Ryan Pov
The second day of training dawned with the sterile brilliance of Capitol sunlight, too bright, too perfect, too controlled, as though the sky itself had been stripped of clouds and replaced with a flawless blue sheet. Even the air felt artificial here. It lacked the heaviness of coal dust, the grit in the lungs, the smell of sweat and ash. The Capitol didn't want air that reminded people of labor. They wanted air that reminded people of glass towers and sparkling fountains, of a life above the districts.
The wide windows of the Training Center reflected that white-gold gleam back into my eyes as Meadow and I walked together, side by side, toward the hall that would decide if we lived long enough to see another dawn. My reflection was faint in the glass, distorted, but I recognized my own face, a face the Capitol's cameras would soon plaster across screens in every district. A face that had to stay calm, steady, charming.
The Capitol wanted us dazzled, intimidated, desperate. It was working.
Meadow trailed half a step behind me, her head lowered, her shoulders curled inward. She had that nervous habit again, rubbing her elbow with the opposite hand as though trying to fold herself into nothing. The gray of her Capitol-issued training uniform only made her look smaller, fragile against the shining floors and marble-white walls. The tributes from the career districts passed us in twos and threes, loud and confident, their laughter sharp enough to cut. Some were already showing off, swinging their arms, cracking jokes, daring others to size them up.
I could feel their eyes on me. On her. On us. Everyone was measuring, calculating. Who looked strong. Who looked weak. Who might be useful for a day or two before being discarded? Who might be easy prey in the bloodbath?
"Meadow," I murmured, my voice pitched low so it wouldn't carry, "today we're going to the weapons stations."
Her head jerked up, wide gray eyes startled. She bit her lip. "Weapons?"
"Yes." I tried to give her a reassuring smile, something confident, something to anchor her. "It's better if we start early. Learn what suits us. Find something we can actually use when it matters."
Her nod was small, hesitant. Her shoulders tightened as though bracing against a storm only she could feel. That flash of fear in her eyes stayed with me. She wasn't ready. None of us were. But here, you had to pretend readiness. That was half the battle.
I leaned in a little closer. "We also need to start thinking about allies. Talk to some of the others, at least test the waters."
Her brows furrowed immediately, and she shook her head. "I'm not as… as charming as you, Ryan."
Her voice cracked, soft but heavy. It wasn't just doubt, it was certainty. She believed it, believed her worth was less, believed she couldn't sway anyone. Her hands rubbed her elbows again, that nervous cycle. She'd never been told she was enough. Not until now, when it might already be too late.
I slowed, turned slightly, and reached out. With two fingers, I gently tilted her chin upward until her lashes trembled and her gray eyes met mine.
"Meadow," I said softly, careful to keep my tone calm, steady, warm. "Just breathe. Relax. If talking to them doesn't work, if you can't do it, it's not the end of the world."
She blinked, lips parted.
"The only ally I need is you," I told her.
Her eyes welled instantly, glassy and unspilled. For the first time since the Reaping, something shifted in her expression, hope, fragile but there. She gave a shaky laugh that turned halfway into a sob and then threw her arms around me, pressing herself against my chest.
"Thanks, Ryan," she whispered.
I closed my eyes. For a moment, I let myself hold her, let myself feel the warmth of her against me, the faint wild-grass scent of her hair. But the moment betrayed me. The softness dragged me back to another embrace, another girl.
Katniss.
Her arms around me, fierce and desperate, aching with the knowledge that time was slipping away. The press of her dark braid against my cheek. The sharp sting in my chest when she let go.
Katniss.
No matter what the Capitol did, they couldn't erase her. Couldn't burn her from my memory. I would go back to her. No matter what. I needed to survive.
I exhaled slowly and eased Meadow's arms from me, untangling gently. Her eyes searched mine, still shimmering, and I gave her the smallest nod before we stepped into the wide, gleaming expanse of the training hall.
