Gloss undoes the top button of his sleek blue button-down — too tight; everything the stylists force him into is too tight — and enters the One floor dining room, seating himself next to Cashmere and hoping no-one will notice how late he is to breakfast. They notice. Their voices go quiet and they all turn to look at him — Cashmere, the tributes, the escort. Gloss avoids their gazes and fills his plate.

"You're late," Cashmere says, twirling the knife she's supposed to be using to cut her grilled sausage. Gloss dares to look at her and finds that she sports a glare to match his own.

The escort hums from behind the rim of a glass of blueberry juice. "And not even fashionably so."

"I was busy," Gloss says, and dips a piece of fine Nine bread into a runny egg yolk. It's a lie, but only sort of. The moment Blight left Gloss alone in the hotel room, Gloss had turned onto his back to count the crystals dangling from the chandelier and fell asleep thinking about Blight's touch, Blight's eyes, and the promise he'd made him. He woke up at dawn to the sound of an avox at his door and scrambled into his clothes, into a cab, and into the tribute center like his life depended on it. Which it had, in a way.

"Acquiring sponsors, I hope?" says the escort, Felicity, in that irritating voice of hers. Gloss barely manages to temper the rage in his eyes when he looks up at her. She knows what Snow makes people like Gloss and Cashmere do — she knows the sexual favors that they're forced to perform. 'Acquiring sponsors' is her way of avoiding saying the quiet part out loud.

"Always," says Gloss. He forces a smile and stabs a piece of bacon with more force than necessary; the escort cringes at the screech of metal against his plate. "I don't know if anyone's made you aware, Felicity, but your face is looking a bit saggy as of late. A little botox under the eyes, perhaps? I hear the Capitol has technology that can zap those crows' feet right away."

Cashmere hides what might be a smirk behind a piece of sausage, taking a breath before popping it into her mouth.

"I…" Felicity begins, but all that leaves her mouth is a stammer, a red flush creeping up her neck beneath several layers of makeup. "I'll schedule an appointment immediately," she says finally. Then she takes great interest in her breakfast, poking a poached egg across the platter.

"Strategy," Cashmere says after a long, heavy moment. Her tribute, a dark-skinned girl with kinky hair named Twinkle Braxton, snaps to attention with severe brown eyes. Strangely, Gloss' own tribute, Velvet Rissel, studies Gloss like a book he's wanted to read for decades. Gloss keeps his head ducked to his plate and pretends not to notice. "For the first day of training, I want you two to focus on intimidation. Impress the Gamemakers. Scare the tributes. Play to your strengths. Twinkle, your sword should never leave your hands. Velvet… Velvet, look at me when I'm talking to you."

Mercifully, Velvet's attention snaps to Cashmere, granting Gloss a reprieve from his gaze. Taking a breath, Gloss sits up a bit straighter.

"Show off with that crossbow. Do backflips, twirl, crouch — own your weapon."

"Yes, ma'am," says Velvet, and Gloss disguises his laugh with a cough. Cashmere sees through it — always sees through it — and narrows her green eyes at him hard enough to kill.

"Would you like to make a contribution, Gloss, or must I continue to do your half of the mentoring for you?"

Gloss leans back and takes a deep, long breath, not for the first time feeling the remnant ache Blight left below his waist. Glancing at his watch, he stifles the urge to leave. Being here is uncomfortable now, knowing his commitment to Johanna. Any advice he provides these tributes will directly contribute to her demise, and that feels like a betrayal of Blight, a betrayal of the man he's come to—

"My sincerest apologies, Cashew," Gloss says. He feels a dark little thrill spike through him at the way her nose wrinkles in pure distaste. "I'm battling a bit of a headache this morning."

"A hangover, you mean."

Gloss casts a smirk in her direction, the kind specifically intended to fan the flames that burn in her eyes. "Maybe so."

