Chapter Text
“And now we honor our third Quarter Quell, ” says the president. The little boy in white steps forward, holding out the box as he opens the lid. We can see the tidy, upright rows of yellowed envelopes. Whoever devised the Quarter Quell system had prepared for centuries of Hunger Games. The president removes an envelope clearly marked with a 75. He runs his finger under the flap and pulls out a small square of paper. Without hesitation, he reads, “On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that nobody in the rebellion was safe from the capital, not even those protected by the strongest, the male and female tributes will be reaped from the families of the existing victors, regardless of age.”
I can’t breathe. My mother lets out a sharp, choked gasp beside me, and Prim’s hand flies to her mouth. I can’t even look at her. My mind is reeling. Families of victors. That’s us. That’s Prim.
I stand frozen as the crowd on screen erupts into cheers. No doubt, Capitol citizens are already fantasizing about the added drama this twist will bring to their beloved Hunger Games. It’s all a game to them—an elaborate production to entertain and distract. But to me, it’s a death sentence.
The screen cuts back to Caesar Flickerman, who is practically vibrating with excitement. “What a twist! Families of victors, ladies and gentlemen. It’s poetic, really—a reminder that no one is untouchable.”
Untouchable. That’s what Snow wants everyone to believe. That even those who think they’ve escaped the Capitol’s grasp are still within its reach.
I push myself off the couch and stagger toward the door.
“Katniss,” my mother calls weakly. Her voice trembles, and when I glance back, her face is ashen. She’s holding Prim close, her arms wrapped tightly around her.
“I need air,” I say hoarsely, before stumbling out into the cold gray light of District 12.
…
The air outside is suffocating. The distant hum of the mines, the acrid scent of coal dust—everything feels wrong. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. All I can see is Prim’s face, wide-eyed and terrified. Her name is in that reaping bowl, just like last year. This time, I know she will get picked. This time, I know I can't save her. I should have just eaten the berries. I should have saved everyone the trouble. It’s my fault.
I break into a run, my feet carrying me on autopilot to the woods. The boundary fence looms in the distance, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. The thought of sitting still, of letting the weight of it all crash down on me, is unbearable.
But when I reach the edge of the fence, reality hits me like a punch to the gut. The fence is electrified now—always on, always buzzing with Capitol control. There’s no escape.
I sink to my knees in the dirt, my hands clutching at my hair. The memories come unbidden: Prim’s name being called at her first reaping, the look of terror on her face as she was shoved toward the stage. Rue’s laughter as we hid in the trees, her blood staining the forest floor.
I saved Prim once. I couldn’t save Rue. And now...
I press my hands to my face, trying to block out the image of Prim standing on that stage. She’s so small, so fragile. She doesn’t stand a chance.
…
By the time I make it back to Victor’s Village, the sun is setting, casting long shadows across the empty streets. Peeta is waiting for me on the front steps of my house. His face is pale, his jaw tight. He doesn’t say anything as I approach.
“I thought...” His voice cracks. “I thought you were gone.”
“I needed to think,” I say, though my voice sounds hollow even to me.
“You’re not the only one worried about Prim.”
His words cut through me. Of course, he’s worried about her too. Prim isn’t just my sister; she’s part of his family now, the family we’ve cobbled together in the aftermath of the Games.
But there’s something else in his voice—a tremor that doesn’t quite fit. I glance at him, and his expression is raw, almost haunted.
“What is it?” I ask cautiously.
Peeta swallows hard, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “It’s Rye,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Rye. Peeta’s oldest brother. I’ve seen him around town, a tall, broad-shouldered man with kind eyes and a quiet demeanor. He always stayed out of the Games’ orbit, working in the bakery and keeping his head down. Until now.
I feel like the ground has shifted beneath me. Of course, it makes sense—Rye is family, and family is fair game under the Capitol’s rules. But the thought of him in the arena, forced to fight and die for the Capitol’s entertainment, feels like another cruel twist in a nightmare that’s already unbearable.
“I didn’t even think—” I start, but my voice falters.
“Neither did I,” Peeta says bitterly. “But Snow did. He knew exactly what he was doing. He knew this would destroy us.”
I think of Rye’s quiet strength, the way he always seemed to stand in the background, a steady presence for his family. I think of how Peeta must feel, knowing that
someone he loves is being pulled into the Capitol’s deadly game.
Peeta steps closer, his hand brushing mine. “We’ll figure this out,” he says softly. “Together.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe that we can face whatever is coming and survive. But deep down, I know the Capitol doesn’t leave survivors. It leaves scars.
As we stand there in the fading light, I hear the faint echo of President Snow’s voice in my head: Nobody is safe.
And for the first time since the announcement, I let myself cry.
I’m not even sure if I know where I’m going. Somehow, though, I end up standing in Haymitch’s kitchen, drenched in a cold sweat, swatting Peeta away from me. I know he’s trying to do what's right but I don't care. The world is too loud right now. I should be with Prim but I can’t face her, knowing I can’t do anything now, knowing I will have to mentor her to her death. I need alcohol.
“Peeta, for once will you leave me alone! I should have died in that arena. You don’t need to keep following me around like a lost puppy!”
He stands in silence watching me as I open cupboard after cupboard until I find Haymitch’s stash. I uncork the first bottle and take a swig of it, wincing as it burns my throat.
“I mean it, Peeta, worry about your family, not me.”
“Suit yourself, Katniss.” Then he walks out, leaving me with alcohol and my thoughts.