Hi my amazing readers! I'm so sorry for the wait-computers dying, homework, schoolwork...I haven't slept properly in about six months. But you deserve your chapter, so here it is. And give a hand to EverAbernathyFan for her first Fanfiction writing!

~Stormie "Storm" Turner~

My eyes jolt open at the faint sound of yelling from behind my door. I groan inwardly as I see the sky outside is barely light, still streaked with pink and gold. Who is knocking on my door this early in the morning? It's obvious I can't get back to sleep with the incessant banging and muffled screaming pounding through my skull. Then the knocking on my door grows even louder and I snap my eyes open. "What?" I yell at whoever is behind that door, silently imagining their silhouette punctured with a suspiciously sledgehammer-shaped object. I mean, banging on my door? Really? Do they have a death wish?

"You're going to be late, Stormie!" I hear my Mother say sternly, and my anger withers away a little.

Mother. She's a nice woman, everyone says. It's true, but her brightness has worn away over years of pain and stress, and now her eyes don't sparkle anymore. She's a very serious woman now; it's almost like she's forgotten what laughing feels like.

I instantly hop up from my bed, suddenly wide awake. I scramble across the wooden floor over to my burgandy dresser. I pull out a random shirt and throw it on, not caring whether it's stained or ripped. I slip some skinny blue jeans on and carelessly run a brush through my chin-length, black hair. I glance a distorted reflection in the cracked mirror; forest-green blouse, scowling face, perceptive eyes. I don't smile. I step into a pair of ballet flats and run out of my room. Soon I am out in the street, running towards the cobblestone Town Square.

Soon I'm in the seventeen-year-olds' section and I half don't remember how I got here. Running is the only buzz I get that I don't have to pay for. I'm quite fast, but my endurance has been built up through years. I could probably run and run to the outskirts of the city without stopping once. Then maybe keep going.

I tried that once, then I realised running away's for cowards.

But I have hardly enough time to think anymmore before I hear the female tribute's name being called. "Lilith S-" I hear the escort start in her curious Capitol accent, with the over-pronounced vowels and clipped consonants that make me want to scream inside my head. I walk up towards the stage calmly and raise my hand up high. "I volunteer!" I say with a slight smirk growing on my pale face. I see the girl step back glumly and I bound towards the stage at that point. When I get there I see people murmuring. Well, of course they are. I'm Stormie Turner. The sadist. The psychopath. The one that shouldn't still exist.

(Conversations don't really tend to get past the whole 'likes inflicting pain' thing. Somehow, after that, telling people you're great at making cupcakes and that you might be letting your hair grow out this year just seems insignificant. I wouldn't do too well in speed dates.)

"And who are you?" I hear the high-pitched voice ask me. I smile serenely and say, "Storm Turner, age 17, this year's Victor." Not that I need to; everyone in the District knows my name. I finger my token, it is in my pocket. A piece of rubble from our old flower shop. It was destroyed a while back. A 'tragic accident'. They blamed my father for stealing, when it had been me. It was my fault, and it kills me, but I've meticulously planned how I'm going to get revenge. I don't expect to make everything right again, but I can still go some way to killing the guilt that keeps me awake when everyone else is sleeping.

You see, when I win, I can inflict pain on the peacekeepers. They were the ones who changed my life for the worst, and they will pay. Of course, it wasn't their fault; I understand that, but that won't save them.

I have my plan. Win the Games by any means necessary. Then, the real fun can start. I'd tell you my plan, but surprises are a lot more fun. Just know that I will stop at nothing to escape that arena.

And that was a promise.