The Training Hall was alive with noise, metal clashing, ropes creaking, trainers barking orders, the hum of machinery. The space was vast, almost overwhelming, each corner dedicated to a different survival skill. There were fires crackling in pits where tributes learned to spark flame. Camouflage stations where kids smeared mud and dye across their arms. Walls studded with artificial branches and ropes for climbing. Combat mats where trainers flipped tributes onto their backs.
And then, gleaming under the lights, the weapons stations.
Swords hung in neat rows. Spears leaned tall and gleaming. Knives lay in trays, their edges flashing like cold fire. A rack of bows rested against the wall, arrows feathered in Capitol colors.
My pulse quickened at the sight.
Of course, the Careers were already there. The boy from District 2, Stryker, swung a sword with easy grace, his muscles taut, trained, eager. His partner hurled spears at a target, each one striking close to the bullseye. They laughed, showing off, relishing the attention. Around them, other tributes hovered, intimidated.
I felt Meadow falter at my side, her steps slowing. I caught her hand and squeezed. "Stay close," I murmured.
We moved first to the knife section. A Capitol trainer greeted us briskly, showing Meadow how to grip a blade, demonstrating the motions. I already knew the basics. Mr Everdeen had taught me all I needed to know in order to skin animals.
The trainer gestured to the throwing knives, lined up near a series of targets. I picked one up, tested its weight, and aimed at the nearest target, only ten meters away. I threw.
The knife bounced off the edge and clattered to the ground.
Laughter erupted behind me. I didn't need to turn to know it was the Careers.
They think my looks are all I've got.
I gritted my teeth, grabbed another knife, then another. I threw, faster this time, harder, sharper.
Thud. Bullseye.
Thud. Bullseye.
Thud. Bullseye.
Three back-to-back. I didn't turn. Didn't smirk. I just moved to the twenty-meter line, took five knives, and hurled them one after another. Two struck bullseyes. The other three embedded close, solid hits.
When I finally did glance sideways, the Careers weren't laughing. Their eyes had sharpened.
I let the silence stretch, then turned my attention to Meadow. She was fumbling, her knife slipping clumsily from her hand. The trainer corrected her stance. She bit her lip, tried again, missed. My heart ached, but I forced myself not to rush in. She needed to learn.
Instead, I drifted toward the archery section.
The bow felt strange in my hands, heavier than the ones I'd seen back home, sleeker. I pulled, nocked, aimed, and released. The arrow struck, grazing the outer circle of the target. Not bad. Not Katniss. Never Katniss. But good enough.
I shot again, and again, until the rhythm steadied me. Then I moved on.
The spears waited, tall and gleaming, their balance perfect. I lifted one, tested its weight, admired the craftsmanship. Better than anything I'd ever held before. I remembered the Peacekeeper who'd once shown me the stance, the grip, the throw. I adjusted, inhaled.
"Hey, pretty boy."
The voice came sharp, mocking. I turned.
Wave. The District 4 boy. A spear in his hand, a smirk on his lips.
"You're quite good," he said, eyes glinting. "For a coal digger."
The smirk widened. "But in the end, you're just trash."
Heat flared in my chest. Before I could speak, a Capitol trainer stepped forward, holding up a warning hand.
Wave wasn't deterred. He tilted his spear, taunting. "What do you say, trash? Want to spar? I promise I'll go easy on you."
Other tributes were already gathering, whispering, eager for a show. Atala, one of the overseers, approached, frowning. "No fighting between tributes."
"It's just a spar," Wave said smoothly. "The spears aren't sharp."
Atala's eyes flicked to me. A question. Did I want this?
I nodded once.
Wave sneered. "What's wrong, coal boy? Cat got your tongue?"
I raised my spear, settling into stance.
Atala's voice cut the air. "Begin."
Wave lunged first, spear sweeping toward my side. I twisted, sidestepped, letting the movement flow. My grip tightened, and with a flick I spun the shaft across his stomach. The wood thudded into his gut.
He staggered back, grimacing. "You were just lucky."
