AFTER EVANDER'S TOAST, they retired to their rooms after dinner, for the last full night of proper sleep in a soft bed and comfortable clothes and the insurance of four sturdy, solid walls forming a fortress of security around them.

The gravity of their situation slammed into Atlas when he finally emerged from the shower, having scrubbed all of the make-up off his face and dressed for bed, staring into his bedroom from the corner angle at which the ensuite bathroom was connected. It was a spacious room, the big, king-sized bed shoved up into the corner, lights that dimmed and brightened at the turn of a dial, a wardrobe that held more clothes than he needed in a lifetime. Since the beginning of his stay, he'd used the middle of the floor for short circuit exercises to keep his daily conditioning going. At least, that's what he told himself. Some nights Atlas missed his house back in District Two, missed the basement he'd turned into a small training facility for himself, missed the punching bag that swayed on its metal chain from the ceiling and rattled violently with each hit, drowning out the noise in his head. Each night when the nightmares hammered away at his centre until the foundation of his being was filled with cracks, one tap away from crumbling to pieces, he found himself in that basement, striking at an invisible opponent, his knuckles burning and his hands raw and bleeding. Already, as he stood still, looking over the room thats spaciousness only reminded him of its emptiness—all this space and nowhere to go—he could feel the water rising to his ankles. To stop moving was to drown. To stop moving was to fall apart.

Clenching his jaw, Atlas flicked the lights off and crawled into bed, shutting his eyes the moment his head hit the pillow. Even though he was exhausted, his body so loose he couldn't have mustered the strength to do a single push-up, sleep didn't come easy.

There was a heartbeat in the darkness. Lying on his side, with his back pressed against the wall—always to the wall—Atlas could hear it, could feel its skin on his own, and when he opened his eyes, the oppressive darkness of the room struck him with such intensity his heart kicked in his chest. In a blink, he was back in the arena, the starless night smothering the snowy forest. That night, the Gamemakers had decided to pull one final trick out of the bag. At night, the Career pack took advantage of the limited visibility and the cover that the darkness gave them to hunt down the unlucky stragglers. Usually, there was always something reflecting some sort of low-level light—the moon, the stars, the illuminated snow. But that night, there had been nothing. No moon, no stars. They'd locked them inside and cut the lights. In the blinding darkness, the snow kept falling and the wind kept howling and, all around them, the wolves had begun to close in.

"You hear that?" Beckett, the District Four boy, hissed, somewhere to Atlas' left. Around them, the wind howled through the bare trees, shaking snow from the branches.

Flecks of cold snow pelted Atlas' face as he stood stock still, blinking rapidly in a desperate attempt to let his eyes adjust. Still, the darkness surrounding them was persistent. Tentatively, Atlas put a hand out in front of him. Nothing. Panic surged through his veins, turning his blood to slush. They were running blind out here, miles from their base camp. Even the best trackers wouldn't have a chance against these conditions. Right now, they were an alliance five strong. In the day, they were formidable killing machines, but now, in the dark, they were sitting ducks. Considering it was midway through the Games, it was about time the pack was culled and the survivors disbanded.

"Hear what? I don't hear shit!" The gruff, disconcerted growl of the District One girl, Ruby, was somewhere to his right, just a few paces forward, and from the way her set of footsteps kept shuffling around, frantic, frustrated, digging a groove in the snow. "I can't see three fucking feet in front of me!"

"Ruby, shut the fuck up," Jet, her district partner, snapped, "you're drawing attention to us."

"Guys, what's the plan?" Aella, Atlas' district partner, whispered, the wind howling in their ears. Maybe it was the darkness playing tricks on him, maybe it was his own mind conjuring its own horrors, but even though the darkness was a blindfold pulled over his eyes, Atlas could swear he saw shadows moving between the trees. Could swear he heard the voracious panting of wolves circling their prey.

As they lapsed into silence, Atlas felt the back of his neck prickle. Dread swirled in his gut, and though his insulating jacket was intact on all fronts, his insides turned glacial. Every nerve in his body blazed as his heart leapt into his throat, jamming his airway.

That's when he heard it.

A low, animalistic growl emanating from between the trees, shrouded by the dark.

Pure, unadulterated fear iced his veins.

Mutts.

"Nobody move," Atlas whispered, his voice low. Every primal instinct in his body screamed for him to run, to cut from the group and save his own skin and put as much distance as he could between himself and the eminent threat surrounding them. But if he bolted now, he was as good as dead. Wolves were drawn to a herd, but it was the breakaways they hunted down. But he mustered up every drug of willpower to remain stock still, to stay close to the herd. Now, the game had turned on its head, those who were once predators had become prey.

