As I stepped into my designated room, two figures immediately captured my attention: a tall woman named Hestia and an androgynous person named Amor.

Hestia was a striking presence, draped in purple from head to toe. Her outfit clung to her body like a second skin, and her purple wig framed her face like a snug helmet. Her tight jumpsuit shimmered with scattered rhinestones, and her long white eyelashes complemented her fair skin. Purple lipstick painted only her upper lip, and her black eyes, enhanced by colored contacts, added an eerie effect.

In contrast, Amor wore a voluminous green dress that fell to their knees, resembling a ruffled sack. Their towering green heels nearly touched the hem, and their wrists were adorned with green lace gloves. A white pixie-cut hairstyle highlighted their striking features, and minimal makeup—mostly bleached eyebrows and bold pink blush—accentuated their look.

"Alright! Time to hop onto the table!" Hestia announced, her voice high-pitched and grating, like Decima's but sharper.

I disrobed and gingerly climbed onto the table, feeling a discomfort settle in my stomach. But seeing how calm Hestia and Amor were, I tried to push the unease aside, telling myself this was just part of their routine. Still, I silently hoped it would end soon.

For the next hour, they meticulously tended to my skin, waxing, plucking, and scrubbing with practiced hands. Afterward, they draped me in a robe and finished with a generous application of lotion. As I sank into a chair, they prepped my nails for polish.

"People from the outlying Districts usually take much longer to groom," Amor remarked casually as they scraped dead skin from my heel. "They neglect self-care routines."

"How long does it take?" I asked, trying to keep the conversation going while my thoughts drifted.

"Three hours, usually!" Hestia chimed in.

"Three hours? That's quite a commitment," I said absently, my gaze drifting to the window.

As Amor and Hestia continued their conversation, my thoughts drifted back to last night. Finnick had gone out of his way to ease my anxiety, offering me a brief escape from the crushing weight of the Games. Despite the way I'd treated him as a child, he'd offered his friendship without hesitation, reassuring me that everything would be alright. I still didn't feel like I deserved it, and I knew it would take time for me to believe otherwise, but my heart warmed at the thought that he wanted to give me that chance. Despite everything the Games had done to him, he remained gentle, and that meant more to me than I could express.

"Vivian, meet your stylist, Clio!" Amor's voice snapped me from my thoughts.

Clio walked in confidently, her hands behind her back. I recognized her immediately—a familiar Capitol stylist who had worked with District Four Tributes, likely starting with Finnick.

Her outfit was consistent with her signature style: a light blue wig with white highlights and a mermaid-tail skirt. Despite the Capitol's tendency for over-the-top fashion, Clio moved with an effortless grace. She paired her skirts with tight button-down shirts, voluminous puffy sleeves, and pointed white heels. Her sea-themed accessories completed the look. Like Amor, Clio favored minimal makeup—generous blush and oversized eyelashes were her go-to for enhancing her features, signaling her Capitol roots.

Clio circled the table, scrutinizing me with a practiced eye. After a moment of silence, she instructed, "Rise."

I did as I was told.

"Mhm, yes," she murmured as she paced around me, her footsteps echoing in the quiet room. "You are the ideal Tribute. My designs will accentuate your beauty."

"Thank you," I managed, offering a smile. "I'm Vivian, by the way."

"I'm aware," Clio replied in a tone that bordered on robotic, though her eyes sparkled with a flicker of creativity. "They briefed me. Follow me."

I followed her into a room furnished with blue couches arranged around a low table. Despite the panoramic view of the city, the room felt sterile, lacking vibrancy. As I gazed out the window, I couldn't help but admire the Capitol's allure—a stark contrast to the rest of Panem. I might have found it intriguing as a child, had my circumstances been different.

"Please, take a seat," Clio gestured toward the couch. "We need to plan your outfit."

"Right," I said, reluctantly tearing my gaze away from the view. I sat on the couch opposite her, fidgeting with the robe around me, feeling uneasy.

"As you know, your attire will reflect your District's industry. Roman will handle Dylan's wardrobe, and we've chosen an oceanic theme," Clio explained.

"At least I won't be dressed as a fish," I remarked with a hint of humor.

A small smile tugged at Clio's lips, but her usual severity quickly returned. "A fish would indeed be gauche. But let's focus. I've been fascinated with merfolk recently, so that's the direction we'll take."

"Alright," I started, but she abruptly interrupted.

"Stand up," Clio said, rising from her seat. "We've got work to do."

⋯

Hours later, I stood ready for the Tribute Parade, weighed down by layers of embellishments that made me feel as though I were carrying someone else's burdens. My upper half was adorned with a snug, white seashell bra, glittering under the lights. Below, my skirt flowed with the illusion of a natural mermaid tail, its shades of blue shifting and shimmering with each movement. My hair cascaded down, tousled and styled to mimic the appearance of ocean-drenched locks, crowned with pointed seashells and complemented by fishhook earrings. Glitter dusted my skin, making me seem almost ethereal. Makeup had been applied meticulously—blue, glossy eyeshadow and faux scales that stretched down my neck, expertly painted by Clio. In my hand, I clutched a grand white trident, its handle whimsically releasing bubbles at the press of a button.

"I barely recognize myself," I muttered, gazing at my transformed reflection.

Clio ushered me into the elevator, and we descended to the lower level of the Remake Center. As the doors opened, I was immediately struck by the bustling activity—tributes preparing for their chariots, each clad in elaborate, extravagant costumes. A girl from District Six caught my eye, her long brunette hair crowned with a top hat releasing wisps of smoke—an obvious tribute to her district's focus on transportation. Nearby, a young boy from District Eight stood draped in a billowing green cape, clutching a massive sewing needle—a perfect symbol of his district's textile expertise. Surrounded by such absurdity, I found a strange comfort in knowing I wasn't the only one caught in this realm of spectacle.