He came again, faster, angrier. His spear jabbed toward my chest. I pivoted, deflecting with the shaft of mine, the wood cracking together. I slid, angled, and swept low, knocking his legs. He stumbled.
The crowd around us hissed, murmured.
Wave growled, face twisted. He attacked again, relentless, jabbing and slashing. My arms ached from the strain of parries. Sweat beaded on my brow. I feinted left, then swung right, catching his shoulder.
He snarled. "You think you're better than me?"
"I don't think," I said evenly, charm threading my tone despite the burn in my muscles. "I know."
Gasps rippled through the watching tributes.
Wave roared, lunged, reckless now. I dodged, stepped inside his reach, twisted, and slammed the butt of my spear into his chest. The air burst from his lungs. He hit the ground hard.
Silence fell.
I lowered my spear, breathing hard. I extended a hand.
Wave glared up at me, red-faced, chest heaving. For a moment I thought he'd refuse. Then, slowly, grudgingly, he took my hand. I hauled him to his feet.
The trainer's voice cut the silence. "Enough."
The crowd dispersed, murmuring, eyes flicking toward me with new weight. Some measured me with respect. Others with envy. The Careers' laughter was gone.
I glanced across the hall. Meadow was watching, her gray eyes wide, full of something like awe.
For her, I softened my expression, gave her the smile I knew she needed to see. She blushed, ducked her head, rubbing her elbow again.
Katniss's memory flared in my chest like an ember. Meadow reminded me of her—of the fierce girl I loved, the girl I needed to survive for. And though the Capitol wanted me desperate, broken, alone, I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
I had to win and go back to her, my parents and Madge.
--------
The cafeteria of the training center was a cavern of cold light and sharp edges. Everything in the Capitol gleamed with an artificial perfection, the kind that made my skin crawl. White marble floors reflected the harsh ceiling lamps, long steel tables lined up like soldiers on parade. It wasn't a place for comfort. It was a place designed to remind us we were not guests but livestock fattened before slaughter.
The smell of food, too rich, too seasoned, too plentiful, hung heavy in the air. A feast by Capitol standards, but it was nothing more than bait, a reminder of the power they wielded. Meat, bread, fruit, and even desserts, laid out in trays that could have fed a whole district family for weeks. I collected my plate with mechanical motions, but my mind was elsewhere.
I had only read the first book in my previous life and seen the movie. The 73rd Hunger Games was hazy in my memory—something about a ruined city, a mockery of the Capitol during the Dark Days, and a final showdown between District 2 and District 10. Beyond that, the details blurred. But the one thing I knew for certain was this: nothing here was scripted. Not anymore. Not with me inside the story.
The air grew thicker as Meadow and I carried our plates to an empty table. She stayed close to me, her small hands trembling slightly, her grey eyes scanning the crowd with the nervous twitch of prey expecting a predator's strike. She didn't belong here, and she knew it.
Neither did I. But unlike Meadow, I intended to carve a place where I did belong. By force.
We sat. She picked at her food, silent. I ate with slow, deliberate bites, my eyes never lingering too long on one thing. Always scanning. Always calculating.
And then, the room shifted.
I didn't have to look up to know why. I felt it, the weight of eyes, the ripple of whispers, the shuffling of feet. A presence moving through the cafeteria like a stormcloud blotting out the sun.
Stryker.
He walked like he owned the room, his boots heavy, shoulders squared, his chest puffed with the confidence only years of Career training could give. He was built like a tank, muscles bulging beneath his Capitol-issued shirt, veins like cables across his arms. Behind him trailed the rest of the Careers, a pack of wolves moving in formation, eyes sharp and hungry.
And they were heading straight for us.
I put down my fork and rose to my feet before he reached the table. Meadow's hand brushed mine, small and clammy, gripping as if holding onto me would anchor her in this storm. I gave her hand one brief squeeze before stepping forward to meet the incoming tide.
