3: The Capitol’s Smile

The first thing Lira noticed about the Capitol was the silence.

Not the absence of sound—but the absence of anything real beneath it.

Music floated through the air, light and artificial. Voices laughed too loudly. Even the wind that brushed against the towering buildings felt controlled, as if it had been designed to please rather than exist.

The train slowed.

“We’re here,” Deren said, his voice flat.

Lira stood, her hands tightening at her sides. Tovan joined her, his gaze already fixed on the gleaming city outside the window.

“It looks…” he began.

“Perfect?” Deren finished.

Tovan shook his head slowly. “Fake.”

Deren gave a small nod. “Exactly.”

The doors slid open.

The noise hit them all at once.

Cheers.

Applause.

Capitol citizens packed the station, dressed in impossible colors and exaggerated styles, waving and shouting like this was a celebration instead of an execution.

“Smile,” Deren muttered under his breath. “Or at least don’t look like you’re about to kill someone.”

“I might,” Tovan replied.

“Save that for the arena.”

Peacekeepers guided them forward, but the crowd pressed in eagerly, reaching out as if touching a tribute might mean something.

Lira forced herself to keep moving.

Hands brushed her sleeve. Voices called her name.

Her name.

They already knew it.

“District 8!” someone shouted. “Look over here!”

Flashes exploded—cameras capturing every second.

Lira turned her head, just slightly.

Not a smile.

But not fear either.

Something neutral. Controlled.

She could feel it—the eyes, the attention, the expectation.

They wanted a story.

Fine.

She would give them one.

Tovan leaned closer to her as they walked. “We’re being watched more than I expected.”

“We’re always being watched,” Lira said quietly.

“Yes,” Deren cut in, “but here? It matters.”

They were ushered quickly into a sleek car that whisked them away from the station. The city blurred past in streaks of gold and glass.

Lira pressed her fingers lightly against the window.

Everything was too clean.

Too bright.

District 8’s smoke felt like a distant memory.

“Enjoy the view,” Deren said dryly. “It’s the last comfortable thing you’ll get.”

The car came to a stop in front of a towering building—one of many identical structures rising into the sky.

“The Tribute Center,” Deren said. “Your home until the Games begin.”

Inside, the luxury was overwhelming.

Marble floors. Endless light. Silence so polished it felt unnatural.

Lira barely had time to take it in before a voice rang out:

“Finally!”

Someone rushed toward them—a blur of sharp angles and flowing fabric.

“I was beginning to think District 8 had forgotten how to make an entrance.”

The stylist.

Lira recognized the type immediately: Capitol-born, eager, dramatic.

But this one was… different.

Their outfit wasn’t chaotic like the others Lira had glimpsed. It was deliberate—dark tones with flickers of metallic thread, almost like woven shadows.

“I’m Caelis,” the stylist said with a grin. “And I am going to save you.”

Tovan raised an eyebrow. “From what?”

“From being forgettable.”

Caelis circled them slowly, studying every detail.

“Textiles,” Caelis murmured. “District 8. Everyone expects fabric, threads, something obvious.” Caelis stopped in front of Lira. “But obvious is boring. And boring gets you killed before the arena even opens.”

Lira crossed her arms slightly. “And what doesn’t get you killed?”

Caelis’s grin softened—but didn’t disappear. “Being unforgettable.”

Deren leaned against the wall, watching quietly, saying nothing.

Caelis clapped suddenly. “Come on. We have work to do. The opening ceremony is tomorrow, and right now, you look like you belong exactly where they think you do.”

“And that’s bad?” Tovan asked.

“It’s fatal,” Caelis replied.

They were led deeper into the apartment, into a room filled with fabrics unlike anything Lira had ever seen. Materials that shimmered, shifted, caught light like liquid flame.

Lira reached out, brushing her fingers lightly over one.

“Careful,” Caelis said. “That one reacts to heat.”

Lira pulled her hand back.

“Interesting,” she said.

Caelis’s eyes sparkled. “Exactly.”

For the first time since arriving in the Capitol, Lira felt something stir that wasn’t fear or anger.

Curiosity.

Possibility.

“How do you want them to see you?” Caelis asked suddenly.

The question hung in the air.

Lira hesitated.

Then she remembered the Reaping. The smoke. The moment everything changed.

“I don’t want them to understand me,” she said.

Caelis tilted their head. “Good answer.”

Tovan spoke next. “I want them to underestimate me.”

Caelis smiled wider. “Even better.”

Deren finally pushed himself off the wall. “Just make sure they keep watching,” he added. “That’s the only thing that might keep you alive before the blood starts.”

Silence followed.

Heavy.

Real.

Lira met her reflection in a smooth sheet of metal across the room.

This was the Capitol’s game.

Presentation. Perception. Control.

But beneath it—

something else was building.

Something they couldn’t script.

She turned back to Caelis, her voice steady.

“Make us impossible to ignore.”

Caelis’s grin returned, sharper now.

“Oh,” Caelis said softly. “I fully intend to.”

Outside, the Capitol gleamed brighter as night approached.

Inside, preparations began.

Because tomorrow—

Panem would see them.

And whether the Capitol realized it or not—

the story was already beginning to slip out of its control.