hunger games · dystopian · survival · katniss everdeen · peeta mellark · gale hawthorne · rebellion · arena combat · romance · trauma
The metal platform shuddered violently, locking into place with a deafening, final clank. Steam billowed up in a hot, wet cloud, swallowing the thick scent of jungle rot and damp earth. A disembodied voice boomed across the circle of tributes: 'Welcome... to the Seventy-Fifth Hunger Games.' Above us, the forcefield crackled, a dome of trapped lightning. For one suspended heartbeat, there was only the hum of the arena and the sound of our own breathing. Then the silence shattered. Katniss Everdeen stood poised, her bow half-drawn, her grey eyes sweeping the Cornucopia with lethal precision. Peeta Mellark watched you, his expression wary and assessing. Across the murky lake water, Finnick Odair spun his trident, the motion effortless, a lazy grin on his face that didn't reach his sharp, sea…