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Azzi says quietly, her voice firmer than she feels. “Stay with me, okay?”

Paige hums faintly, her head tipping to rest lightly against Azzi’s. “I’ll try,” she whispers.

It could be a minute or an hour between that and the start of the ticking. It’s faint, barely there, a soft, irregular beat that worms it’s way into Azzi’s consciousness through the relentless pounding in her skull. At first, she thinks it might be her own pulse, amplified by the migraine that’s been eating at her focus all day, but then it grows louder, unmistakably external. Her head tilts, almost unconsciously, toward the sound, the motion sending a fresh wave of nausea spiraling through her.

It takes a second for her to pinpoint it, her vision hazy and the world dimming in the creeping twilight, but then she sees it. A small box, dangling precariously from a flimsy parachute, drifting slowly through the humid, stagnant air until it lands in the underbrush just a few feet away. The silver fabric of the parachute glimmers faintly in the dwindling light, and for a moment, Azzi wonders if she’s hallucinating.

She blinks hard, her dry, stinging eyes struggling to focus. No, it’s real. It has to be.

“What is that?” Paige’s voice is groggy, slurred with exhaustion and pain. She doesn’t move, just tilts her head a fraction toward the clearing, her expression half-curious, half-disoriented.

Azzi doesn’t answer. She can’t. The words are lodged in her throat, tangled up with the sudden, desperate burst of hope that’s surging through her chest. Instead, she shifts carefully, so slowly it feels like her joints might creak from the effort. Paige’s arm is still draped across her lap, and Azzi tilts it gently, settling it back in Paige’s lap as if it’s something fragile and precious. “Stay here,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

Paige gives her a bleary nod, her head falling back against the tree trunk, and Azzi takes a shaky breath as she pulls herself to her feet. Her legs feel like rubber beneath her, unsteady and unreliable, and the moment she straightens, the world tilts alarmingly. Her vision blurs, the dark shapes of the trees around them smearing together into a dizzying kaleidoscope, and her head pounds so viciously she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.

She stumbles but manages to catch herself on the rough bark of the tree. Her palm scrapes against it, a sharp sting that grounds her just enough to push forward. Each step is an act of will, her body screaming at her to stop, to sit, to let go. But she doesn’t. She can’t. Not when there’s a chance—no matter how slim—that what’s in that box might save them.

The small package sits nestled in the underbrush, it’s parachute caught on a low-hanging branch. Azzi crouches slowly, her balance wavering, and pulls it down with trembling hands. The rough fabric catches slightly on her fingers, and her head spins so violently she nearly collapses right there. Somehow, she makes it back to where Paige sits slumped against the tree, her eyes half-closed but still tracking Azzi’s movements.

Azzi drops to her knees in front of her, cradling the box in her lap like it’s something sacred. Her hands shake as she fumbles with the lid, her pulse pounding in her ears so loudly she can barely hear anything else. It takes a moment—too long, in her opinion—but eventually, the lid pops off, revealing the contents inside.

A tub of ointment, labeled in neat, blocky letters: for open wounds. Two small pills in a clear, sealed pouch, labeled simply: for the pain. And tucked into the corner, a folded piece of paper. Azzi snatches up the note first, her heart hammering as she unfolds it.

Keep it up. The Capitol loves you.

It’s signed by both Azzi and Paige’s mentors—a joint act.

Azzi’s chest tightens. Relief crashes over her, sharp and almost painful in its intensity, but it’s laced with something darker, something bitter. She’s grateful, of course she is, but the note is a cruel reminder of the game they’re playing—the performance they’re expected to give. Their survival isn’t just dependent on their own skill or willpower; it’s a spectacle, a source of entertainment for people who will never know what it feels like to bleed in the dirt, to fight for every breath, to endure the kind of pain that makes you wonder if it’s been worth it.

Azzi swallows hard, her throat tight, and turns the note toward Paige. Paige blinks at it, her eyes squinting as she tries to focus on the words. When she finally makes them out, a small, breathy laugh escapes her, soft and incredulous. She lets her head fall back against the tree, a faint, almost dazed smile tugging at her lips. “Oh my God,” she murmurs, her voice trembling slightly. It’s unclear whether she’s laughing out of relief or disbelief—or both.

The sound of Paige’s laugh, faint as it is, warms something deep in Azzi’s chest. It’s a reminder that they’re still here, still alive, still capable of finding something—anything—to hold on to. Before she can stop herself, she feels her own lips curve upward, the faintest ghost of a smile breaking through the exhaustion and pain that’s been weighing down on her for what feels like forever.

It’s small at first, tentative, but it grows, soft and real, until her dimples poke out—a feature that hasn’t seen light since she left home. The warmth of the grin spreads across her face like a sunrise breaking through the clouds. It feels strange to smile like this here, in the arena, in the state they’re in, but it’s genuine, and it’s hers.

