“I turned toward you and you turned away. You didn’t turn back. Listen, this is important, you knew it was coming: I’m sorry I scared you but I didn’t die. You don’t get to stay mad about it.” — Richard Siken

The Reaping of the 73rd Hunger Games is just an annoying background noise in Minjeong’s living room. Mandatory, in a sense, for every single person in Panem to watch the games; even more to an up-and-coming mentor. But Minjeong busies herself with kneading in the kitchen, knuckles punching the soft dough to let all her pent up anger and attention be focused on the task at hand. She’s listened to that little speech enough to know it by heart anyway.

She registers the end of the speech, and she quickly dumps the dough in a bowl, throws a warm tea towel over it, and rushes to the living room. A heavy knot sits in her stomach, slowing her steps — but she owes this to the next Tribute, to watch the two unlucky names drawn from the lot. It’s a morbid kind of curiosity and it makes her nauseated, knees weak under her lithe weight. Minjeong stays at the door, leaning on the frame. She pulls a little notepad and pen from the pocket of her apron, ready to strategize as soon as she knows the names.

“Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor,” the overdressed announces, a brilliant smile on her face. The horror starts every year with the same words — and Minjeong bites the insides of her cheeks so hard, she tastes the coppery taste of blood on her tongue. 

Minjeong rolls her eyes, flexing her right hand. It’s just a phantom pain, but it feels real. The silver scar webbing through the middle of her palm, a star-like scar she likes to run her fingertips over as a reminder that she’s alive. Barely, but she is.

The camera pans over all the people Minjeong used to play with, work with. All the faces are familiar, but she knows the haunted looks and the low dim of hope. She’s familiar with standing under the blaring sun, sweat rolling down her temples, mouth dry with nervousness. Twelve year olds look around with crazed eyes, unfamiliar with being the ones with names in the lottery. Eighteen year olds look less fazed, bitter with the knowledge of how many times their names are thrown into the glass bowl, how slim their chances are to survive their last year.

Last year, she, too, stood out there. Holding all the neighboring girls’ hands, praying to whatever gods were listening, to let her survive this Reaping. Then, she’d be free. And someone must’ve listened because Minjeong’s name stayed in the bowl — except, cruel events have cruel endings.

“Are there any Volunteers?”

Minjeong bites her lip so hard, it draws blood. She watches the crowd and lets a long sigh out when no one puts their hands up. Right. It's not that type of District.

“Alright,” the says, her smile dimmed. Not every game has a twist but Minjeong can imagine how she and the Capitol would love to have another of last year's surprises. “Then, ladies first!”

Minjeong taps the end of the pen to the notepad, the quick beat matching her own heart. The camera shows long, manicured nails pinching a neatly folded paper and pulling it out of the bowl. Minjeong’s learnt to be logical — there's so little chance of her to be the one. After last year, there's no way she is the one chosen.

But whoever is pulled, Minjeong’s heart goes out for them.

The walks slowly back to the microphone, dazzling smile intact. With a deliberate beat, she unfolds the note and her eyes widen. Maybe that should've been a red flag for Minjeong, but she lulled herself into the comfortable thought that lightning never strikes one place twice.

“I want to volunteer!” 

The world stops with a scratch. The camera pans to the crowd, searching for the volunteer. Minjeong knows before she’s shown on the television, could recognize her voice, the sheer steeliness of her words and her nightmares are slipping into real life and Minjeong can only watch from the sidelines. 

The smiles, brilliant with a hundred shiny white teeth. “Oh, my dear. You don’t need to volunteer.”

Folding the note out and turning towards the camera, the shaky picture shows the name Minjeong was afraid to hear. Prayed and prayed for her last year to finish without a hitch because — she should have been fine. She should have survived her eighteenth year and step out of the possibility of an early death. The phantom aches of her hand return and she has to close her eyes not to let the world crumble around her.

With a pleased curl of her lips, she announces, “And the girl tribute is… Yu Jimin!”

The pen lands on the hardwood floor with a loud clattering.

***

Minjeong sits tight in the armchair, knees bouncing up and down as she waits. It's a pretty little room, the brocade wallpaper bordering on tacky but the green hues meant to calm the tributes and their families. It doesn't work, but the thought is what counts.

Meeting with the Mentors is not necessary at this stage, but Minjeong knows even the presence of a previous winner helps the nerves. Because they survived somehow — by mad luck or skill, it doesn't matter in the Arena. Minjeong had a little of both, and had great marketing by volunteering to fight. But she cannot pinpoint any of it that contributed more than the other; she’s done it once, she probably couldn’t do it again.

Last year, she was the one standing on the other side of the door, explaining to her mom why she'd chosen to volunteer. She didn't understand, nor would she ever do so. Then when she left in tears, Jimin visited her, eyes ablaze with something that scared Minjeong.

"I don't need you to save me."

With a loud bang, the door opens and saves Minjeong from drowning in the memory. Kim Taeyeon steps into the room, immediately demanding attention. And just as immediately, Minjeong’s iron-clad composure slips and falls into pieces. Her lower lip trembles, and Taeyeon’s eyes melt with the sight.

