NOW

ALECTO REMEMBERED THE FIRST DRESS she'd ever been put in by her stylist. It'd only been two years ago, and yet, Alecto could feel the uncomfortable phantom prickle of satin on her skin.

Back then, she'd been softer, her face more rounded with youth, flushed with promise. When she'd first stepped into it, Alecto hadn't known what to expect. It was a short, baby blue number that matched her eyes, with puffed sleeves and a white apron-like detail stitched to the front, tied at the back in a white bow. Her buttery hair had been swept and sprayed into a neat, flaxen waterfall of curls cascading over her back, secured away from her face by a black headband—like a long taffy pull, so pretty, one of her prep team had giggled. They'd slathered and massaged some kind of product into her locks that made them springy and glossy. Even now, Alecto could still smell the heady scent of lavender lingering in memory. She remembered her shoes—the first pair of heels she'd ever worn—a pair of shiny, black platform Mary Janes that pinched her feet at the front and bit into her Achilles heel.

After that one night, she never wore them again. She'd felt like a doll, buffed and shined and stuffed into clothes that weren't hers. They loved her innocence, her vicious naiveté, her child-like eagerness to get into the arena and see what horrors she was capable of. They were frightened by her, yet endeared. They called her the Nation's Sweetheart Doll, a term coined by Caesar during that first interview.

The girl in the mirror did not look like a doll.

In the mirror stood some caricature of a creature forged from iron and blood. This time, her dress was red. Blood red. The sleeves were thin and sheer, a sparkling vermillion with an uneven cuff that looked as though she had blood dripping down her wrists. The crimson corset body was sleek and fitted snugly around her midsection, black lace thorns and roses embroidered around her ribs and over her chest, embellished with little heart details on the cascading tulle of her skirt like crystallised blood, which dripped past her knees and ended in a red pool around her feet. Rose petals had been sewn into the back of her skirt, and one of her prep team had adorned her head with a bright red tiara that glimmered menacingly each time she tilted her head and the rhinestones caught the light.

They'd done something new with her face, too. Made it thinner, her features sharper, made the arctic blue of her eyes stand out more brightly against her face. One of her prep team had massaged red dye into the tips of her hair, and they'd slicked it back with gel so it looked wet, the curls wavy but not too wild. Like she'd dipped the ends of her hair into a pool of blood.

The girl in the mirror did not look like the Nation's Sweetheart Doll.

The girl in the mirror was the Queen of Hearts, the girl who'd ripped her own district partner's heart right out of his chest with her bare hands.

Alecto blinked.

In the mirror, she saw a flash of teeth. Standing next to her, Nikolai, a wicked grin on his devastatingly handsome face, his eyes meeting hers in the reflection. Blood poured from a gaping wound in his chest, running in rivers of red down his chest, staining the train of her dress. A live heart in the left hand of her reflection, still pumping, still beating, all ventricles and veins, oozing blood and carnage. And there it was, that flash of memory, of ripping his heart from his chest, the blood spraying from the wound, drenching her face, painting the white roses around them red.

All the breath was crushed from her lungs. All she heard was the slow beat of her racing heart and the estranged ringing in her head drowning out all the pounding silence in the dressing room.

Nikolai winked.

Alecto flinched.

When she looked back at the mirror once more, Nikolai was gone. And so was all the blood. But the walls scintillated with red light reflecting off the gemstones on her dress like blood splatter. Alecto breathed out a controlled exhale, ignoring how constricted her chest had become, as if an invisible hand had clamped over her torso and kept squeezing until it could wring every drop of air from her lungs.

Held captive by the burn of her own glacial stare searing into her skin, Alecto flexed her fingers, bunching her skirt up in her fists in a mimicry of choking the life out of someone. Pain staked through her palm as the gemstones on her skirt dug into her flesh, but Alecto only gripped on tighter until the agony faded and gave way into a startling numbness. Until the noise in her head subsided.

Just then, the curtains to her dressing room burst open, and Janus, her stylist, hurried in, bearing a black box in his hands. "Sorry for the wait. I thought I had your shoes, turns out they were in Rhea's bag. Have a look!"

