District 9 Justice Building
Tuesday, July 7th, 1663 P.A.


Havan Thorpe, 14
District 9 Male Tribute


The Justice Building is a maze of endless corridors, mildew-coated rugs, and locked doors. As the son of the mayor, I should (theoretically) know where each twist and turn leads me. I should be familiar with these beige walls and these dim ceiling lights, and I should be able to name each room. But everything is foreign to me. I might as well be in a different district.

Even my dad avoids the Justice Building. His "official" office may be somewhere within this mold-infested complex, but he only comes here twice a year: for the Reaping and for the Victory Tour. Otherwise, he conducts his meetings in the wheat fields, in the factories, or even in our house. He says it's because the common citizens are the backbone of the district—he may be the mayor, but he is not above them. But I've heard his whispers to my step-dad.

He thinks the Justice Building is a tribute graveyard.

After all, District Nine has never brought home a victor. This is the last place in the district where the tributes enter alive.

I glance over at my district partner, Farah Cybele. She's maybe a year or two older than me, but she looks more like an adult than a teenager. Besides the circular scars littered across her arms, her warm russet complexion is otherwise unblemished. Her dark brown bangs are combed neatly against her forehead, while the rest of her hair (including her chestnut highlights) extends to her mid-back. Although she smells like fresh air with a hint of lemongrass, her face is blank and serious.

She looks like she could be District Nine's first victor.

I nearly trip over my own feet as her dark eyes lock onto mine. She doesn't look happy to catch me staring at her.

"What are you looking at?" she hisses. "Stop staring at me!"

"I'm sorry," I mumble.

She scoffs. "I betcha are." Her tone is laced with sarcasm. "If you ever stare at my boobs again—"

"I wasn't!"

"I'll kill you." She smiles devilishly. All the blood rushes out of my face from her seriousness. "Just remember that nobody can protect you in the arena."

My dad stiffens and stops walking. "Did you just threaten my son?"

"Yep." She raises an eyebrow at him. "What? Like you're doing any better."

My dad scoffs. "I don't know what you're trying to imply—"

"—that you're the reason that he was eligible," she interrupts. "Seems like you're doing a shit job protecting him."

My dad opens his mouth to speak, but the words escape my lips first: "I knew."

Farah whips her head toward me. "You knew? Really?" She snorts. "Or are you just believing whatever lie he told you? What did he say?"

"That I was eligible because his name was on a few tribute's wills." I clench my fists. "Which I know is true because the Peacekeepers at the check-in counter said it was."

"Why?"

I blink.

"Why was he on their wills?" she presses. "What did he ever do for them? Why would anyone put your dad on their will if they didn't even know him?"

"I don't know!" I clench my fists. "Maybe they didn't have anyone else to give their stuff to!"

"They all had someone else." Her eyes darken. "Do you even know—exactly—how many people put him on their will?"

I glance at my dad, but he doesn't look at me. His eyes are shooting daggers at Farah.

"Nineteen. Ever since the 10th Hunger Games."

I stiffen. "You're lying."

"Barric Vereno and Letitia Charmayne, Duryea Stetson and Lavenia Waylon, Azreal Donohue, Zahara Bryonia and Benicia Montserrat, Faron Sigourney and Stellan Ravine, Skeet Faulkner and Zenaida Leland, Evron Sulaiman and Camellia Maeve, Midori Adelpha, Garrett Phelan and Rosalind Ione, Sybil Eirian, Lysander Ottilia and Anahita Pavel." Farah looks at my dad. "Do you even remember their names? Any of their names?"

My dad curls his lip, but he doesn't say anything. His silence is an answer of its own.

Farah chuckles. "Of course, you don't. They were just nameless checks to you."

My dad grits his teeth. "That's enough."

"No, it isn't. Because for each check—each of the nineteen checks—you used it for something pointless. It's become an ongoing bet in the Dregs: 'What will the mayor use the money for this year? A new car? House renovations? His son's tuition?'" Her eyes flick toward me. "I doubt anyone will bet on the latter this year."

Heat rushes into my face.

"Do you even know what it's like in the Dregs?" she continues. "Everyone knows someone who ODed. If you're lucky, it's not your parents or your siblings. Hell, if you have just one parent that isn't high on something all the time, you're living a great life. You'd at least have someone to care for you, to feed you … assuming you even have enough money for food. Otherwise, you learn how to survive on your own. You learn that weed and nicotine stave off the hunger pangs, that the grocery stores dump out their 'unsellable' food on Tuesdays—but it doesn't expire for another week, maybe longer, so you ignore the warning labels.

