HERE'S THE BULK OF THE IRONY: In most cases, creating a human life—meaning, having gone through the horror show of childbirth and the certifiable nightmare of finance planning—takes much less effort than keeping it alive.

Out there's a world built for the selfish, you'll tell your kid, reiterate it persistently until those words become a soundtrack to their gradual edging from adolescence into adulthood. They'll go through their whole life calculating all odds and learning to assume the worst of everything beforehand so it won't come back to haunt them later. Nobody's going to have your back, no one but you. People won't understand you; they leave all the time, what makes you think you're any different?

Say, the world is a cruel place. Say, the people are merciless machines brought up to tear down, eliminate. Say, competition equals antediluvian death-row equals survival of the richest. Say, the universe washes its hands off of humans as an entity, let them settle old scores on their own, fire up fresh wounds. And this, the prevailing truth: you wouldn't last a day under the sun.

So you spend your life like that—constantly looking over your shoulder, but growing so tired of carefully existing in that horrible way.

* * *

BLOOD SPRAYS ACROSS the mat as a bare fist collides with bruised lips. The boy's head snaps back. Her knuckles sting, but she numbs the dull pain out. Electric tension snaps and festers like ignited gasoline in her veins, agitated and excitable. There's an estranged whining in her skull, honing her focus on her opponent whose eyes are bloodshot, maniacal as he recovers, spitting a disgusting mix of blood and saliva onto the ground.

Something wicked within her preens in satisfaction.

Moments like these, Iko Moriyama knows she's alive. That there's a crumpled fragment of her heart burrowed somewhere in the cavity of her chest still functioning, still beating. Adrenaline tears through her veins like a hurricane decimating a city. It numbs the heat in her veins, quiets the chaos raging in her head.

There are thirty other people in the training facility. Thirty other people watching the two contenders intensely from outside the combat ring, watching their every move. Thirty other people waiting for one of them to fold, to show a weak link, and none of them make a sound. None of them intervene. This is what they've been preparing for their whole lives. In the arena, it's a matter of life or death. Twenty-three other tributes stand between you and glory. Twenty-three other tributes who would obliterate everything in their way to go home just as bad as you do. Nobody's going to save you. Nobody but yourself. And when you can't even do that, you might as well count yourself dead.

Are you predator or are you prey?

He moves first, lunging full-speed at Iko with his fists raised. But Iko darts out of the way, nimbly sidestepping what would've been a crushing kick to the ribs. Using her opponent's momentum against him, Iko struck, bringing her knee up and slamming her foot into the underside of his chin. He staggers back, clutching his jaw, and she gains on him.

Disoriented, he wipes the blood from his face with the back of his hand. Mouth curling into a snarl, the boy charges at Iko, lashing out with relentless punches and kicks she barely managed to block. One of his blows catches her in the cheek, the next one slams into her side and she can't stop it. White spots dance in her vision as she's knocked off her feet. Pain explodes in her back as she hits the ground. The air crushes out of her lungs. Breathing hurts, her spine aches, and her muscles scream but now is not the time to complain.

I know how to break you, the malicious glint in his eyes taunted, as he loomed over her. I'm smarter than you, stronger than you.

It's the boy, Iko decides, that's the problem, the persistent thorn in her side. Pure, unadulterated hatred poisons her veins. The boy standing on the other side of the combat ring, with amber-glass eyes sparking in amusement and hair so blonde it shone like spun gold under the bright lighting of the training facility, a walking wildfire.

They've been attending the same academy for over a decade, been training alongside each other for the Games. She's seen him fight before. She knows him. The way he thinks, the way he moves. It's an algorithm she still has yet to crack. He's just as deadly as the others, but he adapts quicker. In all the years that she's known him, she has to admit that Alexandre Ivanovich is a problem she needs to eliminate. Fast. Before all her energy drains and she's left defenceless.

He's bigger than she is, all corded muscle and sinew stretching under tanned skin. Broad-shouldered and athletically toned, towering over her with a six-foot advantage. From a logical perspective, Alex should be able to pin Iko—who was disadvantaged with a much smaller, lither build and shorter reach range—without much of a struggle. He was also much stronger, possibly the only other person who could outmatch her in hand-to-hand combat. But where he was made of raw power, she compensated for in dexterity. He could knock her out cold with a well-aimed punch, but she reacted faster.

If he had her on the ground, he would kill her.

"Giving up so easy, short-stuff?" Alex drawls, taunting her with an arrogant, self-assured smirk. Her blood boils. Her eyes narrow into slits, a lethal fury thundering across her features.

"I will kill you," she snarls, eyes flashing murderously. He laughs like she's joking.