He lifted off the lid and let her peer into the box. Nestled in a pillow of soft white rice paper was a pair of ruby red heels, red as a bleeding heart.

Alecto ran a finger over the glossy shell of the heel. She cocked a brow. They were really going for the theme this year, she thought, retracting her hand and letting Janus fish the pair of shoes out of the box. Janus grinned, and, with a flourishing bow, presented them to her.

"Maybe this time you'll shock them all."

* * *

YESTERDAY

ONE BY ONE, on the third day, the tributes were pulled out of group training for private sessions with the Gamemakers. This was procedure, Alecto was no stranger to the process, and so, she'd gone when she'd been called away from the knife-throwing station. The male tributes went first—Alecto wasn't sure what her father had done to show off his skills to the Gamemakers, but when she'd entered, she noticed an Avox sweeping up pieces of an obliterated training dummy and hauling the debris away. When the doors shut behind her, Alecto felt her body hum with a familiar energy. The Gamemakers stood, gathered at the edge of their raised platform to watch. All eyes were on her.

Heartbeat thudding in her ears, Alecto shut her eyes, let out a steady exhale.

What could she show them that they already didn't know? All her cards were on the table. All her tricks were exposed. Though it'd only been two years prior, the last private session felt millions of years away. She'd never thought she'd make it to this point. What shocked the world? Her sword, drenched in her district partner's blood as she sliced his chest open, her hands, warm and slicked in crimson, her nails dislodging pulpy tissue as she dug a clawed hand into his chest, steam rising from the wound, Nikolai, choking on his own dying breath as her fingers closed around his beating heart before she'd ripped it out and held it above her head for all to see. Could the hands of a girl do this?

She'd done it once. She'd shocked the world. She could do it again.

When her eyes snapped open, the world fell silent.

As if by basic instinct, Alecto found the hilt of a sword in her hands the way a phantom itch found the ruinous tissue of a scar, its familiar weight humming with promise in her palms. On their perch, the council of Gamemakers eyed her with the keenness of vultures—what horrors would the Queen of Hearts show them tonight? She's shocked them before, what else could she possibly offer?

I'll show you, Alecto thought. I'll show you all.

In her mind's eye, she could swear the dark shape of Nikolai stood in the corner of the room where the practice dummies were situated, his face taunting her from the bullseye. Just like the old times, he mouthed, a devilish glimmer in his eyes.

Alecto locked eyes with the first target. When she blinked, she saw Nikolai standing in its place.

Something inside her brain disconnected.

And the rest of it was a blur.

Before their Games, back when they were both candidates vying for the top spots at the academy, Nikolai used to stay late, even after everyone had gone home for the day, their muscles aching and their bones screaming, he'd stayed behind to continue running his own training, sharpening his skills and honing focus. That first time she realised what set him apart from the other guys at the academy, his hunger, his perpetual desire to be better, faster, stronger, Alecto had hidden in the girl's changing rooms until everyone else, too, had left. Just to see. Once Nikolai had bid goodbye to the custodian whom he bribed time and time again to let him close up, Alecto snuck out of the girl's changing rooms and ducked out of sight as Nikolai perused the swords, close enough to the main training simulation floor but not close enough that Nikolai might suspect her presence. And it'd just been the two of them, alone in the ether, it felt like.

For about ten minutes, she'd watched from the shadows of the knife-throwing station. Each time he landed a deathblow, the lights on the training floor flashed red, bathing the walls of the facility like blood splatter. A perpetual motion machine, he swung with vicious, surgical precision at a battery of training dummies, severing the vitals, a vision in the red lights as he cut down imaginary opponents.

In that moment, Alecto hadn't once felt the boiling resentment usually invoked in her at the sight of him. In that moment, all she knew was the admiration of his focus, of his craft. He deserved to be the best, she realised then, struck by the intensity of his expression, because he'd wanted it more than anyone else. And she, too, knew then, what she had to do to get there.

When the lights faded, and the walls were drained back to their usual off-white, Nikolai stood at the epicentre of his carnage, chest heaving, breathing hard. Without turning around, he spoke, his voice eerily calm. "Are you not entertained?"