"All those checks were for the Dregs. To fix the current system that punishes and kills the addicts without actually helping them. To save the children whose only choice is to turn to drugs because there's nobody to stop them. But you used them for your own pleasure." She points her finger at my dad. "You are profiting off of the dead. You are as corrupt of a politician as they come."

She turns sharply toward me with renewed focus. "I wasn't actually threatening you before. Not seriously. But maybe I'll be able to do something the nineteen others before me couldn't do." She smirks. "Get revenge."


Like the rest of the Justice Building, my assigned room is dirty and disquieting. The lingering scent of cigarette smoke clings to the discolored walls, and the moldy rug is covered in muddy shoe prints. (Was it raining during the last Reaping?) Even the metal table and chairs are covered in various fingerprints and smudges. Nobody clearly cared enough to make this room was hospitable for the tributes, even though it will probably be the last place they – we – ever see in Nine.

My dad sits in one of the metal chairs across from me, waiting impatiently for my step-dad to arrive. He avoids making eye contact with me. I don't know if he's more distraught that I'm going into the Games or that Farah told me about the wills.

When my step-dad finally arrives, the two seem to engage in a silent conversation before turning toward me.

"What?" I feel the hairs on my neck rise. "What are you hiding from me?"

My step-dad opens his mouth, but my dad cuts him off. "He knows about the wills."

"So what Farah said was true? About the dead tributes?" I clench my fists. "What else are you hiding from me? How much of my life is a lie?"

My dad sighs. "Havan—"

"Don't 'Havan' me!" I shout. "You had fourteen years to tell me the truth. Fourteen years that feel like a complete lie. So tell me the truth, now."

"Havan, it's not that simple," my step-dad says. "You have to understand that all we've ever wanted to do was protect you."

"Well, you can't protect me in the arena."

Both of my dads flinch.

A wave of guilt courses through my veins, but I keep a firm hold on the anger and the betrayal. They should feel guilty. They were the ones who withheld information for years. They used the dead tributes' money for personal reasons. They are the reason I was reaped.

"What else have you lied about?" I ask. "Tell me."

My dad bites his lips. "Well, you… um…" He glances toward my step-dad. "This isn't exactly how we wanted to tell you—"

"You're adopted."

I freeze at my step-dad's word. "What?"

"Enzo," my dad hisses. "That is the last way I wanted to break the news."

"Well, I'm sorry, Hasani," my step-dad responds with equal irritation. "But you weren't going to say anything."

"I was—"

"Stop arguing!" I slam my hands against the table. "I'm adopted?"

My dad sighs. "Yes. We were going to tell you—"

"Why didn't you?"

"Because there was never a good time." My dad rubs circles into his forehead. "We wanted to tell you before your first Reaping, but with the mayoral election coming up … it slipped our minds." A deep blush settles on my dad's cheeks. "And by that point, I lost contact with my ex-girlfriend— your adoptive mother—"

"And my birth mother?"

My dad and step-dad exchange a grim look. "Well, she's… dead," my dad answers. "Overdosed a few years after you were born."

Tears swell in my eyes, but I blink them away. "Who… um. Do you know who she was?"

"We don't know her name, but we do know that she was a teenager in the Dregs who wasn't ready to be a mother."

"A teenager?" I repeat. "And she overdosed?"

"The Dregs … your district partner was right. It's not a good place," my dad admits. "Illegal substances flood the streets. Crime rates and gang activity have been soaring for years. The more Peacekeepers patrol the area, the worse it seems to get. And the poverty rates… the Dregs is the the reason Nine is stereotyped as a lawless, impoverished district."

"So you knew all of that? And still kept the tributes' money for yourselves?" I grasp onto the table as my world crumbles around me. How could my dads be so immoral? "Why?"

My step-dad places his hand on top of mine. "Because sometimes, you can't help those who need the most help. Sometimes, it's better to use the resources for a change that is actually manageable."

I shake my head and pull my hand away. "No, it sounds like you didn't even try."


Farah Cybele, 16
District 9 Female Tribute


Valentia Ives, our district escort, is my first visitor. I'm not surprised by her entrance. After my argument with Havan, I expected to be reprimanded.

I just hope that they'll still let me see my sister before I'm sent to the Capitol.

"Were you supposed to be in Four?" I nod toward Valentia's ombré hair—dyed aquamarine at its roots and lavender at its curls—with the sides of their head shaved. It's the most outlandish mullet that I've ever seen. "Were you not pretty enough for 'em? Had to be downgraded to Nine?"

