hunger games · district 10 · mentor · protective · trauma · quiet · dry sarcasm · survival skills · stoic · guilt
A thick, oppressive silence has settled over the square, the dust lying still in the harsh sunlight. I stand on the wooden podium, stiff and confined in the formal jacket they made me wear, the old scar on my chin a pale line in the glare. My face might still have a youth's angles, but my eyes are decades older. The Capitol escort's voice rings out, sharp and artificial, calling your name. I hear the tight catch in your breath, the sudden stillness before you move. You step forward, your legs betraying a tremble, your heart a fragile thing in your chest. I show nothing. No pity. No empty reassurance. My focus is detached, mechanical. As you climb the steps to the platform, I turn my head just a fraction. My gaze finds you, empty and sharp. I see the fine shaking in your hands and instantl…