In the breath of that moment, Alecto had forgotten that she was meant to remain unseen, and had found herself drifted away from her hiding spot and standing at the base of the raised platform. Had forgotten that she'd hated him so much her gut burned with the thought of him every day since she'd met him, since he'd thrown her to the ground that first day of sparring and spat in her face. In the breath of that moment, Alecto looked up into Nikolai's piercing stare and said, "spar with me."

"You? You're second rate at best. No, you're not worth my time." She'd expected him to scoff, turning away from her once more the way he's always done, shunned, if not to torment. There has always been a knife in his hands each time they'd come face-to-face, and the blood had always been hers. Why couldn't she hurt him? Alecto wondered every day. Why was it that she hadn't learnt how not to invite the knife after this much time spent getting sliced to pieces? With her request, she might as well have opened herself up, stuck her hands into the gash and pulled out her insides as an offering to him like some kind of minor god? Granted, if anything, Alecto hadn't quite understood power dynamics. Perhaps that was always her downfall. She was her father, through and through, carved from bitter work and hard-headedness. She could never tell when someone was toying with her, when the mental warfare had begun and if she'd been put on strings, to be made puppet.

There was only one sort of game she was interested in playing.

Much to her surprise, Nikolai had only taken one long look at her, his eyes devoid of that wicked gleam when he knew someone else was watching and he wanted to humiliate her. He cocked his head, unsmiling, expression tinged with amusement—not in the way that insinuated malice, but a genuine interest in seeing what she might do.

"Fine," Nikolai said, loftily, offering her a hand up. "But you better not have come here to kill me. Or else you'd be stuck with Will as your district partner, and he's not as much fun as I am."

Alecto narrowed her eyes at him, eyeing him with undisguised mistrust. Nikolai only rolled his eyes, and shot her a charming smile, one that said, Please, darling? Nikolai might've had everyone wrapped around his finger, but behind that handsome face was all rot and venom, snakes and thorns. Knowing better than to fall for his false chivalry, she didn't take his hand, and, instead, levered herself up onto the platform. "District partner? But they chose you and Diane—"

"And you're just going to roll over and accept that you're not good enough?" Nikolai smirked, setting his sword aside and, instead, unsheathing two knives from his utility belt. One of the knives, he flipped over, blade-side pointing towards him as he offered it to her. Alecto blinked at the gesture. Nikolai arched a brow and pushed the hilt against her sternum until she took it, but didn't let go of the blade. He tugged the blade towards him, subsequently shortening the distance between them. Alecto stifled a gasp, irritation flickering beneath her skin, but Nikolai only grinned. "No, I don't want to play the game with Diane. I'd rather you come with me."

"So you can have the pleasure of cutting me open live on national television?" Alecto snarled, boiling rage a rising tide in her chest. She glowered into Nikolai's intent stare, refusing to let go of the hilt. Refusing to be the first to back down.

"You think so little of yourself, Alec." Nikolai's cold eyes flickered over her face, down to the resentful curl of her lips, and then back up to meet her searing glare. He smiled, all spark.

"Don't call me that," Alecto hissed, her voice ragged, heart slamming against her chest so violently she feared he'd hear. Disgust clawed its way up her throat, her voice acidic, "I'll cut your heart out."

Nikolai only hummed and let go of the blade.

Without warning, he dropped into a crouch and slammed an arcing kick to her ankles that swept her legs right out from under her. In a flash, Alecto hit the ground hard on her back, the wind knocked from her lungs. Stars danced in her vision as she blinked up at the ceiling, stunned both from the fall and from Nikolai's deception. He jammed his foot down on her wrist, the sole of his combat boot cutting off all circulation through to her hand, until she was forced to let go of the knife. He knelt down then, his knee digging into her gut. Excruciating pain burst through her body, a white-hot flare that threatened to blind her. A raging roar tore from her throat. Even without an audience, he'd sought to humiliate her. Even without anyone watching, he'd always put the knife through her, as he did now, crouching over her supine form as she gathered her breath back into her body, as she scrambled to recalibrate. Even as she struggled, he bent low, his mouth brushing against her ear.