Cashmere makes a noise like a growl, and her knuckles turn white around her knife. "What the hell is your—"

"Mr. Rosewood, if I may," Velvet begins, and his voice is strangely hesitant for a boy of his height and stature. He wears a glittering grin, and the freckles that dot his kindly face remind Gloss of Blight. Gloss wishes they didn't. "I just wanted to tell you that your Games were one of my biggest inspirations. You never missed a single throw. Seven kills! That's incr—"

"I get it," Gloss says, his voice carrying an edge. The boy's smile crumbles like a toothpick bridge, the light in his big blue eyes extinguished in an instant. There was something so good in his gaze, so joyful, that it makes Gloss feel like a monster to have killed it. "I… I'm glad it could be of some use to you."

Velvet's expression, while still chastened, turns a shade brighter. For all the world, he looks like he's hanging on Gloss' every word — and something about it makes Gloss' mouth keep running. "The Games are far more difficult than they look. Winning comes with consequences — huge consequences. The kind the Academy doesn't prepare you for."

Felicity glances up at Gloss, a sharp warning, and Gloss bites his tongue.

"But you'll be fine," he finishes, and stuffs an entire egg into his mouth.

The topic returns to strategy, and Gloss makes sure his mouth is full of food every time someone looks to him for comment. By the time Gloss enters the hallway toward his quarters, his temples have begun to pulse with an actual headache that makes him wonder if he didn't jinx himself. In an hour, he'll meet Blight on Seven's floor to put together a list of the exact things Gloss will be teaching Johanna. Gloss already has a few things in mind — evasion, hand-to-hand, sweeping the feet out from under her opponents. She's a slender girl, but from what Gloss could make out of her build during the chariot rides, she's also deceptively muscular. For all her tears, the girl appears to have spent much of her life doing physical labor of some sort — and it occurs to Gloss, suddenly, that those tears may be far from genuine.

The moment Gloss reaches his bedroom door, a hand clenches around his bicep, firm, tight, fingers digging into the muscle. On impulse, Gloss winds up a fist and nearly punches out the teeth of Velvet Rissel.

"Woah, woah, it's just Velvet," says the boy, and he drops his hand as if Gloss burned him. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Velvet? You should know not to sneak up and grab people like some kind of Peacekeeper. I almost beat the hell out of you."

Velvet, for some strange reason, smiles. "It would have been an honor, sir."

Gloss stares at him slack-jawed for a long time. Finally, he lifts his hand to the palm-pad lock of his bedroom and murmurs, "I'm taking a nap."

"No, no, I just wanted—" Velvet moves to grab him again, and Gloss stops him with a hard hand to the sternum, sending the boy stumbling a few steps back. It's one of the first moves he learned at the Academy — something quick and snappy to put space between himself and the attacker. He's always preferred the kicking version, but with so little space between them already, it would've been impossible — and it also might have earned him a trip to some punitive office.

"Velvet, do I need to call security?"

"No, that… that isn't necessary." Velvet runs a hand through his dark red hair and clears his throat like a schoolboy addressing his first crush. "I'm just nervous is all."

"Nerves don't justify putting your hands on people who don't want it," Gloss says through his teeth.

"I… you're right. I'm sorry. I won't do it again," says Velvet. Then he smiles, soft and sunny, and Gloss can't quite tell whether the boy is just that daft or if he's being manipulated. "I promise."

Gloss takes a wide step away from Velvet and faces him head-on, hands joined in front of him in case he has to push him back again. "You've got my attention. What do you want?"

Velvet gulps loud enough that even the avoxes in the dining room can probably hear it over the tinkling of discarded breakfast plates. "I—I just… my little brother and I really look up to you. Like, a lot. Our mom even bought us the knife you used on Carlisle Evans for reaping day last year. Great kill, by the way. Some people like the bloody kills, but yours were just so clean."

Gloss nods, feeling cornered, feeling trapped. It's similar to the feeling he gets on some of his assignments, entertaining vapid praises in spite of the hand smoothing up his thigh and towards his cock. This time, he isn't obligated to smile and interact — so he doesn't. He waits, watches, counts the seconds, and tries to force away the memory of the life leaving Carlisle Evans' eyes. It sickens him to know that a family is in possession of that knife. It probably sits on a mantle overlooking their breakfasts and board game nights. He used to have a favorite kill of his own — then he took seven lives with his own two hands and realized, in time, that the Games aren't just a sport. That there are no winners.

