The waiting room outside the training gymnasium was a tomb. One by one, tributes were called in. One by one, they returned with faces like stone. When David's name was called, my heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. He looked at me, his eyes wide, his thumb pressed firmly into his palm—the Hidden Thread holding him steady.
"Remember," I whispered, leaning in so only he could hear. "You're a bird in a storm. Just stay small. Let them think you're overwhelmed."
He nodded once and vanished behind the heavy doors. When he walked out ten minutes later, he didn't look triumphant; he looked fragile, his shoulders hunched as if trying to take up as little space as possible. He had played the Child Strategy to perfection for the only audience that mattered today.
Then, the mechanical voice echoed through the hall.
"Zinnia Moonlight, District 12."
I walked into the center of the gym. The Gamemakers were bored, picking at platters of roasted duck and sipping wine. I didn't reach for a bow. I walked directly to the center of the floor, right beneath their gallery, and stared up at them. I didn't bow. I let my eyes go dark.
"I am not here to entertain you," I said, my voice a low, dangerous vibrato. "I am here to show you what happens when you threaten my cub."
I moved like a blur. I grabbed a heavy iron spear and shattered the wooden supports of the combat platform. As it collapsed, I leaped into the air, spinning with a grace that shouldn't have been possible. In mid-air, I drew a concealed training knife and pinned a moving target through the "eye" from twenty feet away. I finished by using camouflage chemicals to create a localized explosion that sent a plume of eerie green fire roaring toward the gallery.
The Gamemakers scrambled back, spilling their wine. I stood in the center of the smoke. "If any of your 'surprises' in that arena so much as scratch him," I said, pointing the spear directly at the Head Gamemaker, "I will find the man who designed the trap, and I will show him exactly how a Lioness hunts."
The elevator doors hadn't even fully slid open back at the penthouse before Effie Trinket was upon us. The television was blaring the recap, and my score—a massive, golden 12—was burned into the screen.
"Zinnia! Moonlight! Have you completely lost your mind?" Effie shrieked. Her blue wig was slightly askew. "The mentors' briefing was a disaster! They told us everything! The spear? The explosion? The threat? You threatened the Head Gamemaker's life! It's uncivilized! We were building a brand of 'Elegant Resilience,' not 'Psychotic Menace'!"
She paced the floor, her silk heels clicking like gunfire. "The sponsors don't know the details yet—they just see that terrifying number—but the other mentors do! They think you're a ticking time bomb! You've ruined the aesthetic, Zinnia!"
"She didn't ruin it, Effie. She finished it."
Haymitch was leaning against the sideboard, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. For the first time, he looked sharp. He didn't just have the score; he had the report from the room. A slow, shark-like grin spread across his face.
"A twelve," he chuckled. "I just got off the floor with the other mentors. They're all shaking. They've spent twenty years watching kids walk into that room and beg for a crumb of attention. You walked in and demanded their blood. Congratulations, sweetheart. You just became the most famous person in Panem. The sponsors are blind, but the people who actually run these Games know exactly what you are now."
He raised his glass in a mock toast. "You've given them a reason to be afraid. That's the only currency that matters in that arena."
Portia and Darien were standing by the window. Portia was already sketching frantically in a notebook, her creative mind racing.
"The 'Mother Hen' angle is out," Portia murmured. "The mentors will spread the word, and the sponsors will hear the rumors. Moonlight isn't soft, Zinnia—it's the light that reveals the predator. We're going to lean into the 'Goddess of War' look for the interviews. If they're scared, let's give them a reason to be."
Darien caught my eye and gave a small, appreciative nod. "The Capitol loves a villain they can pity," he said softly. "But they worship a force they can't control. You've become both."
I looked at Haymitch, then at the television. My name was glowing there. Zinnia Moonlight: 12.
"I didn't do it for the score," I said.
"I know why you did it," Haymitch replied, his smile fading into something serious. He glanced at David. "And because you did, that boy has a better chance of seeing another sunrise than any tribute I've ever mentored. Now, go eat. Tomorrow, the world officially meets the Lioness."