DAY SEVEN
Morning creeps in like a thief, heavy with sickness. Netta murmurs complaints about a fever and the ache in her bones, her voice rasping as though it's clawing its way out of her throat. At some point, she must have drifted off, leaving Aaranay to watch alone. That, more than anything, tells him how bad it is.
They pack slowly, their movements sluggish and unfocused, more an echo of intention than action. Each motion feels monumental—bending to pick up a bag, tightening straps, standing upright. Before long, the effort becomes too much, and they sink back to the floor, the plan to leave fading into the air, intangible and half-remembered. Aaranay leans against the wall, his head lolling forward as exhaustion drags him under. His dreams are fleeting, smudges of shadow and noise, until the crack of a cannon jolts him awake.
By the time they force themselves to move, the day has stretched into afternoon. They descend the crumbling stairs one agonizing step at a time, emerging onto streets fractured and jagged, their feet clawing for dry ground. Water pools in the cracks, slicking the concrete, and their feet drag across it, scuffing lines that vanish as quickly as they appear.
If anyone found them now, it would be over. The thought circles in Aaranay's mind, sharp and insistent, but distant too, like it belongs to someone else. Their movements are deliberate but futile, every step like wading through thick, suffocating tar.
This isn't just them, he realizes. It can't be. The air feels heavy, damp and pressing, and the rain that keeps coming down like a taunt has soaked through every layer of fabric, every thread of resolve. The Gamemakers planned this. He can feel it in the grit of the streets, in the weakness clutching at his muscles. The vaccines they were injected with couldn't stop it, whatever it is.
This sickness, this weight—it's designed. The arena isn't just killing them; it's grinding them down, pulling them into the same pit of despair.
He looks at the others. Netta stumbles but doesn't complain for once, her face pale, slick with sweat. Oakley presses forward, head down, jaw clenched tight, her steps uneven but unyielding. Stubbornness seems to be all she has left. The realization settles in his chest, cold and heavy. If they're feeling this, so is everyone else. Somewhere, in some other ruin, the others are dragging their feet just like them, waiting for the inevitable sound of someone behind them.
The trio moves without direction, their steps aimless but spurred by a need to *do* something, anything, to stave off the stillness. Freezing rain needles their skin, soaking through thin layers of fabric until the cold feels like it's etched into their bones. Aaranay keeps his head down, his face half-buried in the damp collar of his jacket. The rain stings like a swarm of tiny blades, each drop a fresh assault. His joints throb with a sharp, electric ache, his steps trembling as his legs threaten to give out beneath him. He shivers violently, his body a constant tremor of cold, though a feverish heat prickles at his skin, smoldering beneath the surface. Whatever this is, it isn't natural.
After what feels like an eternity of walking, Oakley stumbles to a halt, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if she can ward off the cold by sheer will. She lifts her head just enough to call out, her voice hoarse and jagged, cutting through the endless drumming of the rain.
"We need medicine, Johanna! We're not gonna last another week!"
Her words hang heavy, swallowed by the rain. For a moment, the three of them stand there, gazing upward, squinting into the bleak sky as if sheer desperation might summon a silver parachute. But nothing comes. The clouds churn on, grey and unyielding, their silence louder than any cannon.
Aaranay tries to think, to solve this, but his mind feels stuck, tangled in a thick fog. Thoughts surface and sink before he can grab hold of them. This has to be a Gamemaker trick—another cruel push to force the tributes together—but no matter how hard he tries to piece it together, the solution stays out of reach. Dim memories of past Games flicker, moments of tributes thrown into impossible situations, but the endings slip away. His thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm, impossible to gather.
Unbidden, another memory stirs. The orphanage in District Nine. Sickness had a way of sweeping through the dormitories, turning the air heavy with the sound of coughing and the rustle of blankets pulled tight. House Mother would push them through, her sharp voice keeping them alive long enough for the worst to break. He remembers curling in his sleeping bag, pulling it up to his chin as the fever burned through him. The memory of warmth and security feels like a cruel joke now.
He shakes his head, trying to chase the memory away, but it leaves an ache in its wake, deeper than the one in his bones. Ahead of him, Netta and Oakley trudge on, their bodies bent against the rain, as though stubbornness alone might carry them somewhere safer. Aaranay watches their hunched figures, their faces hollowed by exhaustion, and knows they're as lost as he is.
The rain doesn't stop. The cold doesn't ease. And still, they keep moving, too desperate to collapse, too worn down to be anything but shadows of themselves.
By nightfall, the world unravels into a feverish haze, exhaustion smearing the edges of reality. The sky blooms faintly with the face of the boy from District 6—one of the youngest. Aaranay barely registers it. He'd heard whispers about him, allied with the small ones from Nine and Ten. All gone now.
His knees give way without warning, the impact reverberating through his body like a struck gong. He doesn't try to rise. Netta and Oakley pull him upright, their movements jerky and labored, and half-carry, half-drag him into the nearest building. The rain patters relentlessly, a dull hiss against the concrete as they stumble inside. They collapse in a heap against a wall, their breaths ragged and uneven.
Aaranay's head pounds with a relentless, rhythmic ache, each pulse sending fresh waves of pain spiraling through him. His limbs feel like dead weight, too heavy, too sluggish to obey even the smallest command. He tells himself to stay alert, to push back against the pull of sleep—but it's no use. The world slips away, plunging him into an unbroken darkness.
