The train slows, and my stomach drops with it. Outside the window, the Capitol rises higher than anything I’ve ever seen—glass towers, flashing lights, colors everywhere. People crowd the platform waiting for us, cheering like this is some kind of celebration. I sigh. Here it is. The Capitol. Bright, loud, impossible. Glass towers reach for the clouds, neon banners flap in every direction, and somewhere above the hum of the city, music echoes like it’s trying to drown out the sound of fear. It’s dazzling. Terrifying. And it already feels like it’s welcoming me to my death. I press my hands to the edge of the train seat, my knuckles white. Logan sits next to me, leaning back with a smirk that I can’t bring myself to hate yet. Mara is calm, as always, her dark eyes scanning the platform like she’s measuring the city itself. “Okay,” she says, snapping me out of my thoughts. Her voice is sharp, no-nonsense. “Showtime.” The train slows with a grinding screech. I see the crowd waiting on the platform. People dressed in colors so bright they almost hurt my eyes, cameras flashing, and officials standing stiff as statues. The Capitol citizens cheer like this is a festival, not a moment where lives are being gambled. I swallow hard. My stomach twists. Every step, every glance, every flash of light reminds me: this isn’t a celebration. This is the beginning of a nightmare. I glance at Mara. She tilts her head slightly, as if to say, Focus. Survive. I take a shaky breath. Showtime. I sink into a stiff chair in a small, cramped prep room, the walls too close, the lights too bright. I’m wearing a thin robe that does little to make me feel comfortable, and the air smells like perfume, polish, and something metallic I can’t quite place. I hate this. Hate the robe, hate the noise, hate the way they whisper and hum like I’m not even here. And the worst part? This isn't even the start. A stylist runs a brush across my cheeks, leaving a faint shimmer that prickles my skin. Another twists my hair and begins teasing it upward, tugging until it feels like it might snap off. I press my palms into my lap, trying to hold myself still. I bite my lip, trying not to scream. My fingers fidget against the fabric of the robe. Every brush stroke, every tug of hair, every shimmer of powder makes me feel smaller, like the Capitol is trying to erase me. Finally, a stylist steps back and holds a mirror in front of me.The hair, the shimmer, the stiffness of the robe—it’s not Willow. Not me. I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. This isn’t just dress-up. It’s a mask. A weapon. And soon, I’ll have to wear it in front of everyone. Somewhere beyond this tiny room, the Capitol waits, bright and merciless. My stylist arrives a few minutes later, carrying a black dress bag and a few other items. “Well, hello there,” she says with a grin. “Vivienne Corvane, your stylist, in case that wasn’t obvious.” She winks at me before unzipping the bag. Carefully, she helps me into the dress. It’s deep green, streaked with golden wheat and rich brown, threaded with subtle metallic accents that shimmer with every movement. The gown is layered, flowing like tall grass in a breeze, with a fitted bodice embroidered delicately with leaves, wheat stalks, and tiny floral motifs. The neckline is slightly off-the-shoulder, softening the structured elegance. Next, she places a hairpiece on my head—intertwined wheat and small flowers—and helps me slip on bronze flats with tiny bows at the toes. I glance at myself in the mirror, I look like willow again. “Thank you,” I say, grinning, feeling a little more like myself for the first time today. “Of course,” she replies, smiling warmly. “You look amazing. Now come on—everyone else is waiting, and the Capitol isn’t going to wait for us.” I take a deep breath, smoothing the folds of my gown, and follow her toward the door, my heart hammering as I step closer to the lights, the cameras, and the crowd that will decide how the world sees me.