“Minjeong, you can't cry,” Taeyeon softly scolds, wrapping her arms around her. “The Tributes are almost here.”

Minjeong is quick to smear the stray teardrops from her eyes. Taeyeon is in her late thirties with the demeanor of an apex predator. She's the second-ever winner to get out of District 11, and the sole reason Minjeong got through last year's Game. And because Minjeong is the first kid Taeyeon was able to bring home, her cutting personality softened around the edges when it came to her.

"You can still choose not to mentor her," Taeyeon offers. "You can take Lee Jeno, if you want."

Minjeong knows Jeno from the fields, the same age as Jimin. Neither of them had the luck to survive their last years, and somehow fate seems to be hell-bent to take Jimin from these calm fields and place her into the Arena. She wouldn't mind working with Jeno — in her mind, there are already winning aspects she could use to sell him for the Capitol. Sweet smile hiding blood thirst. Everyone loves that. Minjeong would know.

But she feels like she owes Jimin to try for her sake. To try and get her to come home. So she shakes her head, ready to accept her fate.

"I think it’s better like this," Minjeong says, pushing down the panic for long enough so Taeyeon believes her. "Maybe she'll be disqualified for murdering her mentor beforehand."

"You think you're funny." Taeyeon pulls an eyebrow up. “But you’re not.”

Jimin comes into the room and Minjeong steels herself not to draw back from her. It's been a while since they spoke — the last time was exactly in this room, a year ago. Ever since Minjeong’s return, Jimin has been ignoring her, walking past her with her wounded ego. Minjeong didn't mind, knowing that at least she was safe between the apple orchards and wheat fields. Looking into her eyes the same words repeated in her head.

You don't have to save me.

But now she stands here, an arm's length away but her icy gaze distances her even more. She's so familiar — the mole under her lips, the pretty slope of her nose, warm brown eyes. She's the girl Minjeong fell in love with years ago, who she was inseparable from. Now they are on the brink of losing each other once again.

Not like Minjeong can claim she's losing something. When she volunteered to replace Jimin last year, Minjeong lost her the moment her hand shot up in the sky. The thing is: Yu Jimin is capable. More than capable. Put a bow and arrows in her hands, she’ll shoot a bullseye. Give her knives, she’ll master throwing them in no time. It’s not about skills, it has never been. It was about the possibility of seeing Jimin leave, seeing her fight through her way in the Arena with her myriad of skills and still not returning home. 

Protection, even if ill-placed, made Minjeong’s hand move on its own accord. She didn’t look at Jimin when she said the words ‘I volunteer’, but she saw from the corner of her eyes as the camera panned between them. Jimin, with a brewing summer storm in her eyes, and Minjeong, pale and trembling. The unsure whispers broke Minjeong out of her stupor, and dazed, she walked up the stage. 

Taeyeon’s cool hand caresses her back, and Minjeong returns to the present. Meeting her eyes, Taeyeon slowly steps away and slips out of the room. Standing there with Jimin, alone in a room that was meant to hold the useless rage of the tributes, she wishes Taeyeon had stayed. 

“I almost anticipated you jumping out to volunteer for me,” Jimin says, her smile morphing into a grimace. “I guess you can’t do that twice.”

“I would if I could.” 

“You don’t learn.” 

“I just don’t think the Arena is your place.”

Jimin clenches her jaw. “You think I’m weak?”

“Yes.”

It’s easier to lie. The truth hardened Jimin into a person Minjeong can barely recognize, so if she needs to lie to keep her fire alive, to get her to commit to the anger, to the feeling of injustice, then let it be like that. Perhaps this will be enough to propel her through the upcoming masacre. She needs Jimin steeled and shut closed; she might miss the warmth of her eyes but Minjeong cannot be greedy. 

At least not that kind of greedy. She should focus all her wants and desires on keeping Jimin alive. 

Minjeong lets a wry smile curl on her lips at the sight of Jimin’s bubbling anger. “But not too shabby. You can win this if you listen to me.”

“You’re the last person I want to listen to.”

“You hurt my feelings,” Minjeong drily says. Then softer, she asks, “Did you manage to say goodbye to your family?”

For a moment, something slips through the concrete walls of Jimin’s self-preservation. The answer comes in a curt nod. 

Another thing: she’s too weak-hearted. Jimin likes to pretend she’s not, but Minjeong sees through her weak facade. Maybe because they were growing up side by side, whistling and singing while picking cherries, telling stories while cultivating the corn, exchanging rapid-fire jokes while digging through the soft black soil, Minjeong knows her. Maybe Minjeong knows her better, because they were the ones finding wounded foxes and fawns between the blocks of fields and Jimin felt for them, nursed them back to life. Minjeong was more realistic — the foxes could carry rabies, the deers ate the crops and she knew whose portion would be limited the moment the harvest was smaller than expected.