Time sloughs past, unmarked. When he wakes, faint shuffling sounds drag him into consciousness. His body feels like it's encased in wet cement; even the simple act of breathing takes immense effort. Panic flickers faintly, a distant ember in his fogged mind. His hand drifts toward the knife tucked at the small of his back, but his fingers fumble uselessly, weak and uncoordinated.
A figure emerges from the gloom—a small, wiry shape framed by faint light filtering through broken windows. The gleam of round glasses catches his eye, wide and reflective like an owl's gaze.
"Telemi?" Aaranay croaks, his voice rasping and thin.
The boy from District 3 crouches in front of them, his expression wary but sharp. Up close, Aaranay sees how the arena has carved itself into Telemi's face. His pale skin is nearly translucent, stretched taut over prominent cheekbones. Angry grazes mar his chin, and clusters of hives bloom in raw patches behind his ears. His sunken eyes flit between Aaranay, Oakley, and Netta, taking them in with methodical precision.
"You're not well either," Telemi observes quietly, his tone soft but edged with something calculating.
Aaranay barely shakes his head, the small motion sending a sharp, electric pang through his neck. He forces himself to hold still, to meet Telemi's gaze despite the dizziness clawing at him. The boy's expression shifts, a flicker of something almost familiar crossing his face.
It reminds Aaranay of Zuhra back in Nine, her brow creasing in quiet concentration whenever she was solving a problem. That mix of focus and uncertainty. That pause before an idea formed.
Telemi slips Aaranay's arm over his wiry shoulders, the weight of him nearly dragging them both down. Each step is a slow struggle against gravity, Aaranay's legs useless, his body swaying with the pull of every movement. When they reach a corner stacked with faded, frayed rags, Telemi lowers him gently, as if afraid Aaranay might shatter under too much force.
Netta follows, her breaths shallow and rasping, eyes glassy with fever. Oakley stumbles in last, her face slack, movements robotic, like someone only half-aware of her surroundings. Telemi presses the door shut behind them, and the faint drag of fabric reaches Aaranay's ears as Telemi shoves something under the frame to block out the cold.
Time stretches, splintered into disjointed moments. A spoonful of water touches cracked lips, each sip feeling like it vanishes into a void. A few bites of something soft and tasteless pass between them, sliding down their throats with difficulty. No one asks questions. There's no room for distrust, no energy to resist. If this is poisoned, then fine. Let it be. At least the ache of hunger quiets, if only for a little while.
When the food is gone, Aaranay still aches, but the trembling has stopped. The hollow, gnawing sensation in his stomach has dulled to a distant throb. His limbs no longer tingle, though they feel distant, sluggish. Moving them takes effort, as if his body hasn't quite remembered how to obey him.
Pulling himself upright feels monumental. His arms groan, muscles straining, and the floor shifts beneath him as he staggers toward Telemi, who sits cross-legged near the door. His glasses are smeared with grime, his pale face shadowed and drawn.
"Why?" Aaranay rasps, his voice splintering over the word. It's all he can manage, though the weight of his gaze presses the question further.
Telemi looks up, his face unreadable except for a flicker in his tired eyes. He seems to catch what Aaranay isn't saying.
"I need allies," he says simply, the words steady despite the wear in his voice. "For what's coming."
Aaranay blinks, sluggish confusion settling like fog in his mind. "What's coming?"
"The Feast," Telemi replies, the word heavy and matter-of-fact, like he's said it a dozen times in his head already. He nods toward the others, crumpled against the wall. "Wake them. We need a plan."
DAY EIGHT
"What makes you think you've figured it all out?"
Netta's voice breaks the fragile stillness. She leans against the wall with her arms crossed tightly, her weight shifting uneasily. Her breath rasps, uneven and wheezy from the sickness still clinging to her lungs. Her narrowed eyes settle on Telemi, skeptical, unflinching.
In the center of the room, her district partner holds his ground, shoulders squared despite the frailty of his frame. The faint light seeping through the boarded windows catches on his glasses, obscuring his eyes and giving him an owlish look—sharp, watching, waiting.
"I told you," Telemi says, his voice controlled but tight, as if coiled around his growing frustration. "On the train to the Capitol, I watched clips of past games. I wanted to be prepared. The Feast isn't random—it's a design."
Netta snorts faintly. "Obviously."
Telemi doesn't flinch. Instead, he steps forward, quick and sharp, his fingers twitching at his sides like they need to act even when his body won't let them. "The thirty-fifth Games. Beetee. They unleashed wasp mutts—poisoned everyone left alive. Symptoms started to show, and then? Antidote at the Cornucopia. Beetee waited it out, let the others kill each other for it, and electrocuted the survivors. That's how he won."
Across the room, Aaranay shifts against the wall, his expression dark and uneasy. His pale face glows faintly in the dim light, the whites of his eyes catching the shadows. "And?"
"The forty-sixth," Telemi presses on, his words picking up speed like he can't afford to slow down. "The arena was factories. They pumped poison gas through the vents. The Feast wasn't food—it was gas masks. If you didn't go, you suffocated. No one had a choice."
Netta uncrosses her arms, her fists clenching at her sides as her gaze flicks toward Oakley and back. Her voice is lower now, quieter, but no less wary. "You're saying—"
"They've made us sick on purpose," Telemi cuts in, his voice rising. He pauses, visibly forcing it back down, his lips tightening. "This isn't random. It's part of their plan. The cure will be at the Cornucopia. That's how they'll get us all there."
