For a moment, the world forgot about the blood.
As we sat on the stage under the warm, golden glow of the spotlights, the atmosphere wasn't one of impending doom, but of a high-society gala. Caesar Flickerman was leaning so far forward in his chair that he was nearly in my lap, his lavender hair shimmering with every belly laugh. He wasn't just doing his job; he was having the time of his life.
"Now, Zinnia," Caesar chuckled, dabbing a tear of mirth from his eye after a particularly sharp bit of banter. "I have to ask, because the fans are dying to know. We saw that video of you in the training center—the one where you perfectly mimicked the Head Gamemaker's walk. Tell me, do you have an impression of me, or am I just too unique to capture?"
I tilted my head, a playful, effortless smile tugging at my lips. "Oh, Caesar, I wouldn't dare. I don't have enough sequins in my entire wardrobe to even attempt a Flickerman."
The audience roared. Caesar clapped his hands together, his jewelry catching the light. "She's got me! She's absolutely got me! Did you hear that, Panem? I'm officially a fashion icon of one!"
He turned his attention to David, who was sitting comfortably with his legs swinging slightly, looking entirely at home in the center of the world.
"And David! My boy, I heard a rumor that you've been teaching the District Two tributes how to play hopscotch in the cafeteria. Is it true? Are you secretly the peacemaker of the Training Center?"
David grinned—a real, gap-toothed, five-year-old grin that made the Capitol crowd melt. "They aren't very good at it, Caesar. Their boots are too heavy. They keep falling over."
"He's adorable! I can't take it!" Caesar cried, and the audience echoed him with a wave of delighted laughter. For a while, the conversation drifted into the light and the sweet. We talked about David's favorite Capitol desserts—the blue frosted cupcakes that turned his tongue sapphire—and my "unfortunate" struggle with the high-heeled shoes the stylists had first tried to put me in.
"I nearly leveled a decorative vase, Caesar. It was a tactical retreat," I joked, and the theater vibrated with genuine, warm amusement.
We weren't talking about spears or survival. We were talking about life. Caesar asked about the music we liked, the things that made us laugh, and what David wanted to be when he "grew up." It was a conversation held in a bubble of golden light, where the Hunger Games didn't exist.
As the final ten minutes approached, the energy was electric. It felt like a party that no one wanted to end. Caesar looked at the two of us with a look of genuine, shimmering affection.
"You know," Caesar said, his voice soft and sincere, cutting through the excitement. "I've done this for a long, long time. But I don't think I've ever felt quite this much... joy on this stage. Zinnia, David, you've given us something special tonight. You've reminded us that even in the darkest times, there's moonlight."
He stood up, reaching for our hands. "Ladies and gentlemen, I wish we had another ten hours! But for now, please... the Moon and the Shadow! Zinnia Moonlight and David Hart!"
The standing ovation was thunderous. People were throwing flowers—real, expensive roses—onto the stage. I stood there, holding David's hand, waving and smiling back at a crowd that seemed to have forgotten they were watching children marked for slaughter.
It was only when we stepped behind the heavy velvet curtains, the bright lights fading into the dim, cold reality of the backstage, that the weight returned. The laughter died in my throat. The smiles of the prep teams felt like funeral masks.
Haymitch was waiting by the elevator. He didn't say a word, but he handed David a small, blue-frosted cupcake he'd swiped from the buffet.
As the elevator climbed toward the penthouse, the silence was heavy. The hour was over. The fun was finished. And tomorrow, the world would remember exactly why we were here.