Chapter 7 : Circling Predators
The Careers weren't even pretending subtlety anymore.
Cato walked the training floor like he owned it, shoulder-checking a boy from District 5 hard enough to send him sprawling into the knife rack. Metal clattered against stone. The boy scrambled up, face pale, and Cato smiled—all teeth, no warmth.
"Watch where you're going."
The boy didn't respond. Just backed away, eyes down, and retreated to the far corner of the gymnasium. Another tribute broken before the arena even started.
I worked my knots at the rope station, fingers moving through patterns while my attention stayed on the predators circling the room. Clove had positioned herself at the knife-throwing station directly in the sightline of the younger tributes. Every blade found its mark with mechanical precision. The sound of metal sinking into targets punctuated the air like heartbeats counting down.
Marvel caught my eye across the floor. He held a spear loosely, twirling it between his fingers, and when he saw me looking, his smirk widened. I let my expression go blank and returned to my knots.
Weak. Forgettable. Nobody worth hunting.
The act was holding, but I could feel the tension in the room like static electricity before a storm. The Careers were marking targets. By tomorrow, they'd have their kill list organized.
My Blind Spot sense guided me through the morning's acquisitions.
The poison plants station sat in a corner, staffed by a trainer who'd wandered off to help a District 9 tribute with something on the other side of the floor. Thirty-two seconds of nobody watching. I moved casually, examined the display of deadly flora, and stored a small sample of nightlock berries. Dark purple, deceptively sweet-looking, lethal within minutes.
Just in case.
Medical supplies station during the Career demonstration. While everyone watched Cato decapitate a training dummy with a sword swing that could've cut through bone, I palmed bandages and a compact medical kit. Into storage. Gone. Nobody noticed.
My inventory was growing. Food, fire supplies, medical equipment, and now poison. Everything a survivor needed except weapons—and those stations were watched too closely for any theft.
The water fountain sat in an alcove near the climbing wall. I filled my mouth, swallowed, filled again. The constant hunger from my healing factor demanded attention, and I'd already eaten twice what other tributes consumed at breakfast. The food here was good—better than anything I'd tasted in District 12's borrowed memories—but my body burned through calories like a furnace.
A shadow fell across the fountain.
I looked up. Thresh stood there, massive and silent, blocking the light from the overhead panels. His dark eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my Blind Spot sense twitch—not danger exactly, but focus. Attention. The kind that precedes violence.
He didn't speak. Just stared.
I finished drinking, wiped my mouth, and waited.
"You're not as weak as you pretend."
His voice was low, rough, like gravel scraping stone. The words weren't a question.
"Careful observation for day two," I said.
"I've been watching you." Thresh stepped closer. Even at my height—average for District 12, short compared to him—he towered. "The way you move. The way you watch. You're hunting, not hiding."
My heart rate increased, but I kept my face neutral. "Everyone's watching everyone. That's the point."
"Stay away from Rue."
The name hit differently than I expected. Not a warning about a rival—a warning from a protector. Thresh saw himself as her guardian. The massive tribute from the agricultural district was protecting the small girl who climbed like she was born in trees.
"I'm not a threat to her," I said.
"You're not a threat to anyone. That's what you want us to think." His jaw tightened. "I don't know what you're playing at, but if you hurt her—if you even think about using her—I'll find you before the Careers do."
He turned and walked away. No further explanation. No negotiation.
I watched him go, filing the interaction away. Thresh wasn't fooled by my weak act. That was dangerous. But his priority was Rue's survival, not exposing me—which meant I had room to work with.
And if he was protecting Rue, maybe I could use that. Not against her. For her.
That evening, Haymitch spread a map of previous arena layouts across the dining table.
"The Gamemakers love variety," he said, tapping different locations. "Forest, desert, frozen tundra, ruined cities. But certain elements stay consistent. Cornucopia at the center. Supplies scattered in a radius. The bloodbath happens in the first five minutes."
Katniss leaned over the map, her braid falling forward. "How many die at the start?"
"Half, usually. Sometimes more. The desperate ones rush for weapons and get cut down. The smart ones grab what they can and run."
"And the Careers?"
"They secure the Cornucopia, set up base camp, hunt everyone else." Haymitch looked at me. "Your weak act buys you time. They'll ignore you in the chaos, go after bigger targets first. But that only works if you're fast."
"I'm fast enough."
"You better be." He turned to Katniss. "You're a different problem. After your archery display, they know you're dangerous. They'll want you dead early."
"Let them try."
"That attitude will get you killed." Haymitch's voice sharpened. "The Careers train for this from childhood. Four against one, you lose. Every time."
"She won't be alone." I spoke before thinking, the words coming from somewhere deeper than strategy. "From the gong, we pair up. Back to back. They want to kill her, they go through me first."
Katniss's eyes met mine. Something flickered there—surprise, maybe, or the beginning of trust.
Haymitch studied us both for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. "That might actually work. Two targets moving together, covering angles. Harder to flank. Harder to ambush." He pulled out a bottle from beneath the table. "Don't die in the first hour. That's all I ask."
"Inspiring," Katniss said dryly.
"I'm not here to inspire. I'm here to keep you breathing." He poured himself a drink. "Now eat. Both of you. You'll need the reserves."
After the strategy session, I stood at the window of my room, watching the Capitol's lights paint the night sky in colors that didn't exist in nature. Somewhere out there, citizens were betting on which children would die first. Placing wagers over dinner. Discussing odds like they were predicting weather.
My first life had been safe. Careful. I'd watched the world through screens, kept my head down, never took risks that might hurt. And when death came anyway—slow, inevitable, wrapped in hospital sheets—I'd accepted it without fighting.
Not this time.
I retrieved a bread roll from storage and bit into it. Stolen from the dining car days ago, still fresh thanks to whatever preservation effect the storage space provided. First meal of my second life had been a rotten apple in District 12. This was better, but the sentiment remained: eat what you can, when you can, because tomorrow might not come.
My inventory held nearly fifteen items now. Food, medical supplies, fire-starting equipment, nightlock, cord, small tools. Everything except weapons. Those would have to come from the Cornucopia—or from the bodies of tributes who didn't survive their first encounter with me.
The thought didn't disturb me as much as it should have.
I'd already died once. The second time, I planned to take others with me.
Tomorrow was the final training day. Then private sessions, scores, interviews. Five more days until the arena. Five more days to prepare, to plan, to store everything I could get my hands on.
My Blind Spot sense pulsed softly at the edge of awareness—the constant presence of cameras in every corner, the knowledge that even here, even now, I was never truly alone. But I was learning its rhythms. Learning when attention shifted, when gaps opened.
When the time came, I'd slip through those gaps like water through fingers.
And the Careers who dismissed me as weak would learn what a survivor looked like.
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