The air grows heavier, colder, the weight of his words pressing into the room like the rain outside. Netta glances at Aaranay again. He doesn't say anything, but his furrowed brow and pallor speak enough. Telemi's hands still, but his darting eyes give him away, scanning their faces for understanding.
"You don't know that," Netta says finally, her voice tight but wavering, the words sounding weaker the moment they leave her.
"I don't need to know," Telemi replies, and there's a tremor he can't quite contain. "I just need to be right."
Oakley shifts back on her heels, her fingers brushing the edge of her axe handle. The blade tilts as she spins its tip lazily against the floor. Her gaze drifts unfocused.
"They did the same thing in the Quell," she murmurs. "Most of the tributes were starving."
Aaranay exhales sharply, pushing himself upright. "Unless one of you's hiding a Beetee-level genius, this is going to be a problem. Six Careers still breathing."
Telemi adjusts his glasses, the dim light flickering against the lenses. "That's why we recruit. We find the others before the Gamemakers bait us with the Feast."
A sound splits the air, sudden and sharp. A cannon. Or thunder. It's impossible to tell—the Gamemakers love their theatrics.
No one speaks. The stillness stretches out, suffocating. Netta lowers to the floor and draws her knees to her chest, her arms wrapping tightly around them. Her stomach churns, icy and hollow, but she forces herself to swallow the knot in her throat refusing to move.
The Feast. Fatal. Always.
"How exactly do you plan on finding these others?" she asks at last, her voice clipped, daring him to have an answer.
Telemi's jaw tightens, but his gaze holds steady. "I've been tracking them—Zinnia from Six and Rolland from Eleven. They're close. Randolph from Twelve could pass through on his way to the Feast."
Aaranay tips his head, his voice low, his words skeptical. "And if one of them was that cannon? Or doesn't make it to the Feast?"
Telemi doesn't hesitate. "We adapt."
Netta exhales slowly, her breath trembling as it leaves her. She presses her palms against the floor, grounding herself, fighting the growing weight of dread. "Better than anything I've come up with," she mutters, her voice quiet.
"Where are Six and Eleven?" she asks after a beat.
Telemi's gaze flickers toward the boarded windows, lingering as if he might catch a glimpse of them through the cracks. His lips press into a thin line before he answers. "Close," he says, the word heavy with everything he isn't sure of. "Close enough."
Telemi pulls a battered book from his pack, its spine cracked, its edges dark with grime. He flips it open, revealing a crude map of the arena. Ink smears along the creases, as though too many shaky hands have traced its lines.
Netta's eyes narrow, her voice sharp despite herself. "Beetee gave you this?"
The bitterness slips out before she can stop it. Beetee, the brilliant one, the strategist, the one with answers. Meanwhile, she's stuck with Wiress, brilliant in her own way but more puzzle than person. A part of her clings to the hope that Beetee is watching both of them.
"Fourth day," Telemi answers, even-keeled. "All you had to do was ask."
His finger moves over the map, pausing at a scrawled mark. "Zinnia's somewhere in this block of apartments. I saw her foraging in the streets yesterday. She looked… scattered. Panicked. Probably shaken up from losing her partner."
"You think she killed him?" Oakley asks, her tone cautious.
Telemi shrugs, the movement slight, dismissive. "I heard the hovercraft. The cannon woke me. He was close."
His finger shifts lower, tracing over a patch of overgrown streets. "Rolland's set up here. Makes sense—plenty of vegetation, and his plant knowledge is solid."
Aaranay scoffs, his voice low and grim. "And what's stopping them from turning on us? They don't look like they're easy pickings."
Telemi's gaze meets his, steady, unyielding. "We hope they'll listen first."
The silence that follows is thick, heavy with doubts none of them voice.
The arena shifts, as if in response. A distant rumble rolls through the city, the daily collapse of outer buildings marking the Gamemakers tightening their grasp. Dust billows up on the horizon, the death of another safe zone. And then the trumpets.
Their shrill, triumphant notes cut through the tension, too loud, too bright. From nowhere and everywhere, Claudius Templesmith's voice spills into the streets, unnervingly cheerful.
"Congratulations to the remaining tributes for surviving the first week!"
Netta's fists clench at her sides. The announcement stings, as hollow and mocking as a Capitol smile.
"The Feast," Claudius continues, each word dripping with theater, "will take place this afternoon in the grand, waterlogged mall at the arena's center. It seems you're all feeling worse-for-wear, and we have something that can help that. Don't miss it!"
Telemi snaps the book shut, his jaw tightening. No one speaks. They don't need to; the weight of what's coming presses down on all of them.
Without a word, they gather their supplies. Netta adjusts the strap of her pack, the unease twisting in her stomach sharpening into something cold and certain. She tells herself it's just the same knot she's carried since the start, but she knows better.
At the doorframe, Telemi pauses. His hand lingers on the splintered wood, his gaze sweeping the room one last time. Whatever safety it held is gone, stripped away like everything else. Netta watches him hesitate, then steps forward, her hand brushing his arm. The touch is firm, grounding. "Come on," she says softly.
He exhales and follows her out, his shoulders tense, his silence mirroring hers. She gently tugs him away.
oOo
Zinnia's hideout is a hollow, desperate thing—a forgotten corner of a building that seems to sag under its own weight. It's poorly hidden, poorly guarded, as though it's only standing out of habit. Dust clings to every surface, and the air feels thick with abandonment. If not for the Feast, Netta's sure the Gamemakers would've driven the Loyalists here already, wolves to a rabbit's den.
