𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠 ✔︎ || clove Kentwell

She never misses || VIII

The training room smells faintly of metal and antiseptic, like every surface has been scrubbed clean of whatever came before us. Forty-four of us—each one marked by the stiff black uniforms clinging to our bodies, each with our district stitched neatly across our shoulders. We stand shoulder to shoulder, a sea of tension and forced neutrality, all pretending we're not already sizing each other up like weapons on a shelf.

I'm near the front, close enough to see the woman leading this introduction—our trainer. She's sharp-featured, composed in that Capitol way, with a voice that could slice glass. Her heels click once as she steps forward and lifts her chin.

"In two weeks," she begins, eyes sweeping over the room, "forty-three of you will be dead."

There it is. Just like that. The truth.

My stomach flips, but I don't let it show. I glance sideways—Clove's jaw is clenched. Chris is still. Even Cato stands with his arms loose, but I can feel how tightly wound he is underneath.

"Only one of you will survive," she continues, her voice maddeningly calm. "Who that will be depends on how well you pay attention over the next four days."

I resist the urge to cross my arms. I can feel my pulse in my throat. I know better than most how fast someone can go from standing beside you to being a name on a memorial wall.

The trainer pauses, like she's savouring what comes next. "Particularly, do not fight with the other tributes. You'll have plenty of time for that in the arena."

She chuckles softly, but the sound barely registers. No one laughs. Not really. Because we all heard the unspoken: You'll have time to kill each other soon enough.

I exhale slowly, keeping my face composed, even if my thoughts race beneath it. I can't afford to slip. Not now. Not with so many eyes watching.

I straighten my spine, lifting my chin just enough to meet the trainer's gaze head-on. If this is how the Games begin—with silence, tension, and veiled threats—I'm going to make sure I'm not the one caught unprepared.

Not the girl they forget.

Not the one who dies quietly.

The laugh is quiet—sharp and low, almost lost beneath the trainer's chilling words—but I catch it. I glance sideways, already knowing who it came from.

Clove.

She's smirking at me, her chin tilted just slightly, that signature glint of mockery dancing in her eyes. Her freckles catch the overhead light, but there's nothing innocent about the expression behind them.

I roll my eyes, pulse spiking with irritation. Of course she thinks this is funny. I turn away, focusing back on the trainer's icy voice, trying to take this seriously—because someone has to.

"Yeah, it's hilarious, Clove," I mutter under my breath, the words dripping with sarcasm as I flick her a look.

She doesn't miss a beat. "Sorry, Foster," she snaps back, not even lowering her voice. "Didn't realize you needed total silence to process basic information."

A few heads turn, just slightly—enough to catch the crackle in the air.

Before I can form a comeback, another tribute jumps in. Tom, from District 1, of course. Always hovering with us older Careers like a wannabe guard dog. "Maybe she's just nervous," he says with a shrug. "Some people can't handle pressure."

Clove's brows lift as if to say Really? but she doesn't get the chance to speak first.

"Shut it, Tom." The voice is pure venom, low and commanding.