I didn't spend much time on goodbyes. To me, that part was utterly meaningless—there was no one I cared about in this so-called hometown. After my mother died, I could no longer afford the rent for the bookstore attic, and knowing full well that sinking into the slums was tantamount to death, I enrolled at the training center to become a provisional Career tribute. Of course, I never wanted to participate in the Hunger Games; it was just that the training center provided food and shelter. If one could endure the daily, brutal training and merciless sparring, the standard of living wasn't too bad. But after a few months, my father, who finally felt that the shame of the past had been consigned to the grave and buried with my mother, took me in, locked me away in an unsettlingly luxurious room, and demand that I learn proper dining and conversation manners—as if his own daughter were some uncivilized foundling plucked from the forest. I couldn't be bothered to explain that my mother had, according to Capitol standards, given me a complete basic education, nor did I want to waste words persuading him to let me stay at the training center. And so, I resigned myself to having a father, a half-brother, and a half-sister, becoming Juniper Jade Beaumont—even though, before all this, I didn't even have a surname.

My mother never told me her name. Of course, she was an Avox—laden with sin and silenced—yet that didn't mean she didn't deserve a proper title. But she never cared how others addressed her. She never revealed her name, not even willing to give me her surname. She named me Juniper Jade—a name as translucent and beautiful as it was resilient as pine and as pure as jade. I loved that name; it constantly reminded me how precious I was and how deeply she loved me. But she left the final part of my name blank, and I was powerless to stop "Beaumont" from being affixed—a stain upon the otherwise melodious syllables.

My father and brother naturally didn't bother saying goodbye. This makeshift holding room for tributes was no grander than the Beaumont's bathroom. I idly toyed with the velvet cushion beneath me, imagining scenes from the other side—friends and relatives of Caspian Reef bidding farewell to their loved one. I pictured embraces, parting words, and tears staining garments—luxuries that felt as distant and unreal to me as a forgotten dream.

Then, the door to the room opened. I lifted my eyes, and upon recognizing the newcomer, couldn't help but feel a twinge of shock.

A girl dressed in an exquisitely tailored, goose-yellow gown, her brown braids neatly done, stood in the doorway. Her skin was slightly darker than mine, yet clearly much fairer than those who spent their days fishing by the sea—like Finnick Odair and Caspian Reef. This was my half-sister, Marella Beaumont. She leaned against the doorframe with an expression of awkward indecision, as if, in hesitating to step into the room, she had already begun to regret opening the door three seconds ago.

I felt no affection for this sister. In truth, when I was twelve, old Everett recognized me largely thanking to his doting little daughter. Everett needed a daughter to enter into a commercial marriage, and Marella was unwilling to marry the son of his business partner. That was entirely understandable, for that boy was a complete imbecile. Equally understandable was their decision to let me replace the "merchandise" daughter—I was a free-for-all Beaumont, a bastard even, but bearing this surname was touted as a token of sincerity. It was, after all, a very profitable arrangement. I became my sister's scapegoat and shield. Unfortunately, she was about to lose that cheap substitute, and I couldn't help but wonder if that was her real aim—perhaps to offer me some advantage, so that I might try a little harder not to die, and then return to serve them in that damned marital arrangement?

Yet compared to Everett or my brother Kyle, Marella's presence evoked far less revulsion or nausea—perhaps because her demeanor was so wistful. A fragile little creature steeped in self-pity hardly seemed dangerous. Thus, although her appearance wasn't exactly a welcome surprise, I could feel the tension on my face easing—a signal, perhaps, as Marella hesitantly stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

I watched my sister with unhurried interest, curious as to what she had come to say. She stood three feet away from me, neither extending her hand nor seeming inclined to sit beside me.

"Juniper Jade," she said—she had never addressed me as "sister", but always in that formal, measured tone, as if reciting the full name of a street or a shop—"if you win, do not come back."

My eyes widened. The words were cold and detached, like a declaration of severed ties following a cataclysmic family quarrel, but I understood what she meant. I was merely an unmarried girl to get packaged by my father for commercial gain; and if I were to become a victor? Old Everett would seize every ounce of my utility, draining every drop of my blood, just as he squeezed the life out of his countless fishermen and laborers.

"And if I don't come back, then it will be you to marry Tidewell," I replied with a half-smile.