Telemi walks ahead, his steps certain, his shoulders straight. Netta wonders where that certainty comes from—back in the District 3 apartment, his diplomacy had been all sharp edges and impatience. Maybe the arena has sharpened him further. Or maybe it's done something stranger.
The door gives way with a groan, and they step into the dim room. Thin, threadbare curtains hang uselessly over the windows, barely dulling the sickly light that seeps through. Zinnia is already there, a small shape curled into the farthest corner. Her knees are drawn to her chest, her shoulders hunched and angular, like blades jutting through her skin. A silver knife gleams faintly in her grip, its edge catching the light.
The sound of them entering snaps her head up. Her fingers tighten, knuckles pale around the handle. For a moment, Netta thinks she'll lash out—cornered, wild. But then recognition settles in her face, and the tension in her shoulders unwinds just enough. Her grip on the knife doesn't loosen.
"You're alone," Telemi says.
Netta flicks a glance at him, her expression unreadable. *Excellent start.*
Zinnia's gaze sharpens, assessing them. She's smaller than Netta expected, slighter. The backpack at her feet looks equally pitiful—half-empty, worn thin, a poor reward for making it this far. Netta can see it: Zinnia tearing out of the Bloodbath, the bag clutched like a lifeline. She never stopped running.
"You're here for the Feast," Zinnia says. Her voice is soft, not weak, like she's already decided how this ends.
Telemi nods. "Yes. You've seen the recaps. Two Loyalists are dead. The other six… they're still strong together."
The words sit heavy between them, settling like dust in the stale air. Netta watches Zinnia's face, searching for something—fear, anger, disbelief—but there's nothing. Just a hollow stillness. She's aged twenty years in the week they've been here.
No one speaks. The building creaks around them, its bones shifting with the wind. Somewhere outside, the arena waits, hungry and patient.
Zinnia stares past them, her gaze fixed on the grimy window, as if the answers are out there in the ruin. Netta feels it too—that pull, that quiet dread. The arena never hides what it intends to do. Unlike the people in this room.
Zinnia looks worse for wear. Not injured—nothing like that—but she's worn thin, her eyes shadowed with a hollowness that goes beyond exhaustion. Telemi's words land like stones, and she seems to sink under their weight, shoulders curving inward as though something far heavier than fatigue has her pinned.
Netta reaches out, fingers curling around Telemi's wrist. The touch is soft but final. "How about we make sure she's okay first?"
Telemi blinks, caught off guard, like he's only just now seeing Zinnia. A survivor scraped raw, holding on by a thread that frays more every second. His brows twitch upward in surprise—an admission, maybe, of something he hadn't noticed. For all his quick thinking, Telemi's always been more strategist than human being. Even on the train, two weeks ago—two weeks, though it feels like a lifetime—he hadn't noticed when Netta was unraveling, hands shaking as she tried to take in the reality of the Games. Telemi had hounded Beetee for tactics then, thinking ten steps ahead when the board hadn't even been set. Sociopath, Netta thinks now, but it feels like an accusation.
Telemi clears his throat, smoothing over the gap in his armor. "We can get you cleaned up. There's food in our packs."
"Water?" Zinnia's voice cracks, dry as old paper.
Telemi nods. Oakley is already pulling her bottle free, crouching low to hand it over. When Zinnia tries to gulp it down, Oakley tugs the bottle back. "Sip it," she grunts.
The room quiets. They settle around Zinnia like ghosts, the silence punctuated only by the soft slosh of water and the rustle of bags. Zinnia drinks—slow, careful sips that bring color creeping back into her pale face. Alive, but barely. Alive in the way tributes are after too many days with nothing but fear to sustain them.
Time stretches thin before Zinnia speaks again. Her voice is small at first, brittle around the edges, like every word costs her something. "I was with Earlene Abrahams. District Ten. We allied after training."
Netta feels her chest tighten at the name. She remembers Earlene—dark curls, darker eyes. She says nothing.
"She didn't make it out." Zinnia's gaze drops to her lap, her fingers tracing the frayed strap of her backpack, over and over, like she might wear it smoother. "I ran. Just grabbed what I could and ran."
Her voice steadies, hardens slightly. "Aaron found me a few days later. My district partner." She pauses to swallow. "He was already in bad shape when the arena started. Terrified. Starving. I couldn't turn him away."
The next words come slower, like she's forcing them out despite herself. "A few days ago, we woke up covered in bites. Mosquitoes, I think. Arms, legs… everywhere. I think that's what made us sick. I don't know. Aaron was already so thin…" Her voice fractures. "He didn't stand a chance."
Netta watches her carefully. Zinnia doesn't meet anyone's gaze. She stares at her hands now, like the memory's lodged there, her eyes dulling as she pulls the pieces back together. "I tried to help him. I did everything I could. But he just… stopped. Like something inside him gave up."
The silence that follows feels dense, like smoke hanging in the air, impossible to clear. Zinnia's eyes shine, faint glimmers catching as tears slip down her cheeks. She doesn't bother to wipe them away. Netta looks at the ground instead, the quiet pressing in on her like a weight.
Zinnia drags in a breath, sharp and shuddering, as though the air might split her apart. It doesn't. Somehow, she stays whole. When she speaks again, her voice is clearer, steadier. Resolved.