When she looks back at Paige, she finds the older girl staring at her. Paige’s blue eyes are hazy, rimmed with near agony, but there’s something else in them, something unspoken and undeniable as they trace over Azzi’s face. It’s a look that sends a flicker of warmth rushing through the brunette’s chest, even as her headache rages on.

And then, despite everything, Paige grins back. It’s slower, lazier, and nowhere near as bright as it would be if they weren’t half-dead in a jungle, but it’s real. And for a moment, just a moment, it feels like they’ve won something far more important than a sponsor’s gift.

But then Azzi snaps out of it, knowing they don’t have the luxury of wasting time. Every second feels stolen, borrowed against a future that’s far from guaranteed, and Paige is the priority right now. The thought flickers briefly in her mind—how strange it is to think of Paige as anything but her competition, how utterly backwards it is to put someone else before herself in a place like this. But the logic doesn’t stick. The part of her that knows better is drowned out by something deeper, something she can’t quite—or maybe just doesn’t want to—name. She shoves the thought away, as she has with so many others.

Her head throbs mercilessly, the ache radiating from her temple down to her jaw, making it hard to focus. The pills are calling to her, the promise of relief so tempting it makes her fingers twitch. But Azzi forces herself to look away, to lock in on Paige instead. Paige is the most pressing issue. Azzi can deal with her own head later, once the blonde isn’t bleeding anymore.

Azzi reaches for Paige’s arm carefully, the older girl watching her intensely as she does so. Those blue eyes, always so sharp and steady, are dulled, but they don’t wager as they track Azzi’s every move, as if she’s the exception to her exhaustion. It’s unnerving, almost too much, but Azzi doesn’t pull back.

Her fingers brush against Paige’s skin as she takes her injured arm, and she notices immediately how clammy it feels, how fragile. Paige doesn’t flinch, though, letting Azzi take the weight of it as she carefully unwraps the so-called bandage they’d thrown together earlier. The blood-soaked fabric peels away slowly, sticking in places, and Azzi’s stomach once again twists at the sight of the wound.

It’s still red and angry and oozing blood. The metallic tan got it fills the air, sharp and overwhelming. Azzi has to take a deep breath, steadying herself.

And then she’s dipping her fingers into the ointment, it’s texture slick and slightly sticky. Carefully, she begins to spread it over the gash. The instant it touches the raw skin, Paige hisses through her teeth, her body tensing beneath Azzi’s hands. Azzi freezes, her heart skipping a beat. “Sorry,” she murmurs, her voice low and soft, almost inaudible. She doesn’t want to hurt Paige, even if it’s necessary.

Paige’s lips press into a thin line, and after a moment, she nods. Her free hand gestures weakly for Azzi to continue. Azzi does, her fingers moving as gently as they can. She focuses on covering every inch of the wound, making sure the ointment is evenly spread, all the while hyper-aware of how close they are. She can feel Paige’s shallow breaths, can hear the faint catch in them every time her touch hits a particularly sensitive spot. It’s distracting, but Azzi forces herself to keep going.

When she finally finishes, she sits back slightly, her hands hovering uncertainty over Paige’s arm. Her fingers are smeared with leftover ointment and stained crimson, and the sight of the blood—Paige’s blood—sends a jolt of something sharp and unpleasant through her chest. She doesn’t let herself dwell on it.

Azzi reaches into the box, pulling out one of the pain relief pills from the small pouch. She hands it to Paige, her fingers brushing briefly against Paige’s palm as she passes it over. The contact is fleeting, but it feels significant somehow, like it leaves a mark.

“Take this,” Azzi says, her voice firmer now, though still edged with exhaustion. She grabs one of their canteens, unscrewing the cap and holding it out to Paige. Paige takes both the pill and the canteen without question, ripping her head back to swallow them. Azzi watches, relief flickering briefly in her chest as Paige’s throat bobs with the effort.

Once Paige finishes, Azzi moves to craft another makeshift bandage. She tears a strip of leaves, careful to pick ones she recognizes as cleaner, and secures them around Paige’s arm, tying them tightly enough to hold but not so tight that they’ll cut off circulation. The leaves feel flimsy, inadequate, but it’s better than leaving the wound exposed. The Capitol’s ointment might be effective, but Azzi isn’t willing to risk it.

Now that Paige is taken care of, Azzi finally lets herself acknowledge what her body has been screaming at her all along. She needs relief. Her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches for the second pain pill, plucking it out of the pouch. Her throat is dry and the motion of swallowing feels sharp, but she forces the pill down quickly, chasing it with a swig of water from the canteen. The hope that it might take the edge off her pounding skull is the only thing keeping her upright right now.

She picks up the tub of ointment, planning to stow it away safely in one of their bags, when Paige’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Wait.”

Azzi looks over, confused, brows furrowing as her gaze lands on Paige. “What?”

