𝙰𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗 ✪ 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝙾𝚍𝚊𝚒𝚛

- ȶաɛռȶʏ ȶɦʀɛɛ

Willa leaned with her arms resting on her legs, hands clasped together as she stared at the wall ahead of her. She didn't engage in conversation, not that many of them were. The 24 of them were sat waiting for individual assessments, there wasn't a need to really speak.

"District 1, Gloss Thorne. Report for individual assessment," a robotic voice said. All eyes glanced at the male. He was the first one after all. Willa shifted in her seat as Gloss left the room. At least she wasn't going first.

"District 1, Cashmere Thorne. Report for individual assessment." 10 minutes had passed before the voice was heard again. The room was silent otherwise besides conversations there were barely audible. It was impossible to pick up on what people were saying.

"District 2, Brutus Aven. Report for individual assessment." another 10 minutes had passed. Willa was next and she didn't dare show the anxiousness she was feeling. She didn't need the others to see a weakness.

"District 2, Willa Levine. Report for individual assessment." 10 more minutes. Some victors turned their heads to look at her, to see her reaction. All she did was take a deep breath, push herself up to her feet, and leave the room. Show no emotion, show no weakness. The deadliest victor didn't feel emotions, right?

The hallway leading to the assessment room was eerily quiet, the sound of Willa's boots on the polished floor echoing faintly. She kept her breathing steady, her face a blank slate as she approached the large metal doors. They slid open with a mechanical hiss, revealing the vast, cold room beyond.

The Game Makers sat in their elevated seats, a semi-circle of opulence and power. They were cloaked in rich fabrics and adorned with garish accessories, their faces expectant but detached. Willa forced herself not to meet their gazes for too long. Instead, she focused on the task at hand, letting the mask of indifference settle over her like a second skin.

The room itself was stark, a chilling reminder of the Capitol's obsession with spectacle. Weapons were neatly arranged on one side, targets and obstacles scattered strategically throughout the space. Willa's eyes flicked over them briefly, calculating, before she walked to the center of the room.

"District 2, Willa Levine," the head Game Maker announced, his voice carrying a tone of lazy authority. "You may begin."

She inclined her head slightly, a gesture neither deferential nor defiant. Willa drew her twin knives with a practiced motion, the metallic whisper of the blades cutting through the silence. For a moment, she stood still, letting the weight of the room settle around her. Then she moved.

Her first throw was swift and precise, the blade flying through the air and sinking into the bullseye of a distant target. The second knife followed immediately after, hitting just a millimeter off-center from the first. Willa barely paused before retrieving a throwing axe from the nearby rack. Her movements were fluid, almost dance-like, as she hurled it at a moving target. It struck cleanly, the mechanical arm of the target jerking to a halt.

The Game Makers murmured amongst themselves, their voices a distant hum. Willa didn't pay them any attention. This wasn't about impressing them with brute strength or flashy theatrics; it was about control, precision, and ruthlessness. She wanted them to see her as calculated and unyielding—a tribute who wouldn't hesitate when the time came.

She moved on to the close-combat station, switching to a heavier knife with a serrated edge. The dummy before her was designed to mimic human movements, its joints responding to pressure. Willa didn't hold back. She struck swiftly and efficiently, each blow targeting vital areas: throat, chest, abdomen. It was methodical, clinical, devoid of excess or flair. The dummy fell in pieces at her feet.