"I chose to escort Nine," Valentia says with cool indifference. "But that's besides the point. I wanted to talk about what you said to Havan."

I scoff. "I'm not going to apologize. I stand by my words."

"That's not what I was going to say." Valentia raises an amused eyebrow. "While it is inappropriate to threaten your district partner, I thought it was fair considering your history with the mayor."

I huff, not quite convinced that they—more or less—approve my threat. "Then what did you come here to talk about?"

"Your story, obviously." Valentia rolls their eyes. "It was captivating and heart-wrenching—which would work in your favor with the sponsors—but there were parts that almost seemed to contradict itself."

I narrow my eyes. "Like what?"

"Well, you mentioned that everyone in the Dregs knew that the mayor was using the tributes' will money for his own desires, yes?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Then why would they keep putting his name in their wills? Why not give it to their family, friends, neighbors—anyone that could use the money for good reasons?"

"What makes you think it would be used for good reasons?"

Valentia blinks. "Are you implying that everyone they knew was a drug user?" They shake their head before I can respond. "No… If it was five—maybe six—tributes, I would believe you. But you mentioned nineteen. There's no way all of them only knew users."

I raise my eyebrow.

"Don't play dumb. I know the girl from last year came from a well-off family." They cross their arms. "So answer my question: Why did all of them put the mayor's name on their wills?"

I clench my jaw. "Why do you even want to know?"

"Because I'm part of your mentoring team. If you want to get sponsors—and I shouldn't have to explain how vital sponsors are in the arena—then you'll tell me so we can structure the story to best get the audience's favorable attention."

"I could lie. The sponsors wouldn't know."

"No, they would know. Any Capitolite could tell the difference between a true story and a fabricated one." Valentia pauses. "Or at least, a fabricated story without a Capitolite's input." Valentia smiles. They must think that they're helping me. "How about we make a deal? If you answer my question, I'll answer one of yours."

I scoff. "And what could I possibly want to know from you?"

"Why I chose to escort Nine. Why I came to talk to you instead of Havan. Why I will be your greatest asset in the arena," Valentia lists off their fingers. "There's multiple questions you could ask me, all of which would be valuable. It comes down to which question should you choose."

I snort. "Well, obviously, you'll think that. You're biased." I cross my arms. "But fine. Whatever."

Valentia gestures for me to continue talking.

I grunt. "How much do you know about the previous District Nine tributes?"

"Not much." Valentia tilts their head. "I know a handful of the ones from the most recent years, but nothing before the 14th Hunger Games."

"My cousin was reaped for the 9th Hunger Games. I was too young to remember much about the Games, but she survived for a while and earned a lot of sponsors. There was a lot of hype about her; people thought she would be the first victor from Nine.

"Obviously, she wasn't." I shrug. "When she died, she gave all of her assets to her immediate family, including the thousands of dollars she earned from sponsors. That kinda money is unheard of in the Dregs. Her family was able to move to a better neighborhood, to pay their son's rehab expenses, to actually build a decent life."

I pause. "Or they would have," I amend. "But news of the money spread fast. With everyone living paycheck to paycheck and the price of drugs constantly rising… it was only a matter of time before someone tried to steal the money."

Valentie raises their eyebrow. "Wouldn't the money have been in a bank?"

I shake my head. "Nobody in the Dregs uses a bank."

"That sounds unwise."

"We're all living paycheck to paycheck, remember?" I roll my eyes. "Besides, there's no banks anywhere close to the Dregs."

Valentia huffs. "So someone stole all the money?"

"And killed her parents, siblings, and grandparents in the process."

I let the words sit in the stale air, waiting for Valentia's reaction. When most people hear the story (or recognize my last name), their face morphs into shock or horror. But Valentia…

Valentia merely raises an eyebrow. "Is that it?"

I blink. "Um… Excuse me?"

"Is that it?" Valentia repeats, annunciating each word as if I'm stupid. "That's why the tributes put the mayor in their will?"

My fingers tingle with the urge to strangle them, but I hold myself back (… for now). The Peacekeepers would not hesitate to put a bullet between my eyes if I assault an escort.

"Is that not horrific enough for you?" I snarl. "Have you been watching the Games for so long that you've become desensitized to death and suffering?"

"Please," Valentia huffs. "I am not trying to discredit you or your family's suffering. But the story is unoriginal."

"Unoriginal? Really?"

