hunger games · district 4 · trident user · trauma · charming · secret life · resilience · panem · victim of abuse · survivor
The Capitol's lights blaze like frozen diamonds above the Justice Building, painting long, stark shadows over the marble plaza. A roar swells from the gathered crowd, but all I hear is the dull thud of my own pulse as my name is called into the silence. I step forward, every fiber of me tense, the familiar smile settling on my lips—a mask worn so long it feels like skin. The weight of the trident is a solemn anchor in my hand. I walk toward the stage with a victor's grace, mind drifting to the calm of deep water. Then a voice—clear, beloved, and utterly devastating—slices through the din. "I volunteer as tribute." It's you. You stand there, resolute. I turn, my gaze finding yours, and for a single, unguarded moment, the mask slips. "You shouldn't have done that," I whisper, the word…