Growing up in District 12 is the worst thing that can happen to a child of Panem.
In the capitol, and the wealthy districts, children sought the aprobation of their parents. In the intermediate districts, children sought to be useful to their paren...
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The winter festival was a spectacle of Capitol opulence, an event of glittering ice sculptures and snow-dusted pines, all orchestrated by President Snow on line with his theme to celebrate Johanna Mason's victory in the 71st Hunger Games. The guests at the event were the pure elite of Panem. Victors, ministers, and members of the most prominent families of the Capitol. Cardew, Creed, Dolittle, Fulvew, even the President only daughter and both grandkinds were in attendance. The most distinguished were given a white rose from Snow's collection, mine was incorporated into my hairdo but most who had one placed it in their lapel for everyone else to see. To see their power, their connections. From what I could tell, less than a handful Victors were wearing such distinction, only Augustus Braun, Finnick, and me that I had seen so far. Not even Johanna, who this entire celebration was supposedly for, had one. Dressed in a dark brown glittering flowy dress, golden heels and the crown on top of her head, she couldn't look more out of place.
"Andromeda Voltaire," I said, extending my hand toward her. She took it but didn't shake it right away, just stared at it with raised eyebrows before giving it a brief, almost lazy shake. Her grip was firm, though, her skin rough in contrast to the soft Capitol sheen around us.
"Johanna Mason," she said, her voice sharp and unapologetic. "But you already knew that. Hell, everybody does. Just like we all know who you are. People still talk about you more than me, which is saying something." Her gaze pinned me, unapologetically direct, like she was daring me to flinch.
I held her stare, unfazed. "Don't sell yourself short, Mason. You played the part perfectly, and you're deadly with an axe. Your victory wasn't just deserved—it was earned."
Her lips twisted into something like a smirk, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Earned. Right. If by 'earned,' you mean 'forced to kill a bunch of kids while the Capitol cheered.' Sure. Let's call it that."
"No one outside the Careers wanted it, Johanna," I said, matching her tone. "And even some of them regret it, though you'd never hear them admit it."
She huffed a bitter laugh and took a sip from her drink, her fingers gripping the glass tightly. "Yeah, well, regrets don't bring anyone back. And they don't stop him from dangling your worst nightmares over your head, either." Her voice was low, but every word was loaded with venom.
I leaned in closer. "I'm guessing he's already made you his 'offer.'"
She stiffened slightly, her jaw clenching, but she didn't look away. "Yeah, he's talked to me," she said, voice flat. "Made it real clear that saying no wasn't an option." She set her drink down with a deliberate clink, her knuckles white against the glass. "Not that it mattered much. They were gone before I even got back after the Tour. I should've seen it coming. Should've—" Her voice cracked, and she immediately snapped her mouth shut, like she hated that she'd let it slip.
I placed a hand on her knee—not as reassurance, but as solidarity. "Don't go there," I said firmly. "Blaming yourself is exactly what he wants. Every choice we make comes with consequences, but none of this is on you."