Stryker stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of Capitol soap clinging to his skin. His eyes raked over me, weighing, measuring, as though I were a piece of meat he was about to buy.
"You are strong," he said at last, his voice low but carrying easily over the hum of the cafeteria.
I tilted my head. "Observation skills on point, I see."
He didn't laugh. None of them did. Not yet.
"You're familiar with weapons," he continued. "Especially with the spear. Better than most. Better than me, maybe."
The words hung in the air like bait. He wanted me flattered. Wanted me to puff my chest, to preen like some Capitol show pony.
Instead, I smiled. Slow. Sharp. The kind of smile that said I knew the punchline to a joke they hadn't even realized they were part of yet.
"You truly are an anomaly," Stryker said finally.
"An anomaly?" I echoed, chuckling. "That's one way of putting it."
"Join us," he said, his tone hardening. "Become part of our pack. Together we'll kill the rest of the trash, and then we'll fight it out amongst ourselves. A clean game. Only the strong left standing."
Meadow's grip tightened on my hand. I glanced at her, her eyes wide, pleading—and then back at him.
"Your odds of survival will improve with us," Stryker pressed. "Leave the weak behind. Join the strong." His lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Or die."
The Careers shifted behind him, ready to leap, ready to bare teeth. The air buzzed with their bloodlust, their certainty that I would fall in line or fall under their blades.
I let the silence stretch. Then, slowly, I tilted my head and asked, "I've got a question."
That caught him off guard. His brows furrowed. Behind him, the Careers leaned in, curious.
I smiled wider, baring teeth now, a predator's grin.
"Do the lot of you want a simple death," I asked softly, "or do you want to die a bloody one?"
The words dripped like poison, sharp and sweet.
The silence that followed was absolute. A few tributes from other districts turned to stare, forks frozen halfway to mouths. Even Meadow flinched beside me.
The Careers bristled, hands twitching toward weapons they weren't allowed to draw here. I could see it in their eyes: outrage, disbelief, the itch to spill my blood right here and now.
But Stryker… Stryker just stared at me. His jaw tightened. His eyes burned. And then, slowly, deliberately, he raised a hand.
The pack stilled instantly. Like dogs obeying their master.
"I'll kill you," he said, his voice cold as steel. "With my own two hands."
"Promises, promises," I murmured, leaning back just enough to look casual. "You'll have to get in line."
For a moment, we held each other's gaze. No blinking. No retreat. Just two predators circling, testing the air, waiting for blood.
Then he turned. Walked away, his pack trailing like shadows.
"May the odds be ever in your favor," I called after him, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
I sat back down, picked up my fork, and resumed eating as though nothing had happened. The cafeteria's hum returned in fits and starts, whispers fluttering like nervous birds. But the tension remained, thick and heavy, pressing down on everyone who had witnessed the exchange.
Meadow ate quietly, her food untouched, her eyes still darting toward me. Finally, she whispered, "You should have joined them, Ryan."
I looked at her. She was pale, trembling, her fork shaking in her hand.
"I'm useless," she whispered. "Weak. Not worthy to survive."
My fork clattered onto my plate. I turned to her, my voice sharp.
"Meadow."
She flinched.
"Look at me."
Slowly, she did. Grey eyes shimmering with tears, wide and uncertain.
"You are not weak," I said, my voice firm. "You are not useless."
Her lips trembled. "But"
"No," I cut her off. "The only one I trust here is you. You're the only person I know won't slit my throat while I sleep. That makes you stronger than half the cowards in this room already."
Her tears welled over, trailing down her cheeks.
I leaned closer, lowering my voice so only she could hear. "The two of us will win this game. We'll leave together. Do you understand?"
She swallowed hard. I took her trembling hand in mine, squeezing tight.
"Do you trust me?" I asked.
Her answer was silent at first. Just the way her eyes softened, the way her breath steadied. Then she nodded and gripped my arm with both hands, holding on like I was the only solid thing in a collapsing world.
"I trust you," she whispered.