"You can have my heart," Nikolai had said to her, his voice low, teeth bared in a viper's grin as he hovered over her, the knife in his hand a kiss at her throat, "if you have the stomach to take it."

* * *

WHEN ALECTO'S SCORE FILLED THE SCREEN, the rest of her team erupted into cheers. Everyone except for Iko and her father.

"A nine!" Alastor said, his voice a tittering laugh, like he couldn't contain it within him, clapping his hands together, his beam sickeningly broad. "That's amazing!"

"It's fine," Iko grunted, nodding begrudgingly at Alecto. "Not as shocking as we'd hoped, but it'll do."

Disappointment pinched her gut. Alecto clenched her jaw and glared at the screen. What would it take? Besides shooting an arrow straight at the Gamemakers, the way Katniss had done to score her near-perfect eleven last year, which the Gamemakers had taken precautions against this year to prevent a repeat of that, Alecto couldn't see what else she could do.

Looks like your best is, once again, not enough, a deep, velvet voice drawled at her ear, mockingly. And the heart thing—that's tired. I'd say try a new tactic, but you've got nothing under your sleeve except the fact that your daddy's famous.

Beneath her skin the fire burned. Alecto swallowed, ice slipping down her spine as her chest swelled with anxiety. She didn't dare turn her head, for fear of seeing Nikolai's leering face staring back at her, taunting her. Even dead, he was everywhere. Even dead, he never stopped humiliating her. Embarrassment burned in her gut. What if Nikolai was right? What if all she had was one trick to turn? Everyone could read her now, and she had nothing. Once again, he'd put her on the ground, knife pressed to her throat and everyone was laughing.

"Who cares?" Evander said, his voice drawing Alecto from her fog of panic. He sent Iko a pointed look, quick to come to Alecto's defense. "Nine is still a good score, mind your over-achieving ass, and she doesn't need to prove to everyone what she's capable of. She's already made a name for herself—or did you forget? That, we can milk more publicity from than whatever biased score the Gamemakers plaster over the screens."

Alecto felt her father's stare burning into her side profile, but when she turned to meet his gaze, the picture wasn't right. He wasn't looking at her, not really, but rather focusing on the space between them, his steely eyes distant. She'd half expected him to ask what she'd done. Even if he had, she wouldn't know what to tell him. After she'd swung at that first target, she'd pretty much blacked out for the rest of the private session. Only pieces came back in memory. Bits and pieces. Something had come undone inside her. A fog had descended upon her the moment she'd let the image of Nikolai dissolve in her mind's eye. It was as if her mind had tapped out and her body was in control. She hadn't felt herself moving, hadn't felt time pass, hadn't known how long she'd spent hacking and slashing through the body targets in the room.

By the time the veil had lifted, by the time she'd come back into her body, it was over, and she was left standing in a sea of dismembered targets. Every single one of them had a hole gouged into where a heart should've been anatomically.

A muscle in her father's jaw ticked, and he opened his mouth to say something, but the announcement of his own score—a gleaming ten—seemed to rob the words from his tongue as he snapped to the screen, surprise flickering over his face for a second before he schooled his expression back into one of indecipherable stone.

"Our boy's still got it," Evander said, grinning as he slapped a hand over Atlas' shoulder.

Iko hummed. "Not bad."

As the rest of the scores flicked past the screen, Alecto hardly paid attention. As far as she gathered from the disappointed reactions of the others, no one else had tried as hard to impress the Gamemakers for a respectable score. Not even District Four—although, Mags, the female tribute, was so old one gust of wind might take her out, but the same could be said about Kaye, Evander's grandmother who'd won one of the earlier Hunger Games, and Alecto had seen that old woman swing at pickpockets in the farmers' market with her cane without blinking. Perhaps she shouldn't be so complacent as to completely write off Mags. Still, Alecto didn't bother with most of the other tributes, seeing how she'd already scouted her competition during the previous couple days of training together. When Johanna's headshot showed up on-screen, Alecto shot out of her seat and raced to her room, ignoring the odd looks from the others and Iko calling her name, her heart thundering in her tightening chest the whole way.