"His—his name is Indigo."

Gloss blinks. "Who?"

"My brother, sir. But we call him Go for short."

That's cute, Gloss thinks unbidden.

"Look. He made this for me." Velvet thrusts out his wrist and displays a blue bracelet made with cheap plastic beads and a black ribbon. Something a child would have made in art class. Velvet smiles down at the bracelet like he's never seen anything more brilliant. "He's only eleven. He's so excited to join the Academy next year, he can hardly wait."

"I bet," Gloss says, filler words, insubstantial. He vaguely recalls a short redheaded boy covered in freckles walking into Velvet's visiting room with a woman holding his hand. He had a few distinctive features belonging to an intellectual disability whose name Gloss can't recall. Sorrow sinks into Gloss' stomach, dark and heavy. For all the Academy's propaganda that anyone can be a victor, Gloss has never seen a child with any disability, cognitive or otherwise, enter the initial induction exam without being laughed out of the building.

Velvet is a strange character, an annoying one, but this revelation turns Gloss soft for him. He looks up at Velvet and tries on a smile. "Well… he's very lucky to have a brother who loves him so much."

"He's my biggest fan," says Velvet, still smiling down at the bracelet. "And I'm not gonna disappoint him."

Gloss pulls in a breath, bites his lip, and reminds himself of his commitment. 'You'll get through this,' Blight told him years ago, talking him down after he ran away from his very first assignment. 'I promise.'

Velvet meets his eyes and smiles, kind, soft, adoring. He offers his hand for a shake, and Gloss obliges him on impulse. "Thank you, Mr. Rosewood," Velvet says. Then he turns and leaves for the elevator, and Gloss doesn't miss the red heat on his cheeks just before he disappears behind the glass.

Gloss heads straight for the liquor bar, suddenly in desperate need of a drink.

:::

"One hour," says Blight. He weighs a hatchet in his hands, smoothing his fingertips across its flat edge in much the same way he touched Gloss' stomach the night previous. Gloss can't quite take his eyes off of it. "No cameras, no security, no interruptions."

Gloss nods because he can't quite find words. The training center, though vast and empty, is so much smaller than it was when Gloss was only a tribute. Drinking in the weapons, the targets, and the knives he'd fiddled with like toys years ago, he realizes that it looks virtually identical to the way it did during the 63rd Games. It's almost eerie seeing it now, bare and raw before him.

"How did you manage to secure it after hours?" Gloss asks, and when he meets Blight's eyes, he gets the feeling that the man was already watching him.

Blight half-smiles and places the hatchet back on the rack. "I made the right person the right promises."

"Can you deliver on those promises?"

Blight shrugs a shoulder. "We've got bigger fish to fry."

Gloss chews his lip. Exhausted after a long day of networking with sponsors and Capitolites, every second he stands waiting for Johanna's arrival feels like an hour. She's finishing up in the bathroom, Blight told him. Gloss didn't know what to do with that information.

Gloss doesn't think before he says it; recalling Johanna's tears at the reaping and the parade, he can't help himself. "Johanna's putting on a show, isn't she?" he asks. "The crying, the hysterics. She wants people to underestimate her — and you need her to be trained where the other tributes aren't looking."

Blight looks at him with eyes awash with distrust. It's quite possibly the first time he's ever looked that way at Gloss — like he isn't a friend, but a Career. Blight is intelligent, wise, hard to fool — but sometimes it crosses the line into paranoia. A dark, heavy disappointment blooms through Gloss' chest. He can't make sense of the fact that Blight would distrust him now of all times, but he chooses not to push that line of questioning, instead opting for another.

"Do you think she's capable of winning the Games?"