In that moment, the only thing Iko wanted was to break his face. She could hear her mother's pitiless voice in her head: Get up. She forces air back into her lungs and springs to her feet. Rebound. Lips pulled back in a snarl, she surges forward, grabs him by the neck and jams her knee into his ribcage. She swung her elbow in a high arc into the side of his face. Hit back twice as hard. Black tinges the corners of her vision as she lashes and lashes and lashes against his defending blocks, jamming her fists into his sides, ducking as he swings desperately at her.

An elbow catches her in the throat and she gasps, coughing and wheezing, tears springing to her eyes. Her neck feels broken, but she knows the pain will pass. Blinking to clear her vision, she absorbs a kick to the gut, and her insides feel like they're imploding. The room spins. With a frustrated cry, she strikes out, blind but hard. A trickle of satisfaction courses through her as her fist connects with his ribcage. He lets go of her instantly, doubling over. Her heartbeat throbs like thunder in her skull and she moves like she is made of lightning. Alarm flashes across his expression and she took great pleasure in forcing him into the defensive.

Everything is red. Pulsing and warm, wet and metallic in her mouth—she flashes a wolf-like grin and her teeth shine like rubies. Blood roars in her ears, a deafening calamity, an ocean of adrenaline coursing through her veins from the moment she'd taken her stance in the combat ring. She's covered in grime, streaked with dirt and blood and some of it isn't hers. Trickling down her temple, smeared over her arms, splashed across her split knuckles, blinding her in its red-hot chokehold.

A firm arm snakes around her waist, and in a second, he'd thrown her off him. A quick once-over tells her everything she needs to know. She's tiring him out. His punches are overextended and his kicks are growing weaker. She launches herself at him again, swinging her leg in a cutting arc. Her knee rams into his solar plexus and she hears the air rush out of his mouth. He wavers, unsteady. This is her window.

She jabs him in the face, darts to his side and rams her elbow against the back of his head until he's forced to his knees. Digging her heel into his left calve so he wouldn't throw her off, she catches him in a headlock. His Adam's apple bobs against the crook of her arm and Iko squeezes with all her might like a python wrapping around its prey, cutting off the airflow from his windpipe. Even if he writhes and thrashes violently against her hold, fingers clawing at her arms, drawing blood, she doesn't relent. She won't. Not until he submits first. Gritting her teeth, she squeezes and squeezes, crushing him to her, and doesn't let go and feels the fight almost wink out of him, movements slowly weakening. Then, she feels his hand desperately tapping against her shin.

She almost doesn't want to let go. A morbid thought swims to the forefront of her mind as he struggled to tear her off him: What would it look like, to have the light fade from his eyes?

"Enough, Iko." A raspy voice commands, tone edged with warning. "He's out. You're finished."

Shocked back to reality, Iko loosens her hold. She spins around to face the brown-skinned woman standing behind her—smart enough to know not to touch a contender who was still wired for a fight, self-assured enough to know that, in a death match between her and Iko, the latter would lose instantly. Minerva Valdez, the owner and head trainer of the training academy, fixed the younger girl with a stern look, silently daring her to make another move. And when it was clear, with heaving shoulders and adrenaline-quaked breaths, that Iko wasn't about to lose her head again, Minerva gestured for them to join the group of students gathered before of her.

Revulsion courses through Iko's body, forcing her to recoil from Alex as though she'd been stung. You could've killed him, a small part of her whispers. You could've killed him. Whether it was in awe or horror, Iko couldn't tell, but she stuffed it down. Career tributes couldn't afford the burden of remorse.

Trembling with effort, Alex rises to his feet, slanting an incendiary glower at Iko. It curdles her innards as he draws to his full height, a whole foot taller than her five-two stature, but the rush of triumph blots it out. She wasn't afraid of him. Not while his bloodied face sported a few darkening bruises and the angry marks of her battering—she wasn't exactly a pretty picture either, but the difference was that she had won. As though to add fuel to the fire, she crosses her arms over her chest, cocks her head and smirks up at him.

"What was that about giving up easy?"

Alex rolls his eyes in response and steps out of the combat ring. Wiping the sweat from her brow, Iko follows suit without hesitation. According to the digital clock hung on the far wall across the training facility, it was inching towards six in the evening. The academy would be closing in two hours.

"Alright, you savages," Minerva grunted, regarding her pupils, who were perched by the bleachers behind the combat ring. "Your homework for tonight is to reflect on what you just saw, good technique, bad technique, everything. Now, hit the showers and go home. Class dismissed. See you all next month."

From periphery, Iko catches a few wary glances sent her way as she sidles past the students to get to her duffel bag and water bottle, safely tucked under the bottom bench. Before she could follow after the students filing towards the locker rooms, she heard Minerva calling her name.

"You," the older woman says, appraising Iko with her burning gaze, "come see me in my office once you're all cleaned up. There are a few things we need to discuss."

Pursing her lips, Iko nodded stiffly. Then, she turned sharply on her heel and headed for the showers, wanting nothing more than to wash the blood and sweat off her aching body.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
yes it's 3am im so tired i should be doing my essay but No.