"I'll help you," she says. Her gaze lifts, sharp and unflinching as she looks at each of them in turn. "It wasn't pretty when he went. I don't want to die like that. And I promise you—" she swallows, her voice soft but sure—"you don't want to either."
The room seems to go colder. The truth of it settles in their bones. Netta nods faintly, though she isn't sure if it's agreement or because, in this moment, there's nothing else to do.
oOo
Through the jagged hole in the roof, a hovercraft lowers a container into the center of the mall. It drifts past shattered floors and bent railings, down to the ground level, where it settles like bait. The claw retracts, leaving it there. Waiting.
For a long moment, nothing moves. Netta's fingers hover at her belt before she draws her knife. The faint scrape of metal cuts through the silence, too loud. Around them, the air is tense, drawn tight—waiting for the snap. The container hisses. Splits. The lid crashes back, echoing through the cavernous space. Inside, a long table holds twelve small packs, spaced out like markers on a grave.
No one moves.
This is how it always starts. If you sprint first, you die first. They all know it. The boy from Two doesn't miss—he proved that in training, arrow after arrow splitting the center of his target. Aaranay's elbows prickle; the skin is still blistered from his sickness, raw and peeling. He shifts his weight, sweat slicking his palms.
"There are five of us," Netta murmurs, her voice sharp but steady, "the harder it'll be for them to hit all of us. We need to go."
She doesn't need to say the rest. Aaranay knows it already. Not all of us will make it.
That's how the Feast works. There are always casualties.
Always.
A beat passes. Then another. Then they run.
Aaranay hangs back. It's a calculation, simple and brutal—let someone else draw the fire first. The others surge forward, feet pounding against the ground. From the corner of his eye, he sees them: the Ones spilling out of the shadows on the left, the boy from Four breaking cover on the right. A sharp whistle splits the air. Aaranay throws himself to the ground, chest slamming into the concrete hard enough to rattle his ribs. Behind him, the arrow shatters where he stood, fragments of metal and stone spitting out like shrapnel.
He doesn't look to see who fired it. He doesn't need to.
Aaranay's group slams into the Careers, and chaos detonates.
Netta goes down first. The boy from District 1 moves with brutal precision, sword flashing—clean—straight through her chest. She crumples without a sound, her body folding as it hits the water with a hollow splash.
Oakley screams. It rips through the noise, raw and jagged. She swings her axe two-handed, every ounce of her fury behind it. The blade tears into the boy's shoulder, cutting fabric and flesh in one swipe. Blood spills instantly, dark and thick, soaking everything. She lifts the axe again to finish him. The spear hits first. It punches clean through her chest. Oakley freezes, the weapon's shaft jutting out between her ribs like some horrible, blooming flower. For a moment, she just stands there—swaying, as if she might still hold herself upright. Then, as though someone has cut her strings, she collapses face-first into the water.
Aaranay's heart slams against his ribs. Move. Move. He stumbles forward, fingers clawing at the table. Twelve packs, but he only grabs three. They're slick in his hands, his grip shaking so badly the straps almost slip free.
Footsteps crash behind him—relentless, splashing. He spins. The Careers are coming, faster than he expected, weapons already stained with red.
"Run!" he chokes out, the word jagged as it tears from his throat.
He grabs Telemi's arm and pulls. The boy from District 3 staggers, water dragging at his legs, his breathing sharp and panicked. Behind them, Zinnia stumbles too, gasping—then she screams, sharp and cut short. Aaranay risks a glance. An arrow has buried itself in her shoulder, blood streaking in long, thin lines down her arm.
The cannons fire, one after another. Netta. Oakley. Aaranay doesn't let himself think about it. He just runs. The exit is there—close, glowing faintly, like salvation—when the sound hits.
It rolls through the mall like a deep, breaking groan. The ceiling shudders, cracks fracturing outward like lightning across ice.
Aaranay's head jerks up just as the floors above them vanish.
Concrete splits, disintegrating into cascading rubble. Entire levels of the mall crumble in on themselves, walls and columns crashing down in a roar of stone and steel. Water erupts from the floor, spilling upward like it's alive, swallowing everything.
The boy from Two slips. The girl from Four screams. Aaranay turns, yelling through the panic, "GO!"
He doesn't wait. He veers for a side hallway—a smaller door, spotted earlier. Telemi stumbles beside him, half-dragged as they fight through water that's rising fast. Zinnia's breath rattles behind them, each gasp edged with a thin, broken wheeze.
A scream cuts through the chaos, then silence. A section of railing collapses with a crash, sweeping Two and the girl from Four under in a surge of debris and black water. Aaranay doesn't look back. The sound of steel snapping rings in his ears—sharp and shrieking, like nails dragged down glass. The floor pitches beneath his feet.
The door.
He hits it full-force, yanking the handle with both hands. "Hurry!" he yells, the word splintering from his throat.
Telemi stumbles through, but Zinnia—Zinnia falters.
"Come on!" Aaranay shouts, his voice breaking.
She's too slow.
The ceiling splits with a sound like thunder, fractures racing toward her. For a second—just a second—her eyes meet his, grey and wide and terrified.
Then the rubble swallows her whole.
The impact shakes the ground. Cannon.
Aaranay stares, dust rolling toward him in a wave like smoke. Telemi hits him, knocks him sideways, and they crash onto solid, muddy ground outside.
The doorframe collapses behind them.
