"I'm going to get you out of there,"
Finnick's voice was firm, each word sharpened by perseverance.
"How?" the young girl challenged, her tone tinged with desperation.
"You're out here, and I'm trapped in there."
Finnick's eyes swept over her, his...
The room was cold, sterile—designed to crush any lingering hope. The overhead lights hummed, casting a harsh glare on the faces of the twenty-four tributes lined up before the man. His voice was flat, emotionless, as if what he was about to say meant nothing. But to them, it was everything. "In two weeks time, twenty-three of you will be dead. One of you will be alive."
His words hung in the air like the stench of decay. The man, sharp-featured and dressed in military gray, paced in front of them, a predator sizing up its prey. Andreia's eyes drifted, the weight of his words settling in like a stone in her stomach. She tugged at the fabric wrapped tightly around her shoulders, a pitiful attempt at comfort in a world stripped of it.
"Who that is," the man continued, his voice grating against her thoughts, "depends on how well you pay attention over the next four days. Especially to what I'm about to show you..."
A hologram flickered to life from the tablet in his hand, casting an eerie blue glow across the room. The hologram depicted gruesome deaths—dehydration, infection, exposure—each more harrowing than the last. The images spun slowly before their eyes, a reminder of the various ways they could die, if not by each other's hands, then by the merciless cruelty of the arena itself.
The youngest tribute exhaled softly, her gaze slipping to the other tributes. She studied them, counting their numbers, noting their strengths and weaknesses. The pair from District Seven caught her eye first. The boy was all clenched fists and anger, his jaw set in defiance. The girl, on the other hand, was locked in, her attention sharp, absorbing every word the man uttered as though her life depended on it—because it did.
District Eight's tributes stood side by side, relaxed but alert. They seemed comfortable, like they had a quiet trust in one another that might be the only thing keeping them from breaking.
"No fighting with the other tributes," the man said, a cold smirk twitching at his lips. "You'll have plenty of time for that in the arena."
Andreia shifted, her eyes narrowing at the casual cruelty behind his tone. This was all a game to him. A twisted game where they were the pieces, and he was the player who set the rules.
"There are four compulsory exercises. The rest will be individual training." His gaze swept over them, a predator once again, "My advice—don't ignore the survival skills. Everyone wants to grab a sword, but most of you won't die from a blade. Ten percent from infection, twenty percent from dehydration..."