Beside him, he heard Aella backing up, her footsteps crunching faintly in the snow. He'd known Aella since they'd started at the academy together, had known that the reason why the academy had made her the top candidate was because she clocked the fastest mile anyone had ever seen, the fastest teenager in the district, and could outrun anyone. Which was how, alongside being able to differentiate her footsteps from the others' in the dark, he also knew that Aella was going to bed the first to make a break for it. When her back hit his chest, Atlas went rigid, but instinctively clamped one hand over her shoulder to still her while the other covered her mouth to stifle her gasp of surprise.

Irritation blazed beneath his skin as she struggled against him. Atlas only held on tighter, the fear only reinforcing his strength.

"Don't be stupid," Atlas snarled in her ear. "If you run, they'll chase you and they'll kill you."

Chest heaving, Aella stilled. Against him, he felt her body trembling.

Around them, the mutts circled soundlessly, the snarls low in their throats the only clue to their location. They were surrounded, with nowhere to go.

To Atlas' left, Beckett murmured curses under his breath, and from the shuffling of his footsteps, Atlas could already predict what Beckett was about to do.

"Fuck this," Beckett muttered, his voice shaking, "I'm not staying here."

"What the hell are you doing, Four?" Ruby hissed. "Do not blow this for us!"

"We're all dead anyway," Beckett said, his tone solemn. Atlas could hear Beckett's breathing growing heavy with resolution. Without warning, Beckett darted to the right, his footsteps crunching in the snow.

"Beckett!" Jet snapped.

But it was too late.

A warning howl from Atlas' right cut through the dark, joined by more howls all around them. In a flash, the mutts surged forth. One of them lunged past Atlas, knocking him to the ground, his sword clattering to the ground, lost to the darkness. As he scrambled back onto his feet, a large weight pressed onto his chest and a gust of warm breath fanned against his cheek, filling the air with the miasma of blood and carrion. A low, threatening growl rumbled against his ear. Atlas felt his heart stop. Trapped beneath the beast, Atlas found himself unable to move, his right arm caught beneath the mutt's crushing weight. Pain exploded through his torso as he felt a couple of his ribs break beneath the immense pressure and the mutt's claws sinking slowly into his gut, piercing through his jacket and into his skin.

Somewhere in the distance, someone was screaming, until a loud snarl and a blood-curdling snap finally silenced the tortured tribute.

Desperation jerked him into motion, his free hand scrambling, clawing at the ground for purchase, for anything he could use, a rock, a sharp fallen branch. Anything.

Finally, his fingers hit solid metal. His sword.

Hot air blasted against his face as the mutt opened its maw, and Atlas held back a roar of agony as he felt another rib break, but he didn't stop reaching for the sword, flipping it around until he could close his fingers around the solid hilt.

Without thinking, Atlas swung blindly, and plunged his sword through the mutt's neck. At the same time, sharp pain shredded through his arm as the beast snapped its jaws shut.

Though the wounds had been healed, though the Capitol doctors had done their best to put his bones back together, and though his skin hadn't retained a single scar from that night, his arm blazed with a phantom ache, a fire that seared through flesh. Sucking in a deep breath, Atlas blinked until his eyes adjusted, until the darkness didn't feel so much like blindness, until he was able to gather his bearings once more and could trace the edges of the ceiling. For a moment, as he sat with the ebbing panic, Atlas swore viciously at his own foolishness. How could a grown man be afraid of the dark? Where was the dignity in that? The thought echoed in his head, an iron voice that scratched at the inside of his skull and followed him as he slipped out from under the covers and slid under the bed, backing himself into the furthest corner until his back hit the wall. Here, though the room was still dark, and though he couldn't shake the dread churning in his gut as though the wolves were still circling, at the very least he wasn't left out in the open.

And he could breathe again.

A knock on his door drew him from his reverie.

Under the door, the dark silhouette of someone's feet cut the light slipping in through the small slit between the door and the floor into two.

Even without having to ask, Atlas already knew it was Alecto, silent and sullen, a ghost at his door. And here he was, cowering under his bed, trembling like a leaf. It was the last thing he wanted his daughter to see.

Granted, the fact that she'd come to him—Atlas thought he should say something, but just as he opened his mouth to call out to her, it was too late. He'd taken too long. Already, Alecto was slowly pushing his bedroom door open. Yellow light from the hallway spilled into the room as Alecto entered, her bare feet soundless against the floorboards. Atlas wondered what she'd think if she found him under the bed. Some part of him prayed she thought he was somewhere else in the apartment and would leave, so he could pull himself out from under the bed and seek her out.

