The morning of the Games came without ceremony.
No music. No grand Capitol send-off. Just a knock on the door. A tray of food. A voice saying, "It's time."
Goo sat at the edge of his bed for a long time before standing.
The silence wasn't oppressive. It was calm. Quiet like the moment just before a storm touches down.
He showered. Dressed in the standard tribute gear—dark, heat-resistant fabric, boots made for rough terrain. The uniform clung to his frame, built more like a fighter than a farmer. He looked at himself in the mirror for the first time in days.
His hair was tousled. Eyes sharp. That faint, familiar smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth again.
Goo Kim. In the Hunger Games.
Still ridiculous.
Still real.
The hovercraft was cold. Sterile. The floor vibrated underfoot as it ascended toward the sky. Rue sat across from him, wrapped in her silence, arms hugging herself tightly.
Goo didn't speak.
Not yet.
Seeder appeared one last time before the drop.
No speech. No encouragement. Just a slow, tired breath and a look that said everything the words wouldn't.
"Don't waste time," he said finally. "Not waiting. Not hesitating. Not regretting."
Goo nodded once.
Seeder stepped closer. Voice lowered.
"And if it comes down to it—her or you?"
Goo's expression didn't change.
"She's not part of the Game," he said quietly.
Seeder blinked.
"…No," he agreed. "She isn't."
The metal circle was colder than expected.
The tube sealed around him with a soft hiss. The light above flickered—once, then twice. He clenched his fists, closing his eyes for a brief moment.
In his mind, he wasn't in the Capitol.
He was back in Seoul. Back in alleys. In underground gyms. Back where violence was personal. Real. Earned.
He wasn't afraid.
But he was ready.
The platform rose.
Light poured in. Harsh. Blinding. Wind slapped his face. And then—
The Arena.
Goo's eyes adjusted.
He saw trees first. Thick, twisted, jungle-like growth. Vines hanging from massive limbs. Mist curling between the trunks. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of rushing water. But the clearing—the Cornucopia—was in the center, ringed with metal crates and supplies, glinting under the sun.
Tributes ringed the outer edge.
Rue. Cassia. Brutus. The boy from 4—his face still swollen from the cafeteria incident.
Goo didn't flinch.
He didn't scan for weapons. He didn't look for escape paths.
He looked at people.
Who was breathing too fast.
Who wouldn't move fast enough.
Who was already dead.
The countdown began.
60 seconds.
He could kill at least three of them before the first minute ended.
45 seconds.
Rue wasn't looking at him. She was looking at the jungle. Planning to run.
Smart.
30 seconds.
Brutus was crouched low, already tensing like a dog at the starting line.
20.
Cassia met his gaze across the ring.
She nodded.
An unspoken message: We see each other.
Goo smirked.
10.
He exhaled.
The roar of the Capitol crowds faded.
Time stretched.
3... 2... 1.
The gong sounded.