❝ THE FALL ◐ the hunger games.

❝ CHAPTER THREE .

Tribute Arrival Day.

One of the most anticipated events in the Capitol. Everyone was eager to catch their first glimpse of the tributes, placing bets on who might emerge victorious. Even the Presidential Palace was noisier than usual.

Mason Everson-Asteril, however, stayed quiet.

He was tucked away in his room early that morning, careful not to disrupt his father's meetings. Though Emmett often insisted Mason join him "for the experience," Mason always found an excuse to decline. The Capitol adored Mason—there was no doubt about that—but he wasn't sure the feeling was mutual. At least, not for all of them.

Sitting on the ledge of his bedroom window, Mason watched as people came and went. He'd never seen so many visitors stream into the mansion this early. And it was only 9 a.m. The tribute trains weren't due to arrive until 11, assuming everything ran on schedule.

Mason's life in the Capitol was still in its early stages, as was his relationship with his father. For fifteen years, Mason had lived in District 2, unaware of who his father even was. He had grown accustomed to life outside the Capitol, to the District's grittier, no-nonsense reality. Then, in the blink of an eye, his world turned upside down. He was whisked away to live a life he barely understood, with a parent who actually wanted to be in his life. That alone had been a monumental adjustment, but everything that came with it—the Capitol's grandeur, its suffocating culture—made it overwhelming.

A familiar knock broke his train of thought. He didn't need to look to know who it was.

"Come in," Mason said, keeping his gaze fixed on the window. The door opened without a sound, and he caught the faint murmur of his father dismissing someone.

It didn't stop the person from whispering complaints just outside the door. Not that it mattered—Mason had learned quickly that no one in the Presidential Palace truly whispered. They spoke in hushed tones and hoped no one dared to overhear. But for a quiet, observant seventeen-year-old, they might as well have shouted.

"But, Mr. President—" the voice whined, louder now. Mason rolled his eyes at the Capitol's signature combination of persistence and entitlement.

The sharp click of heels on tile followed, then silence as the door shut. Mason imagined Emmett had given the speaker one of his signature shut up or you're fired glares—a look he'd been perfecting recently.

Mason saw his father's reflection in the window before he felt the mattress creak under Emmett's weight. His tie was undone, his shirt slightly untucked, but everything else about him was impeccably put together.

Emmett frowned as he pressed down on the window seat. "Well, that's no good..." he muttered, testing the wood like he was about to break it.

Mason raised a brow. "What are you trying to do—fix it with your bare hands or see if it'll collapse under you?"

Emmett shrugged and leaned back against the wall. "Testing its limits. I could get it replaced with something sturdier, if you want."

"Nah, not unless you plan on using it more than me," Mason said with a smirk. "If that's the case, though, then yeah—please."

"Are you implying I'm fat?" Emmett gasped in mock offense, but his tone cracked with a laugh.

Mason snorted, then broke into laughter. For a moment, the Capitol, the games, and all their shared baggage seemed far away.

When Mason first met Emmett and learned he was his father, he'd expected someone uptight. Someone cold. Someone who would force him to conform to impossible standards. It made him hesitant to leave District 2—though, in truth, he hadn't had much of a choice. His mother's fragile mental state had made it clear he couldn't stay, and her reputation as one of the many "living casualties" of the Hunger Games hadn't helped. A victim who hadn't died but often wished she had.