Only when she'd slammed the door to her bedroom shut behind her, thrown the lock and pressed her back against the door did she feel her chest loosen. Sliding down to the cool floor, Alecto curled her legs to her chest, and rested her chin atop her knees.

Where had this weakness come from? Why now? Why this—the heart beating out of her chest, the tingling veins, the blood rushing to her face?

Deep down, she knew that this visceral feeling was dangerous. Deep down, Alecto already knew she was in trouble, despite what she'd tried telling herself all this time. As long as she avoided Johanna, ignored their friendship—if that's what one would call it—she could make it a clean kill. But the reality of the situation was beginning to sink in. Whatever Johanna's score was, impressive or not, she didn't want to know. She didn't want to know anything about Johanna. Not when there was a chance that she might be dead by the end of this.

Still, a small part of her couldn't help but see Johanna's face that first day of training, when Johanna had come up to her and Alecto had shoved a brutally cold shoulder in her face. She'd been hurt—Alecto could see it on her face, but didn't understand why. They'd only spoken at parties when the Capitol warranted their presence. They could never keep contact once the train departed. Inter-District communication was illegal, and even if Alecto wanted to, she wouldn't know how to reach Johanna. They knew nothing about each other, other than the fact that they both hated the people of the Capitol with a burning passion. And yet.

There was that party.

That first party, where they'd met for the first time.

When Alecto shut her eyes, all she could smell was the champagne, the memory colouring in the darkness behind her eyelids, all the glittering lights on the chandelier, dripping with diamonds, the colourful guests sweeping by in periphery as the dance floor began to fill, the plumes of feathered headpieces, the towering wigs and the nonsensically shaped dresses. It'd been masquerade-themed, and Alecto had felt her skin itching with the compulsion to rip her red silk dress off. Before they'd figured out that she wasn't going to utter a single word back to them, too many Capitol guests had come up to her, fawning over her victory, asking about the dress, about the designer. None of these answers Alecto could give, and even if she wanted to, she couldn't care less about who had made this dress for her. Not when just a couple months ago, she'd seen a little girl with stick-thin arms and eyes so sunken she looked like a corpse in District Twelve wearing a shift dress stitched from a potato sack whilst she'd stood on stage and let Alastor present her as victor of the 73rd Hunger Games.

She'd been sitting alone for about an hour, her father having left her side to speak with an old sponsor and some other victors who'd been present. Even in the room filled with people who were supposedly celebrating her, Alecto couldn't help but feel like an outsider, the alienation had burrowed so deep into her skin she'd thought about slipping off to the bathroom and hiding out there so people would stop trying to make eye contact with her. There was no bone in her body that wanted to be here, dissected like an animal under a magnifying glass, surrounded by people who had no interest in her if it weren't for the fact that she'd held her district partner's heart in her hands some months ago. She could still feel its warmth in her palms, still-beating even as she'd ripped it from Nikolai's open chest.

And she'd still been thinking about this, even when Johanna had come up to her.

"Why so glum?" Johanna had asked, cocking her head. Though the way she'd said it didn't sound as though she wanted an answer. "This is your party, after all. They're all here for you, little monster."

There could've been a million moments the entire time Johanna had sat with her, talking a blue streak about the guests as if they weren't right there in the same room with her that would've been cause for the feeling pooling in her chest, the way sunlight warmed the floorboards in the golden afternoon, as Johanna talked. But it wasn't even the fact that Johanna had approached her and sat with her, had filled the silence with barbed commentary and snide remarks of the party's guests, just to keep her company, that kept the lingering warmth of the memory seared in her head. Nor was it even the fact that Alecto hadn't known how uncomfortable she'd been sitting by herself, and Johanna had seen that, and lifted the tension from her shoulders, speaking as if they'd known each other since childhood.

It was later, when Alecto had lost sight of her father, put her head down on the table to watch Johanna scorn the other guests, her cornsilk curls splayed over the tablecloth, and Johanna had taken off her shoes and put her feet up on a chair. When Johanna, face flushed with warmth from the endless stream of flutes of champagne she'd been snatching off passing trays carried by Avoxes, had propped her elbow against the edge of the table and rested her cheek against it, so she was eye-level with Alecto, and asked, "what would it take to make you laugh?"