"That has nothing to do with you," Marella retorted. I could see her striving to appear cold and indifferent, yet being younger than me, her attempt only made her seem like a child caught sneaking candy and lying about it.

I was surprised at the almost tender affection I suddenly felt for this unfamiliar sister. I casually reached out to brush her braids. It was the first time in four years that we shared any gesture of intimacy. Marella froze like a startled creature. I smiled at her and said, "I won't win anyway."

She furrowed her brow, but said nothing more to offer hollow encouragement. No—mutual support was never the way with my so-called blood kin. I stepped back and returned to the sofa, waiting for her to leave on her own. And indeed, she did nothing more—no hugs, no parting admonitions, and certainly no tears. Yet as she reached the door, Marella suddenly turned back and whispered, "But you're so good at it—no matter what they do to you, you always survive."

By the time I boarded that outrageously luxurious train bound for the Capitol, the echo of my sister's last words still resonated in my mind. I couldn't tell what had led her to that conclusion, nor whether her remark was meant as praise or insult. That the very last thing my sister said to me before I faced death was an acknowledgment of my cockroach-like, stubborn tenacity struck me as oddly humorous—and so, without a care, I laughed aloud.

"A good mindset is the best thing," came a refined, magnetic voice from the corridor, "It's a pleasure to see that none of you have panicked or wept in secret."

I followed the sound and saw Finnick Odair standing before me. The real Finnick—not the flat image on the screen. He had shed the embroidered, turned-collar white shirt he wore during the drawing ceremony and replaced it with a deep-green vest that revealed the graceful contours of his arms. I had never seen the fabric of this garment before; it looked smoother than the satin clothes from the Beaumont household, almost glowing with a fluid, metallic sheen. This color served to further deepen and quiet the look in his eyes, though from this distance I still couldn't make out the patterns in his irises. That touch of green nestled perfectly among his long, delicate golden lashes, like a fine turquoise reflecting the moonlight on a calm, windless night. He was holding two steaming mugs in his hands, and his face bore no trace of the playful or frivolous attitude one might expect in front of a camera. He smiled at us with gentle, exquisite warmth, clearly trying to project an aura of reliability to earn our trust and dependence—after all, this was his first year as a mentor after winning the Games, and he was only seventeen.

I longed to confess that my calm stemmed from having accepted and made peace with the inevitability of my own death, but I didn't want to disappoint him. Fortunately, Caspian was a confident, cheerful Career tribute—perhaps possessing the ability and odds to ensure that our young mentor's inaugural experience would be as brilliant as the rest of his life. So I bit my tongue, presenting my customary demure and obedient demeanor, and waited for my district mate to speak first.

"You could say I'm pretty confident," Caspian said with a lopsided grin. His shoulder-length black hair brushed against my shoulder, and his face wore an air of nonchalance. This cocky defiance in the face of death seemed both optimistic and foolish. I looked at him and, without any apparent reason, recalled a childhood memory of feeding a large dog with my mother behind the bookstore. "Alexander and the others are still waiting for my signal—but I suppose it's unnecessary. Since my name was drawn, fate must have decreed it so."

Alexander was no doubt this year's volunteer reserve chosen at the training center. District Four—like Districts One and Two—served as a breeding ground for Career tributes. In order to maximize the odds of winning the Hunger Games and to avoid unnecessary casualties from selecting untrained or overly young candidates, the training center typically picks the two best-performing students as volunteer reserves. If a non-Career tribute or someone with abysmal performance—deemed incapable of self-preservation—was drawn from the glass ball, the volunteer reserve would replace them. Of course, when a strong Career tribute like Caspian is drawn, the choice is theirs—if they're confident, they naturally opt to participate; otherwise, in special circumstances, they signal for a volunteer reserve. That signal changes each year—usually a subtle gesture, such as a pressed lip or a blink, clearly captured on the big screen without appearing suspicious. And as for me—I still snuck off to the training center after being taken in by the Beaumont, partly to catch glimpses of Finnick, and partly because I'd long realized I needed to prepare for a day like this. I wasn't an official Career tribute, but I wasn't entirely helpless either; and given my background, no one would willingly risk their life for me—I had only myself to rely on.

"You do seem to have a very good chance," I said softly.

Caspian suddenly went rigid, as if sensing he'd misspoken. "No… not at all," he hurriedly stammered, as though afraid that I might suddenly scream or cry, "you have just as good a chance to win, Juniper. Don't worry."

