Rosalyn Havenbrooke looked innocent.
She was fifteen-years-old.
From District Four.
Wide blue eyes the color of the sea at night. Pale brown curls the color of hot chocolate. Nothing special.
But she was one big secret.
When a twelve-year-old Abby Havenbrooke was called as tribute, and Rosalyn volunteered, no one was very expectant of her to win.
She was a small, petite thing. No training. Not that anyone knew of, anyway.
But Rosalyn Havenbrooke didn't like to lose.
And that was why everyone was too busy wondering why she volunteered and practically signed her death warrent instead of noticing the smirking man at the back of the crown with hair the color of snow and eyes as black as night.
Rosalyn didn't show off very much.
She was quiet, and in training she just watched the others, looking on blankly. Cato pushed her down and she seemed to flame briefly, before she retreated back to her corner to watch Peeta tie knots.
And everyone knew why she got a zero-the lowest score you could get-on the demonstration. Except for the smirking, snow-haired man watching from the background, who knew what she held in her mind.
Rosalyn Havenbrooke wasn't so innocent afterall.
Four tributes disappeared, out of nowhere, from the Capitol's sight. Their trackers were disabled, and hovercrafts were sent in.
No one could find them.
And when Rosalyn disappeared with them, but showed up four days later looking perfectly unharmed, no one payed her the slightest of mind.
Rosalyn Havenbrooke was finally caught.
And her horrors were showed on screen. And her victims screams were echoed in speakers in the arena. And Peeta Mellark slowly died as he listened to the love of his life plead and beg for death.
Katniss was always a begger, even if she didn't know.
And that's why the snow-haired man with the crooked grin knew what he did. Because Rosalyn had brought out his true self.
Because Rosalyn Havenbrooke showed people for who they really were.
Rosalyn Havenbrooke looked innocent.
But...the Hunger Games revealed her true self, when she won.
And she was brought back to the Capitol covered in blood and grinning like a fool.
Rosalyn Havenbrooke was fifteen-years-old.
From District Four.
Blue eyes. Brown hair. Nothing special.
Well, not that anyone knew about.
Except for the smiling snow-haired, black-eyed man in the background who was never identified, even when he was the one to hug Rosalyn when she stepped off the train and into District Four.
Because he was the one that showed her who people were, what they could do, and why they did it.
And little Rosalyn Havenbrooke decided she didn't want to be so innocent anymore.