Blight seems to make an internal decision, a wall crumbling in his expression. "She'll try like hell," he says. "I've never met anyone more determined to get what she wants. What could someone want more than to survive?"

Whether intentional or not, Blight's given Gloss his answer. "Intelligent move," Gloss says, finding no use in maintaining pretenses.

Blight searches his eyes, dark brown on glassy green. It takes a moment before he melts into a smile. "She's an intelligent girl."

A soft ding alerts them to the arrival of the elevator. The doors slide open to reveal a girl of average height with dark, choppy hair and wide-set brown eyes that remind Gloss, in person, of an owl. In simple, tight-fitting dark clothes fit for training, her build is much more apparent: tight, lean muscle; slender but not thin. It isn't hard to imagine that she was raised with the same nutrient-heavy diet of insects, bark, and tree nuts as Blight. With her back straight, chin high, and eyes cool and alert, she looks entirely composed. It isn't until she spots Gloss that her countenance immediately withers, her shoulders slumping forward and her expression turning glum and afraid. Gloss is more than a little impressed.

"No need, Johanna," Blight says in a voice far friendlier than the one Gloss has used with any of his tributes. "Gloss is here to help me train you."

Tilting her head, Johanna reassumes her normal stance and cuts right to the chase. "Why would he do that?" Gloss is almost shocked to hear her speak in a voice not choked with sobs. 'What does he have to gain?' is what she's truly asking. Gloss doesn't blame her for it.

Blight observes Gloss in earnest, tracing his body with his gaze as if gauging his trustworthiness one last time. "Because he's a good man. And I trust him. I think I'd trust him with my life." He turns back to Johanna. "Do you trust me, Jo?"

Johanna stares at him for a long moment before turning those owlish brown eyes on Gloss, squinting like she's trying to read him. Then, gaze returning to Blight, she nods.

"Good."

"What have you been doing in training?" asks Gloss.

Johanna breathes a bitter laugh. "Sobbing. Cowering. Looking out for… Timothy." Her eyes drift down to her shoes at the mention of her district partner. When she looks back up at Gloss, her expression is harder, colder.

"I see," says Gloss. "But have you done anything useful?"

Johanna almost looks like she wants to lunge at him until Blight clears his throat. She shakes out her shoulders, then begins stretching out her arms side-to-side like a marathoner preparing for a run. She doesn't like to stand in one place for very long, Gloss notices. She's a nervous mover.

"In between episodes of crying for my mother, I went to two survival stations. Station one, I learned how to tie some knots. Station two, I learned how to camouflage myself in leaves and shit."

Gloss breathes a chuckle. Unsurprisingly, her face doesn't move. "And what survival skills did you bring with you from Seven?"

"I'm good with plants and herbs. Plus, I know how to build a fire."

Gloss isn't surprised that someone from Seven would be familiar with those things. Until his own Games, Gloss had never thought it useful to learn how to build a fire or identify plants in his life. Even in the Academy, such survival skills are only taught as electives. Being a Career, he had access to all the food, flint, and steel the Cornucopia had to offer in the arena. Johanna isn't so lucky.

"Tell him your weapon," says Blight.

Johanna almost smirks. "An axe."

Gloss tries to picture one in her hands. The axes available in most arenas — and in the training room they stand in — are long, heavy, and require quite a bit of upper body strength and mobility to use effectively. For someone of Johanna's size, he would have recommended a hatchet. Before deciding between the two, he needs to see her range of motion — needs to see how well she can twist, her wingspan, her shoulder rotation.

"Interesting choice," Gloss says, and he means it. It is interesting — but not particularly surprising — how many tributes from Seven have decided to use axes or hatchets in the arena, Blight among them. No doubt it's because they remind them of the tools they use at home. "I need to get an idea of your range of motion, Johanna. Do a cartwheel for me."

Johanna scoffs. "A cartwheel? Why—"

"Jo," Blight says, and the firmness of his voice is something Gloss hasn't heard from him before. Commanding, brooking no argument. The voice of a father addressing a child. "Gloss knows what he's doing. Listen."

