Chapter Text
I stare at the wall, trying to empty my mind. The lights reflect against the ivory white, cold and unforgiving. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at the same spot, but it must have been a while, because the body beside me begins to move. I take a slow breath. The performance isn’t over yet. After a moment, I feel her hand glide over my bare chest. Every instinct in me wants to pull away, but I don’t. I can’t.
“You were wonderful. You were worth it.” I turn to face her. Her artificial violet eyes gleam with satisfaction, and her flirtatious smile reveals unnaturally white teeth that look almost carved. I offer her my best smile—the one I’ve perfected, the one that never reaches my eyes.
“It’s always a pleasure to meet your expectations, Magenta,” I say, shaping my voice into something dangerously like Finnick’s.
Her smile widens, if that’s even possible, and faint wrinkles gather at the corners of her eyes. I wonder how long it will take her to notice them. How long before she has them cut away. I guess she’s forty, though with the Capitol you never truly know. They are experts at concealing imperfections. Experts at erasing anything that resembles what makes us human.
“I’d love to stay and enjoy another round, but I have commitments to attend to.” She sighs in theatrical disappointment and rises from the bed. Silver hair spills over her shoulders.
As she turns, I notice a tattoo on her back I hadn’t seen before—a Mockingjay surrounded by flames. She must have gotten it two years ago, when the Mockingjay was fashionable here. I look away before the memories take root, but it’s impossible not to see her anyway—Katniss. Her gray eyes like molten silver. That rare, fragile smile I was never certain I deserved. The braid resting against her spine, simple and real. When I force those thoughts down, Magenta is already dressed. She leans over me and presses a kiss to my lips. I return it with practiced enthusiasm.
“Next time we see each other, I’ll bring you a gift. You’ll be delighted,” she says as she pulls away.
“I’ll be eagerly awaiting our next meeting,” I lie. I’ve often wondered whether the gifts are meant to quiet some hidden guilt. Whether silk and jewels make it easier to forget that I’m being bought.
As she walks out the door, I release a shaky breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The silence crashes down around me. I rush to the bathroom and kneel before the toilet, emptying the alcohol I forced myself to drink at that ridiculous party last night. My breathing turns uneven. My hands tremble as something inside me splinters a little further. How much longer can I endure this before there is nothing left of me?
When I finally manage to stand, I step into the shower and let the water run over me for what feels like hours. I scrub at my skin until it burns, trying to wash away the filth I feel clinging to me. But it isn’t on my body. It never was. It settled somewhere deeper the first night I was sold.
I remember how terrified I was. How my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. How desperately I wanted to run. I had always imagined my first time would belong to someone I loved—someone like Katniss. Not a stranger. She found my fear charming. She was excited by my inexperience.
After she left, I cried for hours, shaking so hard I could barely breathe, until Haymitch came to drag me back to my feet and prepare me for the next obligation. I remember the pounding headache the next morning—his attempt to drown my terror in liquor. But nothing ever truly drowns. Some things simply learn how to survive in the dark.
I look at my reflection. Blue eyes stare back at me—too bright for a face this tired. Beneath them, dark circles bloom like bruises, souvenirs from the nightmares that refuse to loosen their grip and from the endless Capitol parties where sleep is a luxury I can no longer afford. I step away from the image I’ve grown to despise and dress in clothes suitable for the journey home.
I leave the room where the victors are staying—the “Hotel Victor.” The name tastes bitter in my mind. My shoes echo along the hallway, sharp against the gleaming marble floor. It shines so brightly I can see the ceiling reflected beneath my feet, as if the world has been turned upside down and I am walking on something fragile enough to shatter.
I reach the elevator and descend toward the lobby. When the doors slide open, I find Finnick sprawled across a blood-red sofa, flirting effortlessly with a waitress who offers him a glass of wine. He looks like he belongs here—like he was sculpted for this world of silk and hunger. When he sees me, he rises, smiling in that way only Finnick Odair can—radiant and reckless all at once.