For a long, breathless moment, Aaranay just lies there, gasping. The hallway—the mall—everything is gone. Dust curls from the wreckage like breath from a dying animal. Telemi groans beside him, small and broken. Aaranay blinks up at the sky, lungs burning. They're out. But Zinnia—
The mall groans one last time, collapsing in on itself, water churning as it pulls the wreckage under.
oOo
The ground splits open with a deep, shuddering groan. Sirena stumbles, arms flailing as the concrete beneath her crumbles into nothing. She throws herself backward, heels skidding, barely avoiding the pit as it swallows steel and stone. She bolts, the word pounding through her skull as the ceiling above fractures. Chunks of concrete plummet like mortar shells, splintering the floor, sending up clouds of dust and spray. A slab lands where she'd been seconds ago, shaking the ground with a bone-jarring crash. She veers sideways, choking on her own ragged breath.
"To the other side!" Albinus bellows.
Sirena pivots, legs burning, feet pounding against the trembling ground. It felt logical, their plan—Albinus watching from above, calling shots. But now? The world collapsing all at once? She doesn't belong here. Not with Luscious' useless knives strapped to her thigh. Not when her hands are made for spears.
The ceiling shudders again, and her gut twists. She doesn't climb down the stairwell so much as fall into it, hands scraping rusted metal. The sharp edges bite her palms, but she doesn't stop. Pain's just noise. Albinus thunders behind her, his heavy boots crashing against the steps. They spill out into the center of the floor, dust-thick air swirling where Kegan and the others are regrouping.
For a second—just one second—they freeze.
Then the building screams. A sickening, grinding howl of metal and concrete as the upper floors buckle. The ceiling buckles. The collapse begins like an avalanche. Stone and steel crash through the floors above, driving them downward in an unstoppable chain reaction. The ground convulses, shaking like it's alive. Dust chokes the air, blinding her. Sirena coughs hard, vision swimming, throat raw and torn.
"Move—" Kegan's voice cuts off.
The ceiling gives.
A chunk of concrete slams down like a boulder, crushing him where he stands. Gone. Just gone. Sirena sees it happen—sees the flash of movement, his body vanishing beneath the weight—and then the cannon fires. That mechanical crack cuts through the chaos like a knife.
"Kegan!" Her voice fractures, barely more than a rasp. She stumbles forward, stumbling blindly. "Kegan!"
Nothing. Only the roar of stone, the groaning of metal snapping like brittle twigs.
"Sirena, move!"
She spins. Luscious stumbles backward, just avoiding a rain of debris. Sirena barely registers the sound of another figure screaming—Rolland Reid, District 11. He's running for the exit when the ceiling caves in. A flash of terror, a wet crunch, and he's gone too.
The cannon fires again.
Sirena stares at the rubble, her mind blank. Her chest heaves. Move. Keep moving. She stumbles toward where the exit should be, through dust so thick it burns. She reaches it—and stops cold.
The doorway is gone.
A wall of concrete blocks the path, stone piled so high it looks deliberate. She throws herself at it, clawing, shoving. Her nails scrape uselessly against jagged edges. "No—no, no, no!" Her voice shatters, rising higher with every word. Blood smears the rock, seeping from her fingers. "It won't move—it won't move!"
Atticus is beside her, slamming his boots against the rubble like he can kick it into submission. "What do we do?" His voice cracks, sharp-edged with panic. "What do we do?"
The ceiling above them groans again, louder—deeper.
Sirena staggers back. Her chest rises and falls in short, frantic bursts. Her eyes dart across the room—no exits, no plans. The dust crawls into her mouth and nose, thick and suffocating. It feels alive, clawing at her lungs. Her thoughts splinter into static.
No Kegan. No way out.
Just the sound of the building's skeleton tearing apart, screaming as it comes down around them.
The rumbling has stopped. The world settles into an unnatural stillness, as though it's holding its breath. Dust hangs heavy in the air, a thick, choking fog that clings to Sirena's tongue—bitter and dry, tasting like concrete and death. The building has stopped collapsing, but the silence carries its own weight. It's as though they've been buried alive.
Kegan's cannon still echoes in her ears.
Sirena presses her palms to her temples, trying to think. The quiet feels wrong—waiting, like a trap still unsprung. What were the Gamemakers doing? Why lead them here, why close them in, only to tear the place apart? There's no strategy in it, no purpose. Just senseless chaos. A shadow steps through the haze. Albinus. His silhouette is heavy, shoulders hunched, like he's carrying the weight of what's happened. He drops a bag into her arms, the sound sharp in the quiet, and Sirena jolts out of her stupor. She just tears it open.
Inside, cushioned in cloth, is a silver needle filled with cloudy green liquid. A note flutters beside it, smudged and barely legible. The cure.
Her hands tremble, just for a moment. The sickness had been slow, creeping through their alliance like poison in water—the coughs, the fevers, their bodies weakening bit by bit. She doesn't hesitate. Sirena rolls up her sleeve, presses the needle to her skin, and shoves it in. The green burns as it spreads, fire beneath her flesh, but she doesn't flinch.
The table groans as she leans against it, sweat dampening her temples. Two more bags sit beside the first. Sirena recognizes them—for the girls from Aaranay Varma's group. Dead girls.
She rips open the bags, finds matching needles, and her lip curls.
"The illness was part of the plan," she says, her voice rough and frayed, like it's been dragged across stone.