I smiled at him. The familiarity with which he called my name suggested he knew me, and he bore no hostility. I felt no aversion toward him—in fact, I found him rather likable. He struck me as the kind of confident, quick-witted yet straightforward person; of course, a Career tribute who is unafraid of a lethal competition can hardly be considered entirely innocent, but there was something almost endearingly fuzzy about him that made me believe he wouldn't turn his weapons on me too soon.

Finnick then handed each of us a mug and sat down on the sofa opposite us. "Alright, we have only one week to prepare. In truth, the Games began the moment your names were drawn. There's a lot to do next—opening ceremonies, training, evaluations, interviews. Don't overlook any opportunity to interact with the other tributes, and never miss a chance to face the cameras." Noticing that Caspian's expression was gradually growing more solemn, Finnick added in an assuring tone, "But don't worry too much. Mags and I are here to help you every step of the way, to see you safely out of the arena."

"Will Mrs. Flanagan be guiding us as well?" I asked quietly. Mags Flanagan was the oldest living victor of District Four, and the mentor to Finnick during his own Hunger Games campaign. She was a diminutive, white-haired woman who exuded kindness and reliability, though she always carried an aura of sorrow—forced to witness the deaths of countless children under her charge for over fifty years, it was like an interminable, drawn-out execution.

"Yes," Finnick replied, "this year we'll devise different strategies for each of you—you'll be mentored separately. Mags will be your mentor, Caspian; and Juniper, you will train with me."

I was very pleased with this decision. Since I was doomed to die soon, I would rather spend my final week alone with Finnick. Caspian, too, appeared relieved. I could imagine he wasn't too keen on entrusting his fate to an inexperienced mentor—especially one known as a notorious playboy who was his own age. Both of these seventeen-year-old boys exuded a distinct alpha quality, and clearly, like repels like.

"Alright," Caspian said, his tone growing a bit too eager, "where is Mags?"

I said nothing further, instead cradling my mug and sipping. Inside was the smoothest, richest liquid my lips had ever encountered—sweet, thick, and aromatic. I quickly realized it was hot cocoa. This ostentatious beverage was an absolute luxury in District Four; despite being the daughter of one of District Four's richest, I had only ever tasted rough, grainy hot cocoa. Yet this cup from the Capitol was like melted satin.

"She isn't well enough to travel back and forth, so she's waiting for us in the Capitol," Finnick explained. Even if Caspian's inadvertent hint of contempt had offended him, Finnick showed no sign of it. "District Four isn't far from the Capitol—we'll be there tonight."

"I really wish we'd never get there," I murmured.

Through the snowy white vapor swirling above the hot cocoa, I saw both Finnick and Caspian turn to look at me. On Caspian's sculpted face, a clear expression of pity shone, while Finnick—perhaps it was my imagination—revealed for a fleeting moment a deep, intense sorrow in those beautiful eyes I had chased and redrawn in my mind countless times.

I thought I shouldn't have said that; I hadn't meant to plunge the pre-battle atmosphere so low, nor, after learning that Finnick would be my sole mentor this year, should I let him easily detect my morbid resolve. But I can't win—no matter how much I might wish otherwise. His efforts to keep me alive were doomed from the start, and the thought only deepened my sense of cold detachment.

So I made my escape. "I'm sorry, I think I need to go back and rest for a while," I said apologetically to the boys, smiling as I stood and returned to my compartment. The entire cup of hot cocoa I had just swallowed suddenly churned in my stomach, and I collapsed onto the sumptuous sheets—the physical discomfort making me feel as though I were detaching from my body, my thoughts drifting far away.

Every day of my childhood was a miniature survival game. It wasn't fatal, but to me it was cruel enough. During the days I spent with my mother in the bookstore, enduring hunger and cold was our daily norm. Yet those hardships were bearable because we had plenty of books; reading could fill our empty bellies with riches. But the moment I stepped out of the bookstore, that picturesque seaside town became my execution ground. No one ever addressed me by my name—some called me "Ghostskin," while others were more blunt called me "Bastard". My textbooks would often vanish from my school bag, my desks would be smeared with vivid curses, and I could never let my guard down on the streets nor rest on the stone benches in the small square—because you never knew when a hand would emerge from the shadows to shove you into a sewer, or when you'd wake to find your braids trimmed flush with your scalp. No matter how well I was wrapped, my skin was still exposed; I was half a Capitol criminal, half a Beaumont, and so every day I was forced to shame parade through the streets.