“Peeta! How nice to see you again!” he exclaims, pulling me into a hug and slinging an arm around my shoulders.
“Are you drunk already, Odair?” I ask, rolling my eyes.
“Don’t think I’m that weak, Loverboy.” I ignore the nickname the Careers gave me in the arena. It echoes too loudly.
“Are you ready to go home?” I ask, changing the subject. A spark flickers in his eyes—real this time, not performed.
“Yeah. I can’t wait to be back by the ocean. Annie will be there.” Annie. Finnick’s girl. Over the past year we’ve grown closer—two victors navigating the same gilded cage—and he’s confided in me about her. I’ve never met her. Because of her fragile mental state, she remains in District 4. They even relieved her of mentoring duties. The Capitol prefers its victors polished, not broken in public.
Finnick must be counting the hours until he can see her again after months trapped here. I try not to feel the twist in my chest. He has someone waiting for him, I have my family, and I have Haymitch—when he’s sober enough to notice I’m there. But it isn’t the same. It isn’t someone who looks at you like you are the only solid thing in a collapsing world.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “We can enjoy the calm before the Harvest arrives.” Another year. Another reaping. Twenty-three children marching toward almost certain death while we stand beside them, smiling for the cameras.
“That’s right,” Finnick replies, and there’s a sharpness in his voice I rarely hear. The charm slips, just for a second. “That’s why we get to return to our districts. To smile. To mentor. To pretend we’re not sending them to die.”
His jaw tightens, and for a brief moment, neither of us looks like the Capitol’s prized victors. We just look tired.
After saying our goodbyes, I head straight to the train that will take me back to District 12. After three months surrounded by the Capitol’s excess—its glittering lies and perfumed cruelty—I ache to see my father again, to sink my hands into flour and dough. Painting and baking are my refuge, my way of holding myself together. Haymitch drinks, Finnick flirts, Johanna rages, I bake.
I lie down and close my eyes, foolishly hoping the nightmares might spare me for once. But I already know they won’t.
I’m in a forest, but not just any forest. The arena. Darkness coils between the trees as I move carefully, trying not to trip over roots and stones. The air feels heavy, wrong. Then a scream tears through the night—sharp enough to split me open. I would know that voice anywhere.
“Katniss!” I shout, breaking into a run.
“Peeta! Help me!” she cries, panic splintering her voice.
I run toward her, branches clawing at my skin. A thick fog begins to gather around me, swallowing the trees, blurring everything into gray. I can barely see, but I don’t slow down.
“Katniss! Where are you? Katniss!”
“Peeta!” Her voice is closer now. Through the fog, a shape forms—a scene that freezes the blood in my veins.
Katniss stands trapped, Cato behind her, a knife pressed to her throat. I see the terror in her silver eyes—raw and bright and alive. I try to reach her, but my prosthetic leg catches in a root. I fall hard against the earth, breath knocked from my lungs. When I look up, it’s already too late. Cato drags the blade across her throat. A sound tears out of me—something broken and animal—as I watch her body collapse to the ground. The fire in her eyes flickers… and dies.
I wake paralyzed, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding so violently it feels like it might shatter my ribs. I know sleep will not return.
I step out into the corridor and glance around. Night has already fallen outside the train windows, the world reduced to dark glass and faint reflections. I retrieve my sketchbook, hoping graphite and paper can quiet what my mind refuses to silence.
The dreams of Katniss dying stalk me relentlessly, intertwining with the nightmares born from my work in the Capitol. Sometimes I can’t tell which horror feels more real.
The rest of the journey passes in restless wandering and restless drawing. I sketch forests. I sketch fire. I sketch eyes I can never quite capture correctly.
Finally, the scenery begins to change. The forests of District 12 emerge beyond the window—familiar, somber, honest. When the train slows and comes to a stop, I step onto the platform. The smell of coal fills the air, sharp and grounding. It comforts me in a way nothing in the Capitol ever could. Because despite everything—I am home. A small, fragile smile finds its way to my face as I begin walking forward.