The others step closer, faces streaked with grime. Atticus. Mercurie. Luscious. None of them speak, but the question hangs in the stale air.
"These were meant for Three and Seven," Sirena explains. "Same cure we've got. That means everyone in the arena was infected." The words sink like stones, the truth settling into place. "It was the Gamemakers. All of it. The sickness. This."
Atticus gestures sharply at the cracked walls, the piles of rubble hemming them in. "And what part of the plan is this?"
Sirena doesn't answer. She doesn't know. The Gamemakers have cornered them, pinned them in like rats. And rats don't get plans. Rats get starved. Crushed. Toyed with until there's nothing left.
Her throat is tight as she forces herself to sound steady. "Your guess is as good as mine. But we'll have to find a way out."
"The hole in the roof," Mercurie says. His voice is thin, brittle.
Albinus shakes his head. "It'll tear apart." He glances up, sweat carving lines through the dirt on his face. "Maybe there's a tunnel. Maintenance or something. There has to be."
Atticus kicks at a chunk of concrete. The scrape of stone against stone grates through the silence, and the dust rises again—thicker, heavier. Sirena coughs into her hand, lungs raw.
The quiet returns, stretching thin and suffocating. The walls feel closer now, the air already stale. How long before she starts choking on it? Sirena feels it in her chest—every breath harder to pull in, every exhale a little sharper.
The Gamemakers aren't done yet.
"Then we find a tunnel," she says finally. The calm in her voice feels borrowed, like a mask she doesn't remember putting on.
The exhaustion hits Sirena like a landslide, sudden and unstoppable. She sinks to her haunches, her thighs trembling as the cold concrete presses into her legs. Her head throbs in time with her pulse, the lingering sickness a weight she can't shake. She presses her palms into her eyes, trying to will herself steady.
"Can we rest? Please?" Her voice comes out hoarse, ragged. "Let the medicine work. Let us breathe. We'll set out tomorrow—the field just got halved. The audience will be sated for a day." She pulls in a shallow breath, each inhale an effort. "We'll figure out how to get out then."
The Ones exchange their usual glances, sharp and wordless, but Albinus is already hobbling off. Mercurie follows after him, dragging his feet toward a patch of ground that looks dry enough. Sirena feels the decision settle over her, relief sinking deep into her chest like a stone. They're stranded here, in the shattered belly of this building, and the knowledge feels like a weight she can't lift.
Even the Ones relent eventually. They huddle near Albinus, backs against the wall. Sirena plants her spear tip into a crack in the concrete, using it to brace herself as she leans forward. Fatigue seeps into her bones, mingling with the grief she's been holding back. For now, she lets it sit. Minutes crawl past, each one dragging slower than the last, until the hum of a hovercraft cuts through the stillness. Its claw lowers, mechanical and methodical, tearing through debris with an indifference only machines can manage. Sirena watches, her fingers curled tight around the shaft of her spear, as the bodies are lifted free.
Three. Seven. Rolland Reid. And then—Kegan.
His limbs are twisted, his body limp, the back of his skull caved in. Sirena clamps her teeth together hard enough to hurt. Her stomach knots, bile rising as the hovercraft hauls him away, but she doesn't let herself look away. She owes him this. One last moment. Kegan is gone.
The realization hangs. She's truly alone now. Mercurie sits across the way, knees pulled to his chest, his face unreadable. She almost laughs—Mercurie, brittle as shells under the sun, a boy she cannot trust no matter how she tries. Kegan had been the tether between them, making it feel possible to leave the rest behind. Without him, the space between her and Mercurie stretches wide, insurmountable.
Thames drifts to the front of her mind. Another tether snapped. She closes her eyes, too tired to shut the memories out.
Sirena pushes herself to her feet and moves toward Mercurie, wincing with every step. He doesn't look at her, just stares into the middle distance, but she forces a tight, reflexive smile. It feels hollow. Fake. She lets it drop.
Above them, the Capitol anthem begins to hum, and Sirena tilts her head up. The sky darkens, the faces flickering into existence one after another.
Netta Maekawa, smug even in death. Kegan, mid-expression, his brow creased like he'd been about to ask something. Her chest aches. Safe voyage. Zinnia Woodrow. Oakley Sadler. Rolland Reid. Randolph from Twelve.
And then it's over, the faces vanishing into the void as if they'd never been there. The sky goes dark again, the silence returning like a hand on her throat.
"Three and Nine," Albinus says, his voice flat, gravel scraping against stone. "That's all that's left. Everyone else is gone." He doesn't wait for their reactions. "The Gamemakers trapped us here because of it. Too many outliers dead today. They're slowing us down."
"Final combat?" Luscious mutters, her voice sharp as broken glass. Mercurie shifts beside Sirena, his shoulders tensing.
"No, it's too early" Sirena says firmly. She knows it, feels it deep in her gut. "Three and Nine are smart. Tricky." She looks up out of habit, staring at the water-streaked ceiling. "There's too much water in this arena. If Three's anything like his victors, he's thinking. Setting something up. A trap, maybe."
She lets the thought hang, unspoken but clear.
"Cornered animals," she finishes softly, "are dangerous."
No one argues. No one says anything at all. The only sound is the creak of broken beams and the slow, rhythmic drip of water. It echoes through the dark, steady and patient, like a clock counting down.
