Killed. President Snow killed Seneca. In front of us.

Seneca wasn't a bad person, really. He wasn't the one to call for a death. He did his job. We all did. And Snow killed him.

I look in my mirror. Saggy bags under my eyes. Wispy, limp, unstyled brown hair. Frown lines around my brow.

Nice job, Kierana. A previous Head Gamemaker looks like this.

I'm glad I handed it off to Plutarch almost a year ago. It was too much responsibility, too much risk to be Head Gamemaker.

I leave my rooms and find Alayna. Together we leave.

The training room is quiet. Finally, Gloss enters, and everything begins.

We wait until we get to Peeta Mellark. He gives us the death stare – fairly normal, we've come to expect that from victors – and grabs all the jars of paint. Very well then. Painting. His talent.

But then we see what he paints, and we excuse him immediately. Immediately.

We clean it up ourselves, making sure none of the cleaning men or women with their loose lips see Rue Oriole on the floor.

Katniss Everdeen comes in.

Why'd she have to be District 12's only female victor? That rebel. She-who-killed-Seneca.

She looks at the ground, at the quickly covered painting. I draw in a deep breath. Will she uncover the painting?

But no. She takes up a piece of rope and I exhale. Showing off what Finnick Odair or Magara Lyst taught her, I guess.

She ties a noose. A noose. I feel Marcellus tighten beside me. What?

She goes to the dummy, nooses it. And hangs it.

Okay, then. I can live with that. Violent little girl, isn't she?

But then she goes to the camouflage station. She picks up a bottle of dye and goes to the dummy. She begins to write on it.

Okay, whose name will she write? Plutarch's? Snow's? Someone else she must hate?

The answer is D. None of the above. She painstakingly traces that name and moves aside. Marcellus and Alayna knock their wineglasses off the table.

It says Seneca Crane.

She stands there quietly, expecting us to absorb the implications of this. And we do.

She knew about the execution. Someone in authority talked to her. Who? The president would be the most obvious choice, but Snow…must hate her as much as she hates him. Anyone else went nowhere near her.

Silence.

Finally, Plutarch breaks it and says, "You are excused, Miss Everdeen."

She bows politely and turns. Then she throws her jar of dye over her shoulder. It splatters over the word Crane. My own wineglass drops from my fingers. Plutarch mutters several obscenities on my left. "She's singled herself out."

We will have revenge on Miss Everdeen. Absolutely.

In case it wasn't clear, Magara Lyst is Mags.