Paige gestures toward the ointment with a tired flick of her fingers. “Can I see it?”

The request doesn’t make much sense. Paige doesn’t need more of it, and her wound’s already been ‘bandaged’ back up. But Azzi doesn’t ask. She’s too drained to question it, and maybe, in the back of her mind, there’s a tiny piece of her that would hand over almost anything Paige asked for without hesitation (yes, she knows how bad it is). Wordlessly, she holds the tub out to the blonde, who takes it with a quiet look of determination.

Azzi watches as Paige unscrews the lid, dipping her thumb into the cool salve and scooping up a small amount. Then Paige’s eyes lift to meet Azzi’s, her gaze steady despite the exhaustion weighing her down. “C’mere,” Paige says softly.

Azzi hesitates, blinking at her. “Why? What—”

Paige rolls her eyes, exasperation creeping into her voice. “Your cheekbone, Azzi.”

Azzi blinks again, then lifts a hand to her face, fingertips brushing against the gash just below her eye. She’s half-forgotten about it, the pain of her pounding head and the worry over Paige drowning out the sharp sting of the cut. Her cheeks flush faintly, but she nods, leaning forward just enough to close the gap between them.

As Paige’s fingers reach for her jaw, Azzi stiffens slightly. The touch is careful, light, and steady, but it sends a ripple of tension through her that she struggles to suppress. Paige tilts her chin up, her thumb brushing the salve gently across the cut. Azzi can feel the coolness of it on her skin, a faint relief that’s overshadowed by the warmth radiating from Paige’s touch.

Paige is so close. Too close. Azzi can see every little mark, every faint line of exhaustion etched into Paige’s face. Azzi’s heart seems to be pounding harder than her head now, and she forces her gaze to dart away, focusing on the rough bark of the tree behind Paige instead of the curve of her lips or the cerulean of her eyes.

The moment drags out longer than it should, Paige’s hand lingering against Azzi’s cheek even after she’s finished. Then, finally, she leans back, handing the tub of ointment back to Azzi. “There. Now you can put it away,” she murmurs, her voice quiet, her lips curving faintly into something soft and fleeting.

Azzi swallows hard, taking the tub and stuffing it into one of the bags with more force than necessary, as though sealing it away might also lock up the strange swirl of feelings tightening in her chest.

When she finally settles back against the tree beside Paige, she sighs deeply, the weight of the day pressing down on her. The pain in her head still hasn’t faded, and she closes her eyes for a moment, leaning back against the rough bark, trying to center herself. But then Paige’s voice breaks the quiet again, soft but firm.

“You should actually lay down,” Paige says. “Your head definitely needs it.”

Azzi shakes her head without even opening her eyes. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“No, Azzi.” Paige’s voice is sharper now, another flash of concern cutting through her exhaustion. “You need to lay down.”

Azzi turns her head, meeting Paige’s gaze. There’s something there, something in the way Paige is looking at her—equal parts frustration and care and just pure fatigue—that makes Azzi’s stomach tumble. Paige doesn’t have to say anything else. Azzi knows exactly what she’s suggesting. Her face flushes hot, and she rubs her temple again, trying to come up with an excuse whilst simultaneously trying to ease the pain. “Paige…”

“Azzi,” the blonde interrupts, her voice matching Azzi’s tired tone with an almost perfect mimicry.

Azzi exhales heavily, the tension draining from her shoulders. She knows she should argue, but she doesn’t. Maybe it’s because the pain in her skull is still unrelenting, or maybe it’s because, deep down, she wants to be closer to Paige. Either way, she gives in, shifting her wright and carefully lowering herself until her head is resting on Paige’s lap.

The moment she settles against the older girl’s thighs, she feels relief. The position takes some of the pressure off her pounding head, and the warmth of Paige beneath her is oddly soothing. She exhales slowly, letting her body relax for the first time in hours.

Paige doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t need to. Her fingers move slowly, hesitating for a moment before they come to rest against Azzi’s hair. And then, as if testing the motion, she begins to rub small, smooth circles against Azzi’s scalp. The gentle pressure eases some of the ache in Azzi’s skull, and her eyelids grow heavier with each passing second.

Azzi’s hand, lying limply at her side, brushes agajnst Paige’s. It’s not intentional at first, just the natural shift of her body, but then her pinky moves, deliberately sliding closer until it touches Paige’s. She doesn’t interlock them, instead keeping the touch featherlight, just the barest connection. But it’s enough. It’s grounding. It’s more than she thought she’d ever have here.

Azzi lets her eyes fall shut, the ache in her head dulling slightly, and for the first time all day, she allows herself to truly breathe.



[justice4milton]

First draft of my fweaking hunger games pride and prejudice au where Katniss is adopted by Effie and Haymitch and also lives in maine and also its the 80s and also also theres angst.

[noirsnonsense]

okay I'm giving in. I'm reading crimson rivers.