Night in the Capitol is unlike night anywhere else. In this place, darkness is forbidden. Neon lights rise from the streets as if the earth itself is trying to imitate the sky. I stand by the window, the photograph clutched in my hand, remembering the first real night I ever knew. It wasn't in the Capitol. It was in a cell.
Twelve years ago, an hour after my father died, they put me in a windowless room. White. Sterile. Metal chairs. A metal table. A fluorescent light hummed like a fly trapped under glass. The man in the white suit walked in. He was the same man who had stood on our ranch a week earlier, reading a document to my father in a language I didn't understand. My father understood it, though. I saw his face turn to stone.
The man sat across from me and smiled. He called me Ms. Dutton and told me I had two choices. He didn't say he was sorry for my loss. He didn't say it was an administrative error. He just said "two choices."
The first was life imprisonment in Facility 7. Solitary confinement. One visit a year if I was obedient. I would die there alone, and no one would remember my name. He paused, waiting for me to ask about the second option. I didn't ask.
The second choice was to volunteer for the Games. Participation in this year's cycle. If I won, I would live. If I lost, I would die in front of the cameras. But at least people would see me. They would remember my name, at least for a while. I looked at his hands. They were soft and lacked scars. Those hands had never held an ax in their life.
I asked him about my family's land. He laughed a short, sharp laugh and told me my land was now the property of the Capitol. He said this wasn't a negotiation, it was an announcement. I stood up, walked toward the door, and turned back to him. I told him I would play his games. His smile widened and he said he thought I would choose wisdom. I told him I didn't choose wisdom. I chose to watch him die. He stopped laughing.
A knock at the door brings me back to the present. I put the photo back in my pocket and open the door. Roman is standing there alone. He hasn't changed much in five years. His hair is grayer, but his eyes are the same. They are the eyes of a man who has seen too much and is still looking for more. He says my name and walks in without an invitation. He looks around the room at the unmade bed, the blue suit thrown on the chair, and the photo in my pocket.
He tells me the photo arrived and asks why I didn't ask why he sent it. I tell him I knew he would tell me when he was ready. He sits on the edge of the bed, appearing heavy, like someone carrying a weight others cannot see. He tells me the President knows who I am and that my file has been open on his desk since the moment I entered the building.
I remain silent. He continues, telling me that the President doesn't know everything. He doesn't know my father was in contact with the rebels fifteen years ago. He doesn't know the ranch was a station for smuggling supplies to District 8. Most importantly, he doesn't know I am not here to win. I tell him I am here to win. He looks at me and says I am here to kill the President.
Silence falls between us. Roman explains that Voice 001 wants to use me as a pawn, promising me the head of old Snow in exchange for blowing myself up in the Great Hall. I ask him what he wants. He stands and walks to the window, looking at the pink lights. He says he wants to live to see the end of it all, and he wants me to be alive to see it with him. He warns me not to trust Voice 001 or anyone else. But he tells me that if I need help, a weapon, or information before the Games begin, he will be there. He walks toward the door and stops before leaving. He tells me that the choice they offered me twelve years ago will be offered again soon, but this time, the choice will be different. He closes the door behind him.
An hour later, the guards arrive. They lead me to another room that is larger and warmer. There is tea and snacks on the table. Behind the table sits a man I recognize from television: the new President. He tells me to sit and asks if I want tea. I refuse. He smiles and places his hands on the table. His eyes are blue. Everyone here has blue eyes, as if it were a requirement for cruelty.
He tells me he knows my story and what they did to my family. He claims that was under Snow's reign and that he is not Snow. He says he is there to offer me an alternative to the Games: a job serving the Capitol. In exchange, I would get my family's land back, or at least a part of it. I ask what happens if I refuse. He tells me I will enter the arena and die because my chances are slim. He says Cato II will kill me on the first day if I am not careful.
I drink the tea. It is warm, sweet, and nauseating. I ask why he is offering this to me. He says it is because he knows people hate him and that more brutal games won't make them love him. He needs a face from the Districts to stand with him: a face of a strong woman, the face of a Dutton. He wants me to be a traitor, but he says he wants me alive.
I set the cup down. I tell him that when my father died, he told me never to let them choose for me, no matter the cost. I look him in the eyes and tell him I chose to be in the Games. I chose to fight and I chose to kill if necessary. I tell him I did not choose to be his doll. He stares at me for a long time and says that I am choosing death. I tell him no, I am choosing to be myself. He stands and signals the guards to take me back to my room and let me choose as I wish.
Back in my room, I look in the mirror. The woman looing back is not afraid or hesitant. In my right pocket is the photo of my father. In my left pocket, the earpiece is silent. In my head, there is only one choice. I will not be a volunteer for anyone, and I will not be in a cage. I will be the knife that slaughters them all.
I turn off the light. Below the window, the Capitol lights continue their dance. Somewhere beneath those lights, forty-seven participants are sleeping, praying, or planning. One of them will pay the price. It won't be me. I close my eyes. My father used to say that sleep before a battle is more important than a weapon. I sleep.