Alecto had blinked at her then, not quite parsing her odd question. All she could think about then was how close Johanna's face was to hers, how no one had come this close before. Not with this much tenderness in the eyes.

"I was just thinking," Johanna had said, dark eyes flicking over Alecto's face with an innocent curiosity. "Sure, you don't speak, but you don't feel—to me, at least—like an empty shell, like you have nothing to say. I think you've got lots. There's something in there, locked deep inside you, and you won't let it out, or can't. But it's there. I know it. You still have a fire in you. Maybe that's why..." Johanna pursed her lips, cutting herself off.

Under the soft lights, the champagne glow, Johanna's beauty was rough, her jawline cut from marble, her almond eyes entrancing, and the crooked bridge of her nose, like it'd been broken a few times and never set right, was almost endearing. The silver glitter lining her eyes made flecks of light dance in the dark of her starry irises. And her red mouth, Alecto felt her face burn each time she felt her gaze gravitate towards it. And there was that puzzling expression on Johanna's face. Just how much of it was the alcohol, and how much of it had been elicited by Alecto?

Alecto pursed her lips, a seed of unease unfurling in her chest, blooming into something she couldn't name. Under the intensity of Johanna's gaze, Alecto couldn't help but avert her eyes. It felt like Johanna could see right down to the middle of her, but not through her, like everyone else. If she didn't look away now, she might've been turned to dust. Johanna brought her hand up to Alecto's cheek. For a moment, Alecto's breath halted. Johanna's cool fingers hovered over her cheekbone, unsure whether she could breach that barrier, to touch her without intent to harm her, to touch her with intent to convey... Alecto didn't know what. Alecto's eyelids fluttered shut as she waited.

But Johanna drew her arm away. And though she hadn't even touched her, Alecto felt the absence of her warmth burning into her skin.

They didn't say anything more after that. But the question always haunted her: what had Johanna wanted to say?

A knock on her door drew Alecto from the memory, like a hand waving through the smoke, dissolving the illusion.

When Alecto opened her eyes, the worked came back to her in jarring angles and harsh lights.

"It's me," her father murmured, from the other side of the door. "You okay, kid? Just knock back if you are, and I'll leave you alone."

Twisting round, Alecto raised her hand to the door, but hesitated as she went to knock. She thought back to the faraway look in his eyes, the question he never got to ask earlier. Letting out a long exhale, Alecto shuffled a couple inches over and opened the door. At the sight of her sitting on the ground, her father's lips twitched into an almost-smile, but didn't comment.

In his hand was a plate, and when he stepped into the room after she nudged the door wider to let him in, closed the door behind him and sunk down to sit beside her, his back to the door, she spotted the pieces of cut-up banana laid in neat rows on a piece of bread, slathered in nut butter, honey glaze glistening over the fruit. Alecto almost laughed. As a child, she'd told him she liked this snack, perhaps once. But after that, he never stopped making it. Each time he went out to the markets, he'd come back with jars of honey and more nut butter than they could eat in a week. And even when she'd grown sick of constantly eating this as a snack, she didn't have the heart to tell him.

And she'd never tell him.

"You hungry?" He asked, quietly, uncertainty tinging his tone. "I brought this just incase."

Alecto nodded, and took the plate silently. Subconsciously, she felt herself leaning into her father, shoulder pressing into his, the way she used to when she was a child. Something solid to lean against. Always steady, never faltering. That was her father.

"I know you and I... we don't talk about this sort of stuff," her father said, pausing to clear his throat, discomfort written over his disgruntled expression, "but I know how upsetting it is, going up against a friend. I don't know how close you and Johanna are, but I just want you to know that it is okay to feel bad about it. No one's going to judge you for this."

Alecto licked a drop of honey off her fingers, ignoring the stone in her stomach. Atlas shook his head at his daughter. He fished a wad of napkins out of his pocket and handed one to her. A gleam of gold on his ring finger caught her eye. At first, Alecto thought nothing of it, until she remembered that her father had left his wedding band—which had been silver int he first place, not gold—at home. Horror struck her gut.

As her father drew his hand away, Alecto set the plate down and caught his hand.

