I wake with a start, feeling the sharp pull of my prep team's hands as they snatch me from my bed. I don't even have time to fully register what's happening before I'm yanked into motion. My head jerks back, my vision spinning as I'm hauled into the bathroom, the same one from the parade. The bright lights flicker above me, and the sudden rush of activity makes my heart race.
The woman, Mireille, moves with practiced efficiency. She grabs a hairbrush and tugs it through my hair, pulling out the knots with precise strokes. Meanwhile, Soren, the man, carefully files my nails, the metal rasping gently against each fingertip. Their hands are gentle but firm, their touch methodical, almost mechanical in its speed. They don't speak much—just small chatter about the upcoming interview. The sound of their voices hums in the background, a white noise that fills the space as they work.
I'm barely awake when the door to the bathroom swings open.
"Honey," Mireille calls to the newcomer, her voice bright and welcoming.
Honey walks in, holding a sleek bag in her hand, and places it carefully on the counter. She looks at Mireille and Soren, a small smile curving her lips. The two prep team members glance at me, blow me a kiss, and exit with a flurry of energy. The door clicks shut behind them, and for a moment, all is still.
I watch Honey as she unzips the bag, her movements calm, deliberate. She pulls out a white X Line dress, its fabric streaked with light yellow. The dress shimmers slightly under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom, and for a brief moment, I wonder if it's a dream. It seems so… unreal.
She helps me slip into it, the fabric cool against my skin, and as she fastens it, I'm struck by how much older I look. I'm only thirteen, but the dress makes me look like someone I don't recognize—someone who could pass for fifteen, maybe sixteen. She lifts a delicate golden necklace from the bag, a small heart suspended in the center, and clasps it around my neck. The cool metal feels like a weight against my skin, but at the same time, it's strangely comforting.
Next, she pulls out a pair of light yellow heels. I slide my feet into them, grateful for her help. They fit perfectly. The heels feel strange under me, but Honey rushes me to the mirror, and the reflection that greets me is nothing like the girl I was just hours ago.
My face glows with a soft radiance, my hair pulled into a high ponytail, held together with a white bow. I can barely recognize myself in the mirror.
"You look stunning," Honey says softly, her voice filled with pride as she takes a step back, admiring the finished look.
Before I can say anything, she's ushering me out the door, guiding me down the hallway toward the Interview Center.
As I step through the doors, the air seems to change. The sheer size of the room takes my breath away. The ceilings soar high above, crowned with glittering chandeliers that send cascades of light spilling down like falling stars. The colors here are vibrant, overwhelming. The polished floors reflect everything—the crowd, the lights, the cameras. It feels as if I've stepped into a dream, a world far removed from the dust and sweat of District 3.
The stage is massive, gleaming under the spotlight. It's a spectacle in itself—a towering platform surrounded by rows of Capitol citizens, their faces bright with excitement. Their outfits are like nothing I've ever seen—bright, gaudy, and utterly bizarre. Every one of them seems like they could be the star of their own show. They stare at me with hungry eyes, waiting for the next act to begin.
I take a deep breath and step into line with the other tributes, my heart hammering in my chest. The previous days had been a blur of anxiety and confusion. I feel their eyes on me, piercing, evaluating, every movement scrutinized. I try not to let it show, looking down at my feet and pretending I can't feel them all staring.
The boy from District 2 finishes his interview and is ushered off the stage. The crowd cheers, their applause thunderous, as if his every word had been a performance worthy of admiration. My name is called, and I'm jolted out of my reverie.
I walk toward the stage, each step heavy, like I'm moving through water. Their gazes follow me, sharp and cold, calculating. I can feel the pressure of it, every moment under a microscope. The screens beside the stage flash images of me, each one larger than life, my face projected from every angle. It's disorienting, almost painful. Every movement, every word, will be broadcast across Panem. The cameras hum in the background, their constant presence a reminder that this is no longer just an interview—it's a performance. A chance to entertain, to charm, to survive.
As I take my seat in front of Caesar Flickerman, I can't help but feel both terrified and mesmerized. The glitz, the glamour, the sheer spectacle of it all—it's enough to make anyone dizzy. But beneath it all, I can feel the weight of what's coming. The arena. The Games.
Caesar looks at me with those ever-present, welcoming eyes, but for a moment, he doesn't speak. He studies me, his gaze lingering longer than I'm comfortable with. My stomach twists, but I do my best to stay composed. I curl up slightly in the seat, hugging my knees to my chest.
Finally, he speaks, his voice smooth and reassuring.
"Hello. You must be Emerald, right? What a beautiful woman to be. How old are you, again?"
I giggle, a nervous sound that feels too loud in the silent room.
"Thirteen, sir."
His eyes widen in surprise. He clears his throat, then continues, his voice gentle.
"Well, you're from District 3, the electricity industry. Your costume at the parade was dazzling! The white, the electricity—Honey did such an excellent job."
I hear Honey's sniffle from the crowd. I smile to myself, touched by her tears.
"Yes, she certainly did. My favorite part was the colors. It was all sorts of colors! I love colors!" I say, my voice betraying a childish excitement.
Caesar smiles warmly. "Of course you do, dear. So, tell me, what's it like? Being in the Capitol, surrounded by people you don't know?"
I pause, searching for the right words. I shake my head slowly, unsure of how to explain the suffocating noise, the overwhelming presence of so many strangers.
"It's terrifying," I say quietly, my hands trembling slightly as I cover my ears. "All these people. All the noise. It hurts my ears."
"Oh, I do apologize," Caesar says quickly. "The Capitol is very loud sometimes. We didn't mean to upset you, now did we?" He turns to the crowd.
The crowd erupts in a chorus of "aww's" and "poor thing's." My face twists in pain, the cacophony of voices hitting me like a wall. I press my hands harder to my ears, trying to block out the sound. Caesar notices and immediately signals for the crowd to quiet down.
"Sorry," he says, his voice gentle now. "The crowd can get a little loud when trying to comfort a tribute."
I take a deep breath and remove my hands from my ears, flattening them against my head.
"No, no, it's okay," I assure him, my voice a little shaky. "I completely understand. I would too, if I were in their position."
Caesar nods, smiling again. This is it. My moment.
I stand up slowly, making my way toward him. Caesar looks at me, confusion flickering across his face, but before he can react, I wrap my arms around him in a tight hug.
The crowd goes wild. They cheer and scream, caught up in the spectacle of it. I can feel Caesar hesitate for a moment before his arms encircle me, patting my back reassuringly. The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of my interview. I pull away reluctantly, flashing Caesar a quick smile before returning to my seat.
The rest of the tributes go, and I can't focus. The noise of the Capitol, the glimmering lights, the pressure of the whole event, it all fades into a blur.
When it's finally over, Honey is there to guide me back to the elevator. I rush inside, pressing the button for my floor with trembling hands. The doors close behind me, and I ascend in silence, the weight of the moment pressing down on my chest.
Once I reach my floor, I practically leap out of the elevator, rushing to my room. I slam the door shut and lock it behind me, then collapse onto my bed.
Tomorrow… tomorrow, I'll be in the arena. The thought is suffocating. I need to sleep. But I can't.
I lie in bed, wide awake, my mind racing with questions, with fears. Will I survive? Or will I become just another face in the crowd, another tribute whose name fades away in the bloodied chaos of the Games?
I close my eyes, but sleep doesn't come. Not tonight.