"No, you're right. It's not unoriginal." Valentia bites their tongue in contemplation. "But I would say that it is overused. At least, in this year's Games."

I narrow my eyes. "Explain."

"Family will be a common theme in these Games. Between the three Reapings that currently happened, only one tribute has not been related to a previous tribute: your district partner. If you want to stand out in these Games, you need to distant yourself from the family narrative."

"What if I don't want to stand out?"

"Oh sweetie, you already do," Valentie says with sincerity. "You're an attractive girl from a poor district. You already dispel any stereotypes people have about Nine."

I scoff.

"And with that potential, you need to come up with a captivating narrative," Valentia continues. "It should be finalized before we meet your mentor in the Capitol. That'll give you most of today to think about it. We will reconvene later so I can iron out any flaws in your story." Valentia stands. "I'll leave you to it."

"Wait — Don't I get a question?"

Valentia pauses at the door and turns their head. "Do you have one?"

I nod. "What I asked you earlier. You look like you should be escorting Four, but you implied that you chose to escort Nine—"

"I did."

"Why? Why choose a district with no victors?"

Valentia's smile sends a chill down my spine. "Because I feel like Nine will have a victor this year."


I wait until my mother and sister leave my room before I let the emotions overwhelm me. Thick tears roll down my cheeks, a small puddle of liquid black growing on the table beneath my chin. (I have no doubt that my mascara is ruined.) Audible sobs threaten to be vocalized, but I hold them in my throat. If there's any chance that my family or anyone else is outside of my room, I can't have them know I am crying.

Nobody can know.

Nobody can ever know.

Ever since my dad was killed, I was destined to become the protector of my family. My mom's legs were crushed during her childhood from a silo accident, so she has never been able to work. (Any compensation she receives for her permanent injuries doesn't even cover the cost of living in the Dregs.) And my sister is too young, too pure – she was never fit for this kind of lifestyle. We were lucky that my dad's gang offered us protection for a while, even though we were a nuisance.

But every debt has to be repaid.

And I am the one repaying it.

I grab a tissue from my clutch and wipe away the tears under my eyes. When the tissue is wet and streaked with black, I pull out my eye drops. I might typically use them for a different purpose, but they reduce redness and puffiness nonetheless. Each drop stings my eyes, but I blink repeatedly until the pain recedes.

Someone knocks on my door as I'm wiping the excess liquid from my cheeks. I barely manage to shove the tissue and the eye drops in my clutch before the door opens.

"Damian," I greet, instinctively rising to my feet out of respect. I never expected the crime boss of my dad's gang – my boss – to show up at the Justice Building. I didn't even realize that he shows his face at the Reaping. "What… um… What are you doing here?"

"Let's keep this short. I cashed in a favor to come speak with you." He gestures for me to sit. "I heard that you threatened to kill the mayor's son. Is that true?"

I hesitantly nod.

"Good." His smile mixes into his tone. "If you follow through on that threat, your family will remain under the protection of the Charmayne Gang, without any debts, for the remainder of their lives."

I blink. "What?"

"I know that you don't want your sister to be involved with the gang's business. You made that very clear from the moment you joined. But if your family is to be protected without any labor, there needs to be a compromise." He clasps his hands together. "So I propose this: you kill the mayor's son, your family stays protected. Do we have a deal?"

"Why?" The word escapes my lips before I can stop myself.

"Because eleven years ago, the mayor decided to spend my daughter's money to buy a dog for his son. And now, we have a chance to honor her memory," he says with gritted teeth. I forgot that his daughter was reaped the year after my cousin. "So do we have a deal?"

I nod.

"Good." He stands up with a smile. "Oh, and don't put the mayor's name in your will. The last thing we need is for your money to be spent on his son's funeral."


End of Chapter 7.


Current Tribute List:

District 1
Lorcan Estrelle, 15
Veira Faustus, 17

District 2
Xolani Satine, 18
Honoria Brantlie, 16

District 3
Skagen Matisse, 13
Eulalia Psy, 17

District 4
Tycho Searling, 17
Mayuri Odelle, 18

District 6
Kaia Palani, 15
Lark Devereaux, 16

District 7
Juniper Anatole, 16
Bryony Linden, 17

District 9
Havan Thorpe, 14
Farah Cybele, 16


Author Note: Thank you for reading this chapter! We have one more set of Justice Building POVs before we move onto the train rides!

Q: What do you think about Havan and Farah?

Next Chapter: Concealment (D10 Justice Building)