Azalea Rose Willow loves three things above everything else:
summer, the only season that mattered in her mind.
singing, alongside the comforting embrace of her guitar.
but above all, the easy camaraderie with the boy who lives next door to her, and...
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The 67th Hunger Games ended the day after they started. It was expected to last at least three days. It only lasted 20 hours in total.
The brutal desert arena, meticulously designed to force tributes into bloodshed, seemed to backfire spectacularly. The unforgiving heat and scarce resources claimed more victims than even the Capitol anticipated. Tributes succumbed to dehydration, heatstroke, and the ravenous mutant creatures before they could even contemplate alliances or strategies.
The final victor, Jacob Spader of District 1, emerged not through calculated combat, but through opportunistic ruthlessness. While others perished under the harsh conditions, he capitalized on their weakened state, culminating in the cold-blooded murder of Paulina Greenbay while she slept.
The lack of suspense and spectacle infuriated the Capitol. For the Capitol, it was a financial flop.
Sponsors, who had invested heavily in prolonged fights and dramatic deaths, saw their potential profits evaporate quicker than the tributes' water supplies.
The public, accustomed to bloodthirsty entertainment, were left feeling cheated and unsatisfied. A bitter pill to swallow for the greedy elite.
But while the Games lacked entertainment value for the wealthy, their impact on the districts was undeniable. Seeing their tributes succumb to heatstroke, devoured by mutated creatures, or brutally murdered instilled a bone-chilling fear.
This swift yet brutal spectacle became a twisted message in a bottle, cast upon the waves of fear and intimidation. It was a warning shot across the bows of the districts, a message that rebellion was futile, resistance hopeless. The games might have been a financial bust for the Capitol, but the fear they generated was priceless. As the districts braced themselves for the next year's reaping, they knew one thing for certain: things were only going to get worse.
The Mayor of district four, was said to have accidentally died the day after the games ended.
While the official cause of death was declared a heart attack, rumours swirled like hungry scavengers, each more plausible than the last.
Some said he was consumed by grief and despair over the death of his son Marco in the Games, and drowned himself in the dark of the district 4 ocean.
Others said he was consumed by guilt, and hung himself in his home for his poor wife to find arriving home in the afternoon.
Whilst a few, said he was shot by a peacekeeper with orders from President Snow.
These were, of course, just rumours.
And yet, the timing of the Mayor's demise, coinciding with whispers of District 4's "discrepancies" in their reported harvest yield, fueled the flames of speculation. Had the Mayor, in a desperate attempt to bolster his District's dwindling resources, dared to cheat the Capitol? Was his son's reaping the consequence of such defiance?