Rolling her eyes, Johanna shakes out her body once, rough, as if a chill is passing through her. Then, she takes a step back, holds her arms up, and completes a cartwheel. It isn't ideal; her landing is a bit more shaky than Gloss would like. "Good start," he says. "One more, but this time focus on the position of your legs. When in the air, they need to remain straight and wide apart. Your arms should remain by your ears the entire time and follow you up to the top when you land."

Her second try is better, but not perfect. Gloss steps forward to correct her beginning stance, and she initially flinches away when he tries to use his hands to adjust the position of her arms. He stands back for a moment, waiting for her to become comfortable, and then, with her permission, resumes. She glares, but he only needs her obedience, not her approval. "Good form," he tells her, and returns to his position next to Blight. "One more time."

Her third try is nearly flawless. They do a few repetitions, Gloss encouraging her to speed up each time, and by the time she needs a drink of water, Gloss is confident in her balance, her poise. Johanna returns from the fountain in the corner of the room and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, mussing her choppy brown hair with the opposite.

"Next, somersaults."

Johanna doesn't seem familiar with the move, so Gloss demonstrates it himself. He isn't as smooth as he used to be, isn't as svelte, but the motions come easily to him after the first few tries, that muscle memory coming in handy. Once Johanna is ready, Gloss corrects her initial form and watches as she does a few rolls. It takes a few errors, a few adjustments, before they really begin to see success. Gloss gets a good idea of Johanna's arm rotation and her ability to squat and stand quickly.

Johanna, panting, combs her hair out of her face with a hand, her arms glistening with sweat. "Can I have my axe now?"

Gloss smiles with half of his mouth. "Why an axe?" he asks. "Why not a hatchet?"

Johanna throws up her arms with a scoff and pushes her hair out of her face again. Gloss almost wishes it were long enough for her to tie it back. In the arena, it could become a problem. "I dunno," she says, her voice edged with impatience. "I guess — I've always used them back at home. I cut small trees sometimes, for firewood. Sometimes Judas and I chop down big ones."

"And what do you use those for?" Gloss asks, curious.

"Does it matter?"

Gloss shrugs. "Not really."

Blight bites his lip, only partially successful at suppressing a smile.

Johanna glances between them, looking as irritated and wild as a porcupine in the rain. "Extra change. We're not old enough to work in the lumber yard, so we do odd jobs for people after school. Some people need trees out of the way or a pine to decorate in the winter."

Gloss tilts his head. "Why would someone decorate a tree?"

"It's a tradition," says Blight. "In the winter—"

Johanna groans. "If you tell him, he's just gonna mock us." Blight opens his mouth to protest, but Johanna walks past both of them and picks up an axe, hefting it up like she's used to its size and weight. Gloss is impressed. "Do you wanna see what I can do with an axe or not?"

Gloss recognizes the fire in her eyes; he's seen it in the mirror nearly every morning before his Games, a hunger, a thirst, a will to win. He smiles, and her glare turns even darker. "Go ahead."

Johanna positions herself around fifteen feet away from a target and raises her axe with both hands. Gloss watches her carefully, noting the tightness in her shoulders and the scowl etched across her face. Beside him, Blight stands with a sense of quiet intensity in his gaze. Johanna takes a deep breath, narrows her eyes, and with a swift, forceful motion, she hurls the axe. The weapon sails through the air in perfect, impressive, pristine arcs, but instead of hitting the target's center, it strikes the wall behind it. A bolt of frustration strikes Johanna's face. Before Gloss can open his mouth, Johanna strides to the wall, rips out the axe, and returns to her spot in front of them, readying the weapon to throw.

"Johanna, let me see your grip." Blight steps forward, his movements calculated and precise. He stops and examines Johanna's grip of the weapon, running his fingers along her white knuckles and shaking his head. "You're holding it too tight. Here, let me show you."