Of course, over time one grows numb. But that day was different. It was when I was twelve—a week after my mother had just drawn her last breath in bed—I could hardly return home. I dreaded that room with its antiseptic odor, the sheets steeped in bile and sweat, the emptiness of a cold night without a light. Moreover, I had no money for rent; in two days I would be thrown out, discarded onto the street like a pile of unwanted secondhand books. The immense pain and despair made me feel no longer like myself. I gazed into the mirror and saw, hidden amid my tangled black hair, something akin to a wild beast.

They herded me once again onto the rooftop of that abandoned building. Ten years ago, that building had been a shipyard under my biological father's employ; they said that because the machines were never maintained, so many people had died in the workshop that at night vengeful spirits would wander its halls. I wasn't afraid of ghosts—I feared instead the ghostly children of those wronged souls who now gathered before me. They moved in packs like wolves, their eyes gleaming with hatred and the thrill of the hunt, while I, the daughter of a criminal—a limping deer driven to the brink—was the perfect prey.

My lower back pressed against the metal sign on the rooftop. I leaned against the letter "u" in "Beaumont", its raised ends prodding my shoulder blades like a pillar, barely keeping me upright. I knew what was coming next—insults, or beatings, then my school bag would be hurled off the roof, with torn pages scattering in the moonlight—a tribute for the souls who had perished under Beaumont's oppression. I was too familiar with such tributes; today was, of course, neither the first nor the last.

And then, I suddenly realized—I was tired.

I fixed my gaze on the lead bully—a boy named Tony, or perhaps Toby—with a sturdy build and an ox-like face. I contemplated, as he charged toward me, the possibility of latching onto his short, stocky neck and falling from the rooftop together. I was utterly alone in this world now; living in isolation was too hard, too painful—and perhaps death would be a welcome release. And Toby, of course, had no idea that I had nothing left—no home, no mother. He shouldn't mess with me; those who have nothing are the most dangerous, the most lethal.

Toby's thighs tensed and barreled toward me like a truck. Yet before he could touch a single hair on my head, a shadow suddenly darted in from the night. Toby's cheek took a harsh punch, and with a tremendous crash, his entire body crumpled to the ground.

That figure stood before me—lean, tall, with broad shoulders. With his back turned to me, he interposed himself between me, the metal sign supporting me, and the predatory pack of bullies.

"Beat it," he rasped, "Is that all you've got? Band together to bully a girl? If you want to taste my fist, you're more than welcome to try."

Clearly, he wasn't prey—he was a predator of a higher order. My tormentors scattered like frightened birds, and the boy who had saved me turned around. I beheld the most beautiful face I had ever seen. He shone like a rising sun, forcefully emerging on that bitter, starless, moonless night—or rather, descending upon me. I felt tears well up in my eyes, not from sorrow or grievance, but because his dazzling brilliance had seared me.

"Ah—don't cry," thirteen-year-old Finnick Odair said awkwardly as he brushed my long hair aside, "Did they hit you—?"

……

"…Don't cry, Juniper. Are you feeling unwell?"

In a daze, I sensed someone steadying my shoulder. The face of thirteen-year-old Finnick Odair merged with that of the seventeen-year-old I knew. My mind remained foggy, my vision unfocused—I couldn't tell where I was: was it that abandoned rooftop from four years ago, or my bedroom in the Beaumont house?

Then I saw his face clearly. He was my mentor—the youngest victor of the 65th Hunger Games, District Four's pride, the darling of the masses, and the lover of countless Capitol women. My sun had become the sun for the whole world, and at last I could reach out to touch that fleeting radiance, even if only in my final moments.

It wasn't fair. I managed a bitter smile as a salty liquid slipped into my lips. In the face of unendurable despair and resignation, I was overwhelmed by an irresistible, strange impulse. I reached out, cupped his chin, and, disregarding all reason, kissed him fiercely. Finnick's arms, which had been embracing my shoulders, stiffened. He neither moved nor pushed me away, nor did he return the kiss. My senses were so numbed that I couldn't even discern the feel of his lips. Within seconds, my body, taut with tension, finally gave out. I abruptly wrenched free from his arms, collapsed onto the edge of the bed, and vomited violently onto the floor.

-tbc-