DAY NINE
Aaranay's hands won't stop shaking. They've been like this for hours. The sky's empty today—empty and silent, without the heavy echo of cannon fire. No one will be in the sky tonight. Out there, somewhere, the remaining Careers are closing in, circling like wolves around a weakened deer. Somewhere, his last obstacle is waiting, ready to tear him apart.
The water bottle rattles faintly against his teeth as he sips, the sound too sharp in the quiet. The Capitol medicine worked its magic, as it always does. This morning, for the first time since the Reaping, Aaranay woke up feeling rested, as if he had borrowed someone else's body—one without cuts and bruises, without the gnawing ache in his stomach. But it doesn't matter. Not when the sound of his allies' deaths keeps replaying in his head. In person, it's different. On television, you don't hear their bodies seize, the gasping, wet gurgles as a throat fills with blood. You don't smell it.
Even as close as he is to the end, even as physically strong as he feels now, he can't move. His limbs are leaden, his mind wrapped in a gray fog that won't let go. Maybe if he stays here, he can pretend the end isn't coming. He can pretend he won't be one of those forgotten names, a tragedy in the distance. District 9 doesn't get this far—not often. Their last victor was thirty years ago, a name muttered by terrified kids at the orphanage like some half-remembered myth. To die now, this close, with all the hope on his back, would be cruel. Maybe he should've let someone kill him on the first day, quietly, without making a mark. Saved everyone the disappointment.
"You're doing that thing again," Telemi says, his voice a sharp break in the silence. "Your temple veins pop when you're thinking."
Aaranay doesn't look up at first. "I'm just… coming to terms with my imminent death."
Telemi lets out a harsh exhale, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. "Well, while you've been planning your funeral, I've been trying to think of ways to get out of here. Come on."
Aaranay doesn't move at first. He watches Telemi, who stands in the grimy light, his silhouette cast against the concrete. Move, Aaranay tells himself. But his body resists. It's easier to stay here, to let Telemi disappear into the dark without him, and to let the stillness swallow him whole. But Telemi doesn't leave. He waits, his patience wearing thin, his eyes narrowed, impatient. Finally, Aaranay drags himself up and follows, each movement sluggish, hollow.
"What's your genius idea?" Aaranay asks, his voice flat, too tired to carry much sarcasm.
"I don't have one yet," Telemi admits. "But I'm trying to dissect the Loyalists. Figure them out."
Aaranay snorts, hollow and humorless. "What's there to dissect? They're good with sharp things. They'll stick us if we cross them."
"There's gotta be something more than that."
"Well…" Aaranay pauses, as if the thought takes more energy than it should. "They're not observant. At least, not the boy from Five. He walked into one of my traps the first night."
Telemi's eyes sharpen. He brings his hand to his lips, considering. "If we can scout where they are… or lure them somewhere… we could set traps. A minefield of sorts, maybe. Pick them off one by one."
Aaranay doesn't answer. His gaze drifts to the fire between them, the flames a muted echo of something alive, something that used to matter. Telemi's voice is steady, insistent—hopeful, even. Aaranay tries to hold on to it, but it slips through his fingers like ash.
"It'll just be us then," Telemi finishes, his voice softer, a touch more final. "That's a much fairer fight."
Fair. The word is meaningless here. Nothing about this is fair. Aaranay swallows hard, shaking his head. He should care more, he thinks. He should be coming up with his own brilliant plan. But the thought of facing them makes his stomach churn. He's so close to the end. Too close, maybe. And it's killing him in a way he doesn't know how to name.
Aaranay listens to the rain, watches Telemi pacing nearby, the silence pressing down on him. Somewhere out there, death is waiting—for him, for Telemi. And when it comes, it'll be quiet, too—just another cannon breaking the stillness.
Fair fight or not, they don't stand a chance.
Aaranay nods, slow and measured. He can take Telemi in a final fight—he knows it. Telemi doesn't have the instincts, the endurance. Whatever life he led before this, it didn't demand the same things Aaranay's did. Dodging Peacekeepers since eleven builds something in you, a hard edge beneath the skin you don't even feel until you're this close to the end. If the plan works on the Careers, he'll be the one going home. He swallows the thought before it can bloom into a smile, but the relief seeps through anyway, a guilty warmth in his chest.
Telemi won't stop him.
"So when do we scout?" Aaranay asks. He keeps his voice light, casual, like it's just another step in the plan. Another step toward surviving. "I'm hoping for a good rest today, though."
"Whatever the Gamemakers stuck in that needle," Telemi says, stretching his arms back with a wince, "it's some kind of stimulant. I think they're hoping we'll give them a finale worth watching."
"Tomorrow, then," Aaranay suggests.
"Tomorrow." Telemi nods, his voice sharpening, finding a new edge. "Today we plan. Simple snares won't be enough. We need to use the arena itself—bring down the brittle architecture, trap their limbs. Poison, maybe. I don't know yet." His gaze flickers to the horizon where the water spreads, slow and inevitable, pulling closer with every hour. "But we'll have to hurry. The Gamemakers won't wait much longer. The mall's gone. They'll force us together soon. Push the final showdown."
"And you want to face them on our terms," Aaranay murmurs.
"Exactly." Telemi turns back, his expression set firm, the confidence just a little too thin. There's something desperate underneath, a crack he's trying to patch over. "We need to be a step ahead. No mistakes."
Aaranay doesn't answer right away. He nods again, slower this time, and lets the silence settle between them. He's already thinking ahead. If Telemi's traps work, if the others fall one by one, if they're the only two left—there won't be any room for hesitation.