The Capitol is a place of spectacle. A place of glitter and violence, where the only thing that matters is the performance. The games. The show. The spectacle. And I'm about to be a part of it again.

I stand in front of the mirror, trying not to think of who I really am. Mira Voltaire is who I'm meant to be now. I've erased everything from my old life. Everything that the Capitol once knew of me. Everything that has to stay hidden.

But I can't hide the way I feel when I look at the reflection staring back at me.

I'm not Emerald anymore. But deep down, I can't forget what I did. And I can't forget Xander.

"Emerald!"

Mireille's voice is sharp, tinged with something I can't quite name. She's standing next to me, holding a shimmering garment in her hands, her sharp eyes scanning my face. Soren is standing by the window, adjusting his hair, his usual calm demeanor now replaced by an almost imperceptible tension.

They know. They know I'm Emerald. They know the girl who killed, who survived, is still here in some form. But they don't say it. Not aloud. They don't need to.

Mireille pulls me into a tight hug, squeezing the life out of me. "I've missed you," she says, her voice full of quiet affection, but there's something else there—something unspoken. She knows the truth of who I am, and yet, she still holds me as if she can't let go of the past.

Soren follows suit, leaning in for a soft kiss on my cheek, his usual reserved nature breaking down. "You've changed, Emerald," he says, and his voice is filled with a certain sorrow. He's not mourning the girl I once was. He's mourning the girl who was taken from us, the girl who had to kill. The girl who survived.

But I don't let them see my discomfort. I stay still, feeling the warmth of their affection, even as it stings. This is the world they know. This is the world I was supposed to stay in. The world of the Capitol.

I pull away from them gently, offering a weak smile. "Let's just get this over with."

The chariot ride through the City Circle is everything I've always hated. The cheers. The lights. The garishness of it all. The Capitol's need to remind us that we are their creations, their victors, their slaves to the Games.

But I have to do this. I have to play my part. And Honey's custom dress will make sure of it.

She's outdone herself. The gown is sleek, silvery-blue, with elements of electricity woven into the fabric. Cables, wires, and delicate coils of light shimmer across the fabric, sparking with every step I take. The colors change with the light, shifting from pale blue to electric yellow and back again, an homage to District 3's work in technology and innovation. It's beautiful, but I don't feel beautiful.

I feel like a puppet.

The crowd roars as my chariot rolls forward, my face a mask of cool detachment, even as the waves of emotions crash over me. They think they know me. But they don't. They think I'm their Emerald, the perfect victor, the girl they can manipulate, the girl they control.

But I'm not her.

I'm Mira Voltaire, and I won't play by their rules.

As we make our way to the grand balcony, I spot her.

Katniss Everdeen.

She's standing at the front of her chariot, her face glowing with a kind of warmth I never expected to see. She smiles brightly, blowing kisses to the Capitol crowd, her hand outstretched as if to offer them something they can never truly have—love, hope, something real. She's not standing there in defiance, but in joy, as if she's finally made peace with something, maybe even with herself.

And then, like a spark igniting dry wood, the flames erupt. Her costume catches fire, setting the Capitol ablaze in the brilliance of her radiance. But she doesn't flinch. She stands there, unafraid, her eyes fierce yet full of some kind of quiet understanding as she waves and blows kisses to the crowd, the fire dancing around her.

My heart stops in my chest, my breath catching in my throat. There's something about her. Something wild, untamed. Something that feels like… home. For the first time in so long, I feel something stir inside me. I'm not sure what it is yet—admiration? Anger? Hunger?

But I know one thing for certain: I need to understand her.

Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire. The girl who burns brighter than anyone in this glittering hell. She has something I've lost. Something the Capitol can't control.

I turn my eyes away from her and glance over at President Snow, who's watching the parade from the balcony. His cold, calculating gaze is fixed on us. His eyes lock with mine, and I glare at him, my lips curling into a sneer.

He doesn't know me. Not anymore.

And he won't control me.

The chariots slow as we reach the grand platform where we'll be presented. I step out and look over the Capitol, the endless expanse of garish lights, flashing billboards, and the people cheering for their next round of death. It makes me sick.

As I step into the waiting car, I glance out the window. I watch Katniss again, her fire still burning brightly. I want to know her story. I want to understand what drives her, what makes her so untouched by this world of false glory.

The car pulls forward, and I'm transported to the Training Center. The place where I was once prepped for my first round in the arena. It's a strange feeling, stepping back into this place. The cold, sterile rooms. The endless halls.

And then, I'm led to the very room I stayed in during the 71st Hunger Games. My room. The one place that feels like the most stable part of this sickening process.

I stand in the doorway for a moment, just looking at the space—the bed, the window, the desk where I sat for hours thinking about everything I couldn't change. The walls feel like they've absorbed all my anger, my pain, and my frustration.

I sit down on the bed, my back to the window. I need to center myself. This is it. The Games are coming, and I'll play them again. Not as the girl they think I am. But as someone new.

I'm no longer Emerald.

I'm Mira Voltaire, and this time, I won't just survive. I will make them burn.