"Live in 1 minute!"

Someone from within the legion of production assistants screams, holding up a single finger before returning to anonymity. Caesar Flickerman's shoulders go stiff as his neck snaps up, daring to meet my emerald eyes for the first time. A studio light shines its white-hot beams down on us, catching in the beads of sweat on Caesar's upper lip. He coughs uncomfortably.

"That's a real pretty dress"

I raise a brow at the announcer; not bothering to glance at the stupidly pretty thing my stylist put me in. She wove an intricate pattern of tinsel and auburn hair into a braid over my shoulder and I can tell she's trying to make me look like I might actually be a 14 year old girl, not the clever mastermind that the Games have revealed. It's a plan destined for failure: I look like a beautiful knife.

"Tell me something, Caesar"

Leaning over the edge of my silver-plated seat, a dare him to look away from me. My eyes are force-fields, drawing him towards me and yet never letting him in. Those watery blue orbs of his reflect back memories of a life not his own, molded by the Capitol into a charismatic façade. A man who has grown close to so many children and watched them all fade away.

"Do I make you nervous?"

The question shouldn't be necessary. Caesar has sat with 47 victors before me, not to mention literally hundreds of other beastly tributes with the insane urge to rip and shred and killkillkill. He has watched talent and smiles and life be ripped away from children who didn't deserve it by monsters dressed up as innocent boys and girls. Yet Caesar has a forehead shining like diamonds and fingers looking like they're playing an invisible piano in my presence.

"Do you make me nervous, little girl?"

There's almost a whimper in his voice

"LIVE IN 30!"

"Let me tell you something. I've seen these Games for a long time. I've watched some of the smartest people go into that arena and never come out. Children enter that hellhole come out as demons. But you….you…you…I interviewed a boy who killed 21 tributes and laughed about it. I questioned the girl who killed her brother and could still smile at the memory. I wasn't scared of any of them. Do you make me nervous? No. You frighten me more than my worst night mare. Why?"

His hands are trembling now, fumbling with his jewel-encrusted microphone. The light catches off the shining objects and throws me right back into the arena…

A wave of dirty blond hair falls into his hollow eyes as he stumbles into the clearing. His robotic actions; the empty steps: Peeta Mellark is neither dead nor alive, trapped in a nightmarish in-between state. Sunlight bounces off of his skin and into the golden air. The beautiful meadow is far too happy for the blood that has been shed here and the crimson that is to come.

"Cato killed her" Peeta mumbles weakly, drawing his knife "The fucking bastard killed her"

"I know, Peeta"

"I want to die"

"You know that's not true"

"Cato stole her: my only reason for living."

"Peeta…"

"It's just you and me now."

Something strikes up in his eyes as he raises the deceptively beautiful blade to his chest. There's hope there; relief and comfort and thanks.

" Goodbye, Foxface"

Not thinking about the importance of this moment, I raise a brow at my title.

Peeta, sweet gentle Peeta, smiles brightly, looks up at the morning sun

And plunges the knife into his heart.

"You killed no one little girl. You beat the Hunger Games. And that makes you the most dangerous tribute of all"