I am going to murder Annek Alda. It will not be fast, and it will not be painless.

Perhaps I should back up.

I'm Meghan. Meghan Sweet, née Woodling. I mostly just go by Meghan. I married laterally, in case you're wondering. Not up or down, although I've been accused of both. I grew up in South Capitol, a stone's throw (no pun intended) from District Two. I was aces in school- graduated top of my class in Fashion Design at twenty-five, which is a year ahead of schedule. That same year, I married Felix (Sweet, obviously), and I started right out of the gate working as a stylist in the Hunger Games.

My designs have won -in order- Best New Stylist, Most Innovative Use of Materials, Most Original Use of Space, Best Storyline, the Pyrothique award for the synchronized fireworks, Highest Sponsorship, Best Pairing of Tribute and Theme, Best Interpretation of Theme, Second Highest Sponsorship, Best Representation of District. That last one was with Annek, the Victor from District Four in the Fifty-ninth Hunger Games. My Victor.

I've been a stylist for about a decade now. I've won an award for every year I've participated in the Hunger Games. How many Victors do I have? One. Just him; just Annek.

Awards aren't wins.

I learned that the first year, when Salina, a tart little sixteen-year-old from Five was a dark-horse front runner for sponsorships and high placement in the Fifty-first Games. I highlighted her self-described ability to hide in plain sight by making her blend in to her chariot. It looked completely empty, until she hit a button for the lights, and one by one, all of the other Tributes got a glowing red X projected across their faces. A few pulls and fabric adjustments, and her painstaking camouflage transformed into an interview-ready gown and a projected golden crown situated itself on top of her pretty little head. I was so proud of everything.

It is, however, a serious faux pas to mess with other Tributes during the Presentation, as I was told during the after-party for the stylists. And during the Games. And the awards pre-party. And by my seat-neighbor during. And at that after-party. She got an axe straight through her neck in the first five minutes after the countdown. So imagine my surprise when my hubris and her death still got me the top honors for new stylists, and I had to stumble through an awful acceptance speech which somehow had to acknowledge that and still say what a promising sort of first impression it made.

Being a stylist is kind of like going to school for your MRS degree. Instead of attending classes in stilettos and pearls and that one red lipstick you think that guy who sits behind you likes, hoping he'll notice and fall madly in love with you and sweep you off to West Capitol to some mansion on the beach and a life of luxury, you try and make some District kid look impressive enough that people will pay money to help them survive and win a sadistic battle royale. If you succeed, you can sort of retire. Sort of, because some people like to collect as many Victors as they can, and those people are crazy.

You're still responsible for how your Victors handle the spotlight that comes after, what with press appearances, and parties, and interviews and what have you. Some blowhards hire teams of assistants to do this, so they can keep on "making legends" for themselves, but like I said, those people are crazy.

What they don't tell you is you get attached. Hard. Losing your Tribute is losing your own flesh-and-blood, grunted-him-out-of-my-belly child. I don't have any biological children. But I know what it feels like to bury your baby.

It doesn't seem like it should- not at first. You're faced with this grubby, underfed young thing that's scared mostly to death and you're supposed to make magic. Something that's screamingly original, on the bleeding edge of fashion, that will stun and amaze all the civilians, pry open the wallets of the people that matter, and keep you out of President Snow's eye. Yes, all at once. When it works, you get my Phoenix from Six in Fifty-Eight, and when it doesn't, you get the lumps of coal from Twelve that have always been and always will be. I'm pretty sure they just save time and reuse the costumes over there.

But it does. Salina really thought she would make it, and she'd talk to me about what she'd do with the winnings. I got to know her family, and her friends. Her crushes, her mortal enemies. I knew her. And she died.

It doesn't get any easier either, mind. But you're caught between a rock and a hard place, you see. Because you are the only one in your Tribute's corner. Ever. The civilians only want excruciatingly fashionable bloodshed. Cold-blooded killing that's devastating in a three-piece suit. Sponsors just want to get richer. They place bets on who'll finish in what place. There was a scandal a while back, where one of the people who handles distributing the actual items into the Arena was diverting funds to their own bet. Apparently, he was somehow three and a half million gold in debt, and he'd tried to double down. He disappeared. The party line is he committed suicide out of shame, but I'm sure he's an Avox in some mansion somewhere.

But who cares about the Tributes in the Capitol? Their stylists. We're more than that, actually, a mix of mentor and therapist and confidant and bosom friend and shopping buddy. Our job is to get them back home. And we fail at it. Annek is my only Tribute to survive, at all, let alone past the halfway point, and it was more dumb luck than any skill on his part. Quite a lot of work on my end, though.

It's been a hard few years for him. Adjustment periods and all. He's a good kid, he really is, and when he tries, you just want the world for him. Or I do. But he's impulsive about the stupidest things. I don't think he got enough sense slapped into him when he was young, because sometimes I want to shake him.

Which brings me back to killing him slowly. Obviously, I'm not actually going to poison him or whatever, but he's made me mad enough to seriously consider it.

I work for three months. Twelve weeks. Eighty-four days. I stake my personal reputation (see above) on vouching for his responsibility, I'm buried in meetings and exhausted, and I barely even get to say hi to Felix because my hours are so crazy, on top of everything else I do (which is a very lot), in order to get him a conference at his home. Not just any District. Not even just any Ward in his District. Hometown.

All he has to do -all he has to do- is sit and answer stupid celebrity questions like "What have you been up to?" "Can you show off your skill?" "Will you sign my hat?" for sixty minutes. That's it. That's all. He was gonna be home for a week and a half, and the cherry on whipped-cream-covered top is he would finally get off probation and be able to travel more freely and, well, keep coming home. What does our boy do, with the chance to dramatically change his circumstances handed to him on a golden platter, wrapped in a bow, presented by a choir of singing angels and swimsuit models?

He bails.

He. Does not. Show up. I do, of course. I got there early, to provide a list of topics people can ask without getting censored. A few squirmier questions because people wouldn't buy it otherwise, but mostly the softest little lobs I can think up for him to answer. "Do you like the Capitol?" "Will you sign my shirt?"

He'd gone off with some girlfriend or whatever they're calling it now here. Doesn't bother to get in touch. Doesn't give me a heads-up so I can save face and reschedule. Leaves me holding the bag. I stumbled through some stupid story about food poisoning and rescheduling for later that year, but we all know what's happened, and it's the only thing I could do to get off-stage before I started crying tears of pure, distilled rage and fear and humiliation, and punching the coral-embossed hallway of the Depot. I have to explain this to President Snow himself, who will just get that smug look on his face like he was right all along and treat this as treason on both of our parts. Why? He has his frilly little panties in a twist about Annek and the fact he killed the President's psychopath hunting buddy in self-defense. The man was a monster anyway and he only got what was coming to him. -That's off-record, of course, and I'll personally make sure you're an Avox before I die if you even think of saying that to anyone else or even just say it out loud in your empty living room. Trust and believe.

This is the worst possible outcome, besides standing up the President for a dinner date, or flipping him off on national television. Annek doesn't know it, but his life, and mine, and Felix's, and June's and Marcus' all have an expiry date on them now. Unless I work serious magic (and hours) to change the President's mind about everything.

This is why I'm going to murder my only Victor. Do you blame me?