For a moment, Alecto just stood in his room, stalled in front of his bed, probably wondering why he wasn't there. As he thought about throwing aside the shredded remains of his pride and call out from his hiding place, she lowered herself to her hands and knees and bent low enough to peek under the bed, her white-blonde hair gilded by the light from the hallway.

Atlas bit back a grimace. "You okay, kid? Were you hungry?"

Backlit by the hallway light, Atlas couldn't see Alecto's expression, her face silhouetted in the half-light. Still, he could imagine the judgmental eye-brow raise, her cold blue eyes assessing his pathetic figure. This was not the image of the strong, fortified father that any man wanted their daughter to witness. In here, he was a crumpled shell of a man, crippled by memories and too afraid of the dark to face it alone.

Silent, as always, Alecto stood and crossed over to the door. At first, Atlas thought she'd left when the door clicked shut and the room was plunged into darkness once more. Until he heard the rustle of fabric close by, and the dull thump of Alecto slamming her head against the bed frame in the dark as she slipped into the space beside him, and the subsequent hiss of pain. Atlas nearly laughed, but reached forward to pull Alecto toward him, his large hands rubbing her head until Alecto directed his hand to her forehead, where he felt the slight bump forming, her wiry hair like thick strands of silk beneath his palm. "Still hurts?"

Alecto nodded, and he felt the point between her brows crease, the tension strung out on her face. Atlas smiled, forgetting instantly about his fears, about the dark, about the wolves and their teeth at his jugular, the anxiety now bled from his body. Here was his child, here was the last tangible reminder of his wife and the life that they'd wanted to build together. Here was the little girl he'd watched toddle across his backyard toward him with her arms wide open, seeking him out. The one person left in this world whom he loved entirely and with his entire being.

"You're okay," Atlas grumbled. "You'll just be a little bit ugly on camera tomorrow."

Alecto swatted at his hand and he felt her animosity without even having to see her glower.

"Don't be like that," Atlas mused, retracting his hands and turning over on his back. He swallowed down the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry you have to see me like this."

Alecto didn't answer. Between them, the silence fell over them, a blanket to keep away the shadows.

Atlas closed his eyes, his heart heavy in his chest. "Tomorrow—"

A small hand wrapped around his arm and gave a light squeeze. Atlas shut his mouth instantly.

"You're right," Atlas sighed. "You know what to do."

Adapt or die. He'd drilled that instinct into her bones from the day she'd volunteered for the Hunger Games. He'd made sure she'd come home to him, and she had. His daughter wasn't just a survivor. She was a fighter. She was every inch his flesh and blood, a much braver extension of himself. Which was what made her so terrifying. Which was why, when he'd watched her cut out her district partner's heart, he'd closed his heart up and built up a wall between them. There was something viscerally horrifying in knowing that something you've created had the capability to commit such awful things. At the time, he couldn't recognise her, couldn't reconcile the image of that monster on the screen, her hands darkened with someone else's blood and her own cruelty with the little girl who'd sit at the table with her cherubic face in her gummy hands and watch him cook for the both of them.

But now, he couldn't help but be thankful for her tenacity, for the fact that she was brutal and relentless and that was what would keep her alive and next to him. Even now, the fact that Alecto might've been the one who'd broken into Iko's house the night before the Reaping Ceremony to smash her arm and knee to smithereens just so she could volunteer in her place barely set off the surge of alarm within him. Instead, he was almost, in some sick sense, relieved—relieved that she had the capability to care enough to save Iko. And perhaps that, too, was his doing.

* * *

WHEN THE DAWN GILDED THE HORIZONLESS SKY, it was Iko who found the both of them curled up next to each other under the bed.

"This is really sweet and all," Iko drawled, sarcasm dripping from her tone as she watched Alecto crawl out, "but you're going to wish you'd slept in the bed when you're feeling the body ache from sleeping on the hard ground all night."

Atlas only shot her a mirthful look, the corner of his mouth twitching upward into some semblance of a lopsided smile. "Maybe."

Iko's eyes narrowed as she zeroed in on the visible bruise on Alecto's pale forehead. "And what the hell did you do to yourself?"

Alecto only shrugged, nonchalant.

Pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation, Iko let out a sharp exhale. "You're both going to be the death of me. You better stretch out now, and stay stretched on the hovercraft, or you're really going to be sore in the arena and regret all of... this." But even the admonishment didn't sound like it carried any heat as Iko glanced between the two of them, her expression strained, as if she were remembering something she'd rather keep locked away.

Before Atlas could say anything, Iko's expression hardened to steel once more.