Johanna hands him the axe, and Blight holds it for a moment, observing it like it's familiar, like its weight goes beyond the physical. Demonstrating the proper grip, he explains the importance of balance, weight distribution, and follow-through to Johanna. It reminds Gloss of his own training sessions at the Academy, but it's much more personal, more patient, and Gloss can't take his eyes off of him.

"Now you try," Blight says, handing the axe back to Johanna.

She takes a moment to absorb his advice, adjusting her grip accordingly. With renewed determination, she takes aim and throws the axe once again. This time, it hits the target far off-center, not perfect, but an improvement. "Better!" Blight says, grinning at Johanna, and Gloss is more than a little amazed to see her face break into a smile.

Gloss retrieves the axe and returns, weighing it in his hands, almost tempted to throw it himself. But this isn't about him — it's about Johanna. He needs to focus. Johanna nearly rips the axe out of Gloss' hands, then throws it again. The result is the same: off-center.

"You're rushing it," says Gloss. "Take your time, find your rhythm, and release when you're ready."

Johanna scoffs, but retrieves the axe, readying it and trying again. Ignoring the tension, Gloss continues to observe. Johanna's frustration grows with each unsuccessful attempt, every thud of the axe seeming to feed her anger. The axe repeatedly misses the mark, hitting the target but never quite finding the bullseye.

Maintaining his calm demeanor, Blight places a hand on her shoulder. "Relax, Johanna. It's a process," he says softly. He casts a glance at the digital clock near the elevator, weighing something in his mind. "Let's take a break. Gather your thoughts."

Blight and Gloss step back, allowing Johanna room to process her emotions, frustration etched deep into her features. She paces back and forth, muttering under her breath, and when the session resumes, her throws become cleaner, more centered. On occasion, Gloss steps in to adjust her shoulders and elbows; Blight nudges her feet into the proper position. Finally, Johanna's axe lands dead center in a perfect up-and-down line. Bullseye. Then she does it again. And again. And again.

"I'm done," Johanna says, lowering her axe. Her breaths are heavy, her chest heaving, but she looks at the axe with something like pride. "I've had enough."

"Ready to go?" Blight asks.

Johanna nods, pulling in a long, hard breath. "But one more thing." She steps up to Gloss, her eyes dark and furious. Even looking down at her, Gloss thinks for a moment that she might try to gut him. "Your pretty little tribute waltzed up to Timothy today and called him a cockroach. Tim was crying. He hurt himself climbing the ropes. He's only twelve."

Gloss opens his mouth to speak, but Johanna drops her axe at his feet, and the impact makes him flinch. Then, without another word, she leaves and smashes the elevator button with two fingers. Within moments, the doors close behind her and whisk her away, leaving Blight and Gloss in the training room, alone with each other.

Gloss turns to Blight, for the first time in years unable to find the right words to say to him. "I didn't know. Velvet didn't strike me as someone who would—"

"Gloss, he volunteered to kill children." Blight crouches and picks up Johanna's axe, walking it to the weapons rack and returning it to its proper place. He sighs, his shoulders falling with it. "I wouldn't put it beneath any Career to say something like that."

Gloss grits his teeth, suddenly defensive. "I've never called anyone a cockroach, much less a child."

"I never said you did, Gloss. But your colleagues did. Your alliance did." If Gloss were any more offended, he might leave the room. But he misses Blight; enjoys the faint scent of chamomile when he takes a few steps closer and stills him with deep brown eyes. Blight takes a gentle hold of Gloss' chin and glides a thumb along the stubble of his jaw. "You're the exception, Gloss. Not the rule."

Gloss has always known that in some way or another. Even before he met Blight, others' disparaging comments regarding the less fortunate — or those who were otherwise different in ways they couldn't control — made him uncomfortable. Even at his most blind, he'd never treated those from outer districts poorly. If he had, he likely would've shrugged Blight off before their first exchange ever took place. He can't imagine a world like that. He never wants to.

