Siren Song → The Hunger Games

CHAPTER ONE

Cashmere has always thought there is something profoundly beautiful about death. To her, it is art. The splatter of blood on a canvas rivals even the masterpieces of Monet. But it isn't just the aesthetic that captivates her; it is the power.

Oh, the power.

To still a beating heart—the one thing working tirelessly to sustain life—with the flick of a knife fills her with a bliss no artificial high can replicate. So, when the speakers crackle to life and call her name, summoning her to her very first kill test, she feels no fear. Only strength. Dressed in her Moline uniform, armed with knives that gleam under the arena lights, she feels invincible.

She steps into the ring with a grin, her eyes locking onto her target. The boy sits cross-legged on the cold floor, toying absentmindedly with a piece of string. His stillness disappoints her. She hopes for more. The Academy demands a performance, and even she craves a spectacle. Art, after all, needs a worthy canvas, and this one seems frustratingly inert.

When he makes no move, she sighs, knowing she'll have to provoke him. Taking a measured breath, she lets the rhythm of her training guide her. Slowly, deliberately, she takes a few steps forward, signaling the start of the show.

"Are you the one here to kill me?" His voice is low, disinterested. He glances up at her briefly before returning his focus to the string in his hands. "Interesting."

He offers no further explanation, and Cashmere's lips curl into a small smile. He makes his first mistake: underestimating her. The pretty dress she wears—soft pink with lace trim—makes her look delicate, harmless even. But that's the point. Every kill has its own dress; every dress marks a kill. It's her signature, her artistry.

"Why don't we make this more interesting?" she says, lifting the hem of her dress to reveal a bandolier of throwing knives strapped to her thigh.

That gets his attention. He drops the string, his murky brown eyes snapping to hers. "Now we're talking," he says, a crooked smile breaking across his bearded face.

Cashmere's fingers dance over the hilts of her knives before selecting one. She twirls it effortlessly in her hand. "Run," she whispers, her voice calm but commanding. "Run."

For a moment, he doesn't move. His eyes stay locked on hers, defiant. She bites her lip in frustration. "Please," she sighs, rolling her eyes. "Make this harder for me." When he still doesn't move, she releases the first knife. It sails through the air with a hiss, embedding itself in his shoulder. A thin line of crimson seeps through his shirt.

Now she smiles for real. "How about now?" she teases, pulling another blade from its sheath. She doesn't wait for him to answer. The second knife flies, striking his other shoulder with more force. He flinches, a sharp curse escaping his lips as he scrambles to his feet. The realization hits him—she isn't here to play. She is here to kill.

Finally, she thinks, the hunt begins.

As he stumbles backward, she gives him a head start, savoring the moment. Watching him flee is part of the thrill. Fear adds a richness to the performance that she craves. Without it, the hunt is hollow.

"Ah, there we go!" she exclaims, her voice light, almost playful, as she looks up at the cameras mounted around the arena. "This just got interesting, didn't it?" She winks at the unseen examiners, knowing they'll appreciate the theatrics.

He bolts for the staircase, his boots slipping on the uneven terrain, and Cashmere follows, her footsteps deliberate. She herds him upward, corralling him toward the balcony. It is exactly what she hopes for. The balcony provides the perfect stage for a dramatic finale, offering the examiners an unobstructed view of her work.