"Be ready in ten minutes. We'll be taking you two separately to the arena. Whatever you want to say to each other, say it now. After that, everything else will be on camera," was all she said, her tone flat, her face devoid of emotion. Atlas searched Iko's face for a hint of some kind of familiarity, but found none. Such was the impersonal nature of District Two's finest. Without another word, she spun on her heel and strode out of the room.

Atlas pursed his lips, the reality slamming into him with the force of a car crash. He turned to his daughter, who watched him intently, her glacial eyes tracking his every move. Despite the tide of emotion swelling in his chest, Atlas found no words to express. Alecto blinked at him, her expression schooled into something indecipherable.

In his chest, he felt his heart settle. His mind churned, a million thoughts swarming his skull, and through it all, he clung to the hope that the plan gave him. The hope that he would see Alecto outside of the arena once more, that they'd make it out and live. He sighed, and jerked his chin at her. "You ready?"

Alecto nodded.

"Good." Atlas crossed his arms over his chest, the gleaming gold band around his ring finger catching his eye. A promise. A spark.

For a moment, he didn't know what to do with his hands. Didn't know what to do with his daughter, who stood before him, hovering by the open door, unmoving. Uncertainty flickered in Alecto's eyes as she shifted her weight between her feet, restless, itching to do something. Altas wasn't sure what, exactly, she was so hesitant about, and for a brief second his heart lifted with the hope—what if she was trying to say something?

To his surprise, Alecto lunged at him, and Atlas almost flinched away from her. But when he felt her lean arms wrap around him, shock blasted through him, and for a heartbeat he forgot how to move. When was the last time he'd hugged his daughter? When was the last time he hadn't held her at arm's length? When was the last time he'd told her he loved her if not to hold her back? Guilt wracked his gut as he stared at the top of her blonde head, as she buried her face in his chest, her arms tightening around him, holding him so close he thought he might come out the other side of her. When the feeling bled back into his arms, he put his arms around his daughter and kissed the top of her head. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine his younger self holding his baby daughter for the first time, his heart pounding, so afraid he'd crush her by accident in hands that had known only violence for too long. But when the nurse had handed Alecto to him, had shown him how to hold her so he was supporting her head, all the fear evaporated from his system.

"I love you, kid," Atlas said, his voice rough with some unchained emotion. "Don't forget that."

Alecto nodded. And when they released each other, there was only calm. Without a second glance over her shoulder, Alecto slipped out of the room and closed the door behind her. And this was where Atlas learnt that parenthood was having your heart between your teeth as you watched your child walk out of the door into something bigger than themselves, time and time again, and having no power to shield them from the malevolence of reality.

The whole ride to the arena, Atlas ran the numbers in his head. If he was meant to double-cross Gloss and Cashmere, he'd need to make sure he got the jump on them. They were much stronger than Alecto, much more powerful. And they were both younger than he was, more limber. If he was to survive, he'd need to watch out for Finnick and Johanna—two of the most deadly tributes in the arena—and make sure Katniss learnt quickly that he was on her side. As the Peacekeepers led Atlas and his stylist, Rhea, to the launch room, he fought the panic threatening to immobilise his body. Back in the arena, Atlas thought, begrudgingly, back in the cage. As if he'd ever been able to leave it.

After the Peacekeepers shut the door behind them, Atlas spent the next few minutes trying to breathe air into his lungs, starving the paralysing fear from his body. As he showered, he did his breathing exercises. As he changed into the one-piece suit Rhea handed him, he let out an exhale and counted to four. As he stepped onto the platform, nearly missing Rhea wishing him luck, Atlas felt the tension in his chest crushing his organs as the automated voice began announcing the launch sequence.

As the plate rose, Atlas shut his eyes, his heart pounding in his chest as. In four counts, out four counts.

When he opened his eyes, the world was strikingly bright, blinding, and for a moment, Atlas thought they were in the desert, the sky a vast expanse of white, the heat from the sun searing into the nape of his neck. Until his vision readjusted to the light and he realised that the roaring wasn't coming from the heart slamming in his chest.

All around him, water flooded the arena, glittering and undulating, spraying salt and foam into the air as the waves tossed against the rocky shore where the Cornucopia stood, gleaming silver beneath the blazing sun. Cool water lapped onto the platform, splashing over his boots. The smell of salt infiltrated his senses. Sweat began to trickle down his temples, soaking into the collar of his suit.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the booming voice of Claudius Templesmith resonated around the arena. "Let the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games begin!"

AUTHOR'S NOTE.
hope yous with the daddy issues liked this little chapter.