Gloss considers spilling his guts about his argument with Cashmere on the train — how she'd ridiculed Blight, called him Seven, and argued against everything he'd ever taught Gloss about the wrongness of this world. Gloss opens his mouth to speak, but Blight's lips smother the words before they can leave his tongue. Just like that, Gloss decides that Cashmere's bigotry isn't worth the breath it'd take to repeat. Slowly, softly, he smooths a hand up Blight's stomach and chest, drinking in the heat of his skin through his silky white shirt. He reaches his collar, winds his hand around the back of his neck… and Blight pulls slowly away.

Gloss almost whimpers. "I want—"

"I wish I could, sugar," Blight breathes, his breath a warm puff of mint on Gloss' lips. "But I have sponsors to meet."

Gloss closes his eyes, resting their foreheads together just to drink in Blight's presence a few moments longer. Every year, he's surprised that he gets like this — hungry, needy, yearning for the affection of this man after months of trying to convince himself he doesn't truly need him. It's embarrassing. But Blight doesn't seem to mind. He even seems, once in a while, equally desperate.

"Tomorrow night?" Gloss asks.

Blight smiles. "And the night after that. I need all the help I can get with this one, Gloss."

Gloss breathes a chuckle, swallowing the urge to kiss the smile off Blight's lips. "Johanna is certainly a firecracker."

"Don't I know it. She'll warm up to you. Probably. Maybe not." Blight tilts his head and gives Gloss one last kiss, sweet, gentle, warm. When he pulls away, his soft, shaky breath betrays his reluctance. "Come on, sugar. I'll drop you off."

They don't hold hands in the elevator and they don't kiss goodnight, wary of someone spotting them through the glass as the car scales the building. Blight smiles at Gloss before the doors close between them, and though the sight is tired, his eyes are alight with something like pride. Pride in Gloss. Gratefulness for what he did for him. It's more than enough to leave Gloss trembling in the shower, painting his stomach with his own essence as the water rolls over his skin like liquid fire. For a long time, he rests beneath the spray and shivers, languidly milking himself through tremor after tremor and whispering Blight's name.

:::

Not ten minutes into breakfast, Gloss finds himself silently begging any divine power in existence to grant him the gift of a swift and sudden death.

"'Owie, I hurt my knee!'" Twinkle contorts her face into a mockery of pain and sorrow, her voice a high-pitched baby tone that grates at Gloss' ears. "'I need a bandage! Somebody pwease get me a bandage!'"

Cashmere, to Gloss' horror, actually chuckles at her tribute's morbid impersonation of Timothy Stillwater. Gloss is less surprised — but no less disappointed — to catch the escort hiding a smile behind her two-inch nails, her eyes glittering with amusement.

"I don't believe you," says Cashmere. Gloss doesn't miss the sideways glance she tosses him, slick and subtle. "Not even Sevens are that cowardly."

Cowardly. The word summons a vague memory of the single tear that slipped down Blight's face upon being reaped, gone the moment he wiped it away with the sleeve of his too-large flannel. To Gloss' shaky recollection, that tear was more than enough for many in the Academy to write him off as an outer-district coward who'd shit himself the moment he entered the arena. It didn't turn out that way. Three days in, Blight buried a hatchet in the One boy's face, and they all stopped laughing. A few started cheering him on.

"He's just a twelve-year-old boy," Gloss says, a half-hearted appeal to whatever remains of Cashmere's humanity. Ignoring him, she rolls her eyes and murmurs something under her breath before chasing it down with a swig of strawberry juice. It makes Gloss feel bitter, feel bold. "When you were thirteen, you spilled a frozen coffee on your white dress and cried for half an hour."

Twinkle slaps a hand over her mouth.

"Oh, I see." Cashmere says, her voice rising an octave. "I can play this game too. Everyone, here's a fact about our favorite victor: Gloss wet the bed until he was five."

Gloss barely manages to swallow his oatmeal before it flies out of his mouth. "What are you talking about? So did you!"