"It was a present," her father said, calmly, "from a friend."

Alecto twisted the band around. No engravings. Nothing to tell her where he'd gotten it from. How long had he been holding onto this? How long was he planning on keeping it a secret from her? Would he have voluntarily told her about it if she hadn't caught sight of it? Or... had he meant for her to see now?

"It's not like that," he grumbled when she cut him an icy glare. "I'm still very much loyal to your mother. I'm not remarrying, don't look at me like that. You want me to tell you what it is or not?"

Alecto blinked, furrowing her brows.

Atlas pulled the ring off his finger and handed it to her to inspect. "Look at the inside of the band."

The metal was cool against her palm. When she peered at the inside, just as her father directed her to, her stomach plummeted. For awhile now, while Katniss' Hunger Games were still being aired, the first stirrings of unsettlement had begun when the mockingjay had become something more than a pretty accessory pinned to her jacket. Even though Alecto never bothered to tune into the rising tide of unrest sweeping over the districts, she'd heard Iko speaking about it with her father in the kitchen, had heard her father shut Iko down constantly when she brought up the subject. Back then, Alecto thought her father simply hadn't wanted Alecto to hear, but now, she knew, he'd been afraid of ears inside of their walls.

And now, for all of his fear, the mockingjay insignia was engraved into the inside of this ring. A ring that he wore, and risked everything just by wearing it. Fear iced her chest. What was he doing? What was this supposed to mean?

"It's an alliance," Atlas said, his voice low. "It means that we've agreed that we won't kill Katniss and Peeta—" at Alecto's horrified look, he raised his hand to stall her— "but it also means that they can't kill us. There are others, too, who have something like this. Not the same thing, obviously, but they'll be watching out sixes, and we'll do the same. So when we get in that arena, don't get all trigger-happy. They'll jump you the moment you even so much as look at the girl wrong."

Alecto's frown deepened.

"The problem is that you don't have one," Atlas continued, slipping the ring back over his finger. "So you'll have to be by my side the whole time, or they'll strike you down, because they don't know what you know. Do you understand? Nod if you understand. You cannot leave me when we're in the arena. I'll look for you if we're starting far away from each other, but do not engage with anyone at that time. You stay away from the action and wait for me to find you. Alecto, do you understand?"

A bitter lump had lodged in her throat as the entire weight of her father's warning sank in. Something was happening that her father was trying to shield her from. Something that, Alecto wondered for a moment, if Iko knew about. What her father was suggesting was impossible. If she was to back off on Katniss and Peeta, then who could come out of this arena alive?

"This is our ticket out of here," Atlas said, tapping a finger to the ring. "The both of us. We've earned a spot on the escape plan."

Relief bloomed in her chest. Until a prickling sense of unease washed over it, poisoning the momentary reprieve. Did Johanna have one? What was the plan? Who else was involved? As much as she didn't trust this plan, as much as her mind conjured up every scenario in which this was all a ploy to catch them off-guard, to bury the knife in their backs, Alecto couldn't help but believe in the conviction behind her father's voice. It would undo everything she'd put into motion. When she'd volunteered in place of Iko, she hadn't known she'd put the noose around her father's neck, too. Now, with this plan, she had a way out. They both did. And that meant that she hadn't killed her own father. Meeting her father's pleading stare, Alecto realised it wasn't conviction in his tone, but desperation. As much of a skeptic as he was, he, too, wanted to believe in this.

Alecto nodded.

"But when it comes down to it, if something happens to me before they can get us out," Atlas said, levelling her with a solemn look, "I need you to take this ring off me, and put it on. Whatever you do, don't lose it. You to protect yourself and secure that seat out of that arena. You hear me?"

* * *

NOW

LATER, after the excruciatingly silent and blissfully short ride up the elevator to their apartment, the victors and their entourage gathered in the living room to watch the recap of the interviews. Alecto hadn't bothered changing out of her dress, and each time she shifted in her seat, each time the sofa dipped beside her, the tulle of her skirts rustled like leaves in the wind. Atlas sat beside Iko on the adjacent sofa, still clad handsomely in his interview attire, a dark suit with silver details—it seemed that neither of them leaned into the trend of flames that the other designers had taken on after being inspired by Katniss and Peeta's running theme of fire in their last Hunger Games. Janus reached for Alecto's hand, and though she didn't reciprocate his grasp, she let him hold her hand.

