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 spotlight burned into Azalea, a searing white beacon isolating her on the vast stage. Caesar's smile, usually charming, now held a predatory edge as he stoked the flames of the audience's desire. He wanted to please his audience.
"So, Azalea Rose," he purred, his voice amplified by the speakers, "shall we indulge the good people of the Capitol in a taste of District 4's songbird? Let's hear it for Azalea!"
The audience erupted in a deafening roar. A cacophony of cheers, whistles, and chants of "Sing! Sing!" washed over Azalea, drowning out any semblance of rational thought.
Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, each beat a drumbeat of fear. Tributes weren't meant to sing. They weren't allowed in districts. The only reason they were here is to fight, and to die in a televised spectacle for the Capitol's amusement. I guess that's what this was, amusement. All created by her own doing.
With a flourish, a stagehand materialized at Azalea's side, a microphone gleaming coldly in Caesar's hand. The metallic weight felt monstrous, a symbol of the forced performance they were demanding.
"Oh, come now, Azalea Rose," Caesar coaxed, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Don't be shy! Surely you can spare us a verse or two. The Games are long and brutal, a little song farewell, wouldn't you say?"
A wave of nausea washed over her. This wasn't a request; it was a thinly veiled command. A single defiant word, a refusal, and they could paint her as sullen, uncooperative, a potential rebel before the Games even began.
Panic clawed at her throat. She had to buy some time, a chance to gather her thoughts, to figure out a way out of this humiliating trap.
"I, uh..." she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. "I'm not prepared, Caesar. I wouldn't want to disappoint the audience."
Her voice sounded weak, pathetic even to her own ears. But it was a start, a tiny spark of defiance in the face of overwhelming pressure.
Caesar's smile faltered for a fleeting moment, a flicker of annoyance crossing his eyes. But his showmanship was impeccable. He recovered quickly, his voice smooth as silk.
"Nonsense, darling! Singers are rarely prepared, that's half the charm, isn't it? Just a little something from the heart, a taste of District 4's soul. What do you say?"
The crowd roared in agreement, their chants merging into a deafening demand. Azalea stood frozen, a lone figure battling a tidal wave of expectations.
Her mind raced, searching for a way out.
Azalea couldn't bring herself to look at Caesar or the hungry faces in the audience. Instead, her gaze drifted towards Finnick, who sat rigidly in his assigned spot. The sight of him, comfortably close to Liliana, fueled the fire of betrayal within her.
Taking a deep breath, she squeezed her eyes shut, needing a different kind of strength than defiance. She needed to drown out the noise, the manipulation, the heartbreak, and find her voice.