As Clio guided me toward the District Four chariot, a soft tap on my back made me turn. Finnick stood there, a grin pulling at his lips.

"I must say, I like the outfit," he remarked, stepping up beside me. "Definitely an upgrade from what I had to wear."

"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What did you have to wear?"

"It's not what I wore, it's what I didn't. I might as well have been in my skivvies. But that's the Capitol's idea of style for me."

"What do you mean?" I pressed, but before Finnick could answer, I was swiftly lifted onto the chariot. His look suggested he wasn't keen on elaborating.

The chariot we rode in was drawn by two majestic white horses, their manes and tails dyed blue to match our costumes. A pang of sympathy hit me for the animals, pressed into service for the Capitol's grand spectacle, just like myself.

I looked to my side, only to realize Dylan was absent. While I had my reservations about him, the idea of facing the crowd alone didn't seem much better.

"Where's Dylan?" I asked Clio, a hint of unease creeping into my voice.

Clio began to respond, but before she could finish, Dylan burst out of the elevator, his version of the costume mirroring mine except for the addition of tight, shimmering blue swimming shorts. He stormed onto the chariot, clearly irritated, and turned away from us.

"So," Clio clapped her hands, turning to us both, "the moment you step out there, you are the rulers of the sea. Smile, wave, and when you're halfway through the crowd, release the bubbles. Dazzle the audience."

"Okay," I murmured, feeling a knot of anxiety form in my stomach as I gazed at the imposing doors ahead.

Finnick reached for the edge of the chariot where my hand rested, glancing up at me with a subtle grin.

Leaning in, I whispered, "Any more advice?"

"Show them you're District Four's reigning queen," Finnick said, taking my hand and planting a light kiss on it. "Leave a lasting impression."

"Got it," I replied, my cheeks burning again. I half-expected my makeup to melt under the heat of my embarrassment.

Without warning, the colossal doors swung open. Finnick and Clio stepped back as the opening music blared, though the crowd's cheers drowned it out. District One's chariot emerged, signaling that it was nearly our turn. I straightened my back, gripping my trident firmly.

Glancing at Dylan, who was still facing the opposite direction, I muttered, "These costumes are absurd, aren't they?"

"Yeah, they are," he grumbled, finally turning to face forward.

At least we could agree on that.

Our chariot rolled through the grand doors, and the cheers that had greeted District Three quickly faded, replaced by louder roars for District Four.

As we moved down the parade route, I noticed Dylan and I illuminated on a massive screen. My thoughts wandered to my family—my mother, father, and Cordelia. I imagined Cordelia laughing at the audacity of my makeup, my mother perhaps tearing up over the extravagant outfit, and my father silently observing, as stoic as ever.

When we reached the midpoint of the crowd, Dylan and I activated our tridents, sending a cascade of bubbles into the air. The crowd erupted in louder cheers, filling me with an unexpected surge of confidence. Smiling, I began waving, making deliberate eye contact with spectators, trying to convey a sense of connection. I placed my hand over my heart, extending it toward the crowd. Roses were tossed in our direction, one of which became caught between the prongs of my trident.

As our chariot glided into the City Circle, we made a turn and halted in front of President Snow. I noticed the other Careers staring at him with reverent gazes, as if he were a deity. It was a familiar sight—some in District Four shared similar sentiments. But in that moment, I felt nothing but disdain. Respect for him seemed unattainable, even undesirable, considering what he put us through.

President Snow greeted us with a wide smile, but I couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that it was merely a façade. As he rose to address the crowd, the music faded into silence.

"Welcome!" his voice rang out, commanding the attention of everyone in the crowd. "Tributes, we welcome you. We salute your courage and your sacrifice. We wish you a happy Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favor."

The crowd erupted into cheers at every word, their adulation filling the air. Sacrifice? What sacrifice? Most of us had no choice in the matter.

Before my frustration could boil over, another set of doors opened. Our chariots rolled into the Training Center, and I offered a polite wave to President Snow, forcing a smile as the cheers echoed in my ears. Fake it until you make it, they say.

⋯

Once everyone had filed inside, the doors slammed shut behind us. Immediately, Clio, Hestia, Amor, and Dylan's two stylists swarmed around us, swiftly removing our accessories and tridents, leaving us in our costumes.

"Fantastic job," Clio remarked, though her usual mechanical tone made it hard to tell if she truly meant it.

"You both looked stunning!" Hestia added with a bright smile.

"I'll admit, I teared up a bit," Amor confessed, dabbing at their eyes as if genuinely moved.

"Thank you," I said, exchanging a brief glance with the trio. "Well, thanks to all of you, we looked amazing," I added, though I knew my words had a touch of embellishment.

"I think we looked awful," Dylan grumbled, always the one to disrupt the mood. This time, though, it seemed like he was just being honest. "So where can we go to get out of these?"

As Clio began explaining our next destination to Dylan, I felt a familiar presence beside me. Finnick appeared, wrapping me in a quick hug. His voice dropped to a whisper in my ear.

"You two stole the spotlight," he murmured. "Word is, the Tributes from One and Two are green with envy." With a casual step back, he flashed a grin at the surrounding Tributes.

"Is that a problem?" I raised an eyebrow.

"That you were the center of attention? Not at all. That they're envious? Well, that's their issue, not yours," Finnick said with an easy shrug, his tone calm and reassuring.

A grin tugged at the corners of my mouth. "I guess they can take it up with me in the Games."

"I guess they can," Finnick winked, casually draping an arm over my shoulder. He gave a nod to a few other mentors, guiding me toward the entrance of the Training Center as he waved at others in passing before we disappeared through the doorway.