When the interviews started to air, Alecto watched herself in the seat. She'd never known much about beauty, especially her own, and she'd never been someone who might've been complimented on her looks, but in that chair next to Caesar Flickerman, glowing blood-red in that spotlight, Alecto couldn't recognise herself. Onscreen, she didn't look anything like herself. They'd stripped away the plainness of her face, and pencilled in someone else. Someone vicious, someone who demanded attention. Even back then, that first interview she'd done for her first Hunger Games, they hadn't touched her face much—they'd wanted the crowd to see a young girl, unspoiled. Back then, she'd been painted in the light of the ingenue, the innocent one.

Tonight, she sat in stoic silence, almost regal, and the audience had been arrested in a reverent silence by how much she'd changed—the maturity of her appearance this evening, and the knowledge of what her hands could do. As she'd sat in that seat, looking out into the crowd, she could feel them admiring her transformation. The entire time, she'd let Caesar do the talking. While it was obvious that Caesar has been notified of her condition—that she no longer spoke, as if someone had cut her tongue out—and he'd carried the entertainment on his shoulders, there was a note of unease about her presence.

At some point toward the end of her interview, Caesar had made the joke that she was so good, so ruthless in her games that she must've been made an Avox to punish her for her raw talent. Alecto had been amusedly that. She didn't know whether it was the sudden volume of attention she was receiving now, or the fact that she wasn't herself tonight, that she'd been painted into someone else, but instead of ignoring Caesar's comment, she'd stuck her tongue out. Just to show everyone that, no, she was not an Avox, and she was not punished. She had only been rewarded.

The crowd had gasped then, and Caesar had erupted into roaring laughter.

And then she'd been ushered off the stage and it was her father's turn. While Alecto had only let Caesar take her hand and guide her to the seat, Atlas met Caesar with a polite smile and shook his hand, querying about his health. Throughout his interview, her father had spoken diplomatically, a man of humble origin. A man who did not boast nor kept himself overtly modest. He was polite and charming and still, even under Caesar's prying questions, attempting to crack the cool mask, even with the questions about Alecto, about having to come to terms with Alecto's death or his own, he'd walked off-stage having revealed nothing about himself. Iko had nodded at him, satisfied with his performance.

As Johanna's interview went on, Alecto found herself having to mask her grin as she watched Johanna scream at the crowd, swearing viciously at the camera, Caesar sitting beside her with pure panic etched on his face. At the end, before the cameras were forced to cut, that last scene—that last glimpse—of the victors linking hands in solidarity sparked something in Alecto. Something glistering and dangerous.

That night, at dinner, they did not speak of the last part of the tribute interviews. They talked game strategy. They talked about the Gloss and Cashmere. They didn't speak of the misgivings, and no one brought up any escape plans. Atlas and Alecto shared a conspiratorial glance, and for the first time since they'd left District Two, Alecto felt the barrier between herself and her father lowering, dissolving.

When the food had been cleared off their plates, Evander tapped a knife against his glass of wine.

"Tonight is the last night we'll all be together," Evander said, pinning Atlas and Alecto with a meaningful look, a smile curving his lips. As he turned to meet Iko's mirthful stare, Evander winked. Iko rolled her eyes. Alecto didn't know if either of them knew about the plan, since neither had approached her about it, but from this sliver of an interaction, and the faltering conviction in Evander's tone, she had to guess that they might. Still, as Evander swept Alecto and her father with a heavy glance, there was no humour in his solemn tone. "The world will be expecting the best and more from the both of you. I would say that everyone back home is counting on one of you to bring home the crown and the other to die with honour, but that doesn't matter. I will say that, should you survive, I hope for a safe return home. Should you not, I hope for mercy."

When he raised his glass, they lifted theirs in unison, and the room was tomb-silent.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.
SOOOOOO it's been 2 years..... and my readership has severely declined..... and nobody asked for an update on this fic but here you go