Cashmere's face turns a furious red. "What changed, Gloss? Why are you constantly coming to the defense of District Se—"

"That is quite enough," Felicity snaps, raising a hand to quiet them both. "I trust I need not remind you two that the Games are neither the time nor place to process family disputes. You are mentors in the presence of your tributes. This is a sacred affair, and I will not have it be ruined by any more nonsense." Her wig lurches to the side, daring to fall into Twinkle's bowl of porridge. "I won't have it!"

"Your hair," says Twinkle, shrinking away from Felicity's teetering pile of violent blue curls.

Felicity stops and adjusts the wig with both hands. "Thank you, dear," she says quietly, and returns to her breakfast.

For a long while, the table is silent but for the sound of silverware hitting plates and the gulping of various juices. Finally, with a tentative voice, Velvet speaks up. "It's nothing to get worked up over, Mr. Rosewood," he says, meeting Gloss' gaze with hesitant blue eyes. "The Sevens… they're nothing, really. Just roaches. They deserve it."

It hits Gloss like a bullet to the gut. Blight was right. Gloss has heard terms like that thrown around everywhere by people in the Academy, other Career victors, and, when she's feeling particularly nasty, his own sister. It still hurts, somehow, coming from a boy whose beloved brother's intellectual disability would have garnered similar bigotry from people in the same circles.

When breakfast ends, Gloss remains seated and pretends to eat, ignoring the prying eyes of those who go about their day. About five minutes pass before Twinkle and Velvet emerge from their rooms in training clothes and pass the dining room on the way to the elevator. They're laughing, smiling, Velvet's red curls bouncing along the way.

"Velvet, I need to speak with you for a moment," says Gloss, his voice commanding and clear.

Velvet freezes and exchanges a glance with Twinkle. In an instant, Twinkle leaves him behind.

"Sit across from me," Gloss orders. Velvet, without hesitation, obliges. He seems to shrink into himself, looking much younger than his eighteen years. It's clear that he idolizes Gloss; likely, he's only moments away from vomiting all over his fresh new training clothes. Gloss pours him a cup of water and passes it across the table. "Drink. Breathe."

Velvet sucks the cup down like it's nectar. Placing it on the table, he takes a deep breath like Gloss instructed, closing his eyes for a long moment before opening them, big and blue and almost perfectly innocent. It's at this moment that Gloss realizes he doesn't want to see him die.

"It's easy to be influenced by the people around us. Other students at the Academy, people in our alliance, kids at school." Gloss folds his hands in front of himself. "Sometimes we hear them call people names. Poor people, sick people, people who are different. I've heard people call kids like Go terrible names, too." Gloss knows he's overstepping, knows he's getting too personal, but on those final words, something in Velvet's expression clicks. It looks like horror; it looks like sadness. Velvet isn't the brightest, but his heart is good; he knows how to listen.

"I don't think Go would be very proud of you if he heard the things you said about Timothy, Velvet," says Gloss. "That behavior is beneath you. Leave it for people like Twinkle, who—"

Velvet covers his face with his hands, leaning his elbows on the table and catching his breath. Gloss shoves down the urge to offer him a napkin or more water. He lets him sit in it, lets him ruminate. After a few long moments, Velvet lifts his head. His face is deep scarlet, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. Notably, there are no tears in sight. Gloss isn't surprised — most Career tributes have had that particular emotional response trained out of them.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Rosewood," says Velvet. "I just… I never thought of… I'm so sorry."

A dangerous spark of warmth blooms through Gloss' chest — a flicker of hope for the kind of man Velvet will become if he makes it out alive. He'll learn the true nature of the Academy and turn from its lessons completely. He'll start a charity, he'll build a preschool, he'll…

Johanna, Johanna, Johanna.

Gloss forces himself to look away. "Cosmos Brieson taught me something very important when I was in your position," he says after a long moment. "In the Games, hubris only does one thing: it gets you killed. Do you understand?"

Velvet nods, wide-eyed, vulnerable.

"Anyone can kill you in that arena. Anyone," says Gloss. "Even someone you consider a cockroach."

Then, before he can say something even more dangerous, he gets up, pushes in his chair, and leaves the room.