So when Minjeong was locked into the Arena and all she had was a knife, she knew she cannot afford mercy. She dressed down her morals the moment someone blew up beside her because they were nervous and impatient and stepped down the pedestal a moment too early. 

But Jimin. The problem with Jimin is that Minjeong cannot see her doing the same. She cannot see her walking past the injured, or finishing half-jobs. She sees her helping others until they turn against her — because only one of them can leave. And if Jimin doesn’t turn herself out, doesn’t evolve into a monster, she will never leave. 

Minjeong knew one thing when her hand shot up in the sky. Jimin is not suited for the Hunger Games. She’s a fighter but another kind — her fight is softer, subdued. She fights against the Capitol by resisting falling into their charms, keeping the heart of the people in the District, helping them stand up when they are kicked down. And Minjeong wanted to preserve that. The Eleventh District needed her, a sip of cold water for the thirsty, and Minjeong knew Jimin would be an important puzzle piece in the grand scheme of things later. So she volunteered. 

So she sacrificed herself, then in the Arena, she sacrificed others. This is what the Game is about.

“What did your mother say when you volunteered?” Jimin asks.

She walks towards the only window in the room, the heavy planks nailed to the wall so the Tributes won’t try to run away at the last minute. Through the small gaps, the last peeks of sunlight cradles her cheeks, a goodbye kiss sent from the heavens. Minjeong wonders if they bring good luck, as she stood there a year ago, etching the endless rows of fields and orchards into her mind.

“She begged me to tell her why I did it.” 

“Was it worth volunteering?” 

“Is  it worth it to you now?” Minjeong counter-argues. 

“Didn’t you see? It went great.” Jimin lets out a self-deprecating puff of laughter. “Life is funny sometimes. I was meant to the Games, you just stole my chance. And now it came for me again.”

Before their first Reaping, Jimin found an injured fox between the wheat crops. Hind leg stuck in a fox trap, it kept crying for help during the long hours of night and the only response came from a girl barely twelve, with braided pigtails and a crispy white nightgown. The nightgown was painted red with blood when Jimin knocked on Minjeong’s window — too nervous to sleep, Minjeong was up. Taking one look at the broken animal between Jimin’s arms, Minjeong came to a decision.

“We have to kill it. It’s only merciful to let him go of his pain,” she said, voice devout of emotions. Her eyes were already searching the ground for a rock big enough to crack bone, to give a shift ending to the suffering.

Minjeong likes to think she’s not inherently a killer, but taught to be one. 

“No!” Jimin cried, but caught herself quickly. Lowering her voice, she urged Minjeong. “Let me hide him in your barn.” 

“Jimin—” 

“If you don’t want to help, that's okay.”

Minjeong looked at her friend, soaked in the gushing warm blood of the fox and thought ‘this might be the last time I see you’ and sighed. She tipped her head towards the hind leg of the fox. “It looks broken. We don’t have the stuff to hold the bones in place but I’ll bring some thread and needle and we can sew him up, hoping for the best.”

The next day the Reaping came and they survived. They watched a girl three years their senior and a boy in his last year being picked and carried away screaming and crying. A few weeks later, they watched the boy die on the first day. The girl died two days later. 

Every night after the screening of the Hunger Games, they visited the fox. It could stand now, though preferred using his other legs. Still hollow from watching one of theirs die live television, Jimin reached out to pet the soft copper fur of the fox but he bit her instead. Spooked from the sudden cries, the fox ran out of the barn, disappearing into the velvety night. 

Blood specks appearing on the pierced sun tanned skin, Minjeong grumbled as she reached out to clean the injury.

“I told you. He was a wild thing,” she said. “He had no mercy when he killed the chicken, he had it coming.”

Jimin let Minjeong handle the bite, but now she took her hand in hers. “I don’t think it’s a bad thing helping him stay alive.”

Minjeong had no counter-arguments.

The same girl looks up at Minjeong now, and confesses, “Minjeong, I’m afraid.”

Jimin’s hands are different now. They are calloused from working on the field, hardened and strong — just like Minjeong. She’s not the same now, after the Games, she changed for the worse, but she likes to think that during the District tour, facing the powerless anger of the families of those she killed in the Arena, she slowly but surely pieced the remainder of her old self back. Some pieces don’t fit anymore, some pieces are lost forever. Minjeong still holds onto what they were years ago when the Hunger Games was just a looming threat, with a white-knuckled grip.

“I’ll get you out alive. I promise.”

***

Minjeong wishes she didn’t promise anything. Clicking through the profiles of the other Tributes, especially reading through the files from those of the Career districts, the gnawing feeling of dread punches a hole in her chest. Bred to die on the floors of the Arena, or come out as shining Victors, they are one of the most dangerous. That doesn’t mean they are the only ones, though. 

During the train ride, they sit in suffocating silence. Taeyeon, familiar with the comfort of silence during this part of the preparations, sips from her tea and waits for Jeno to come to her on his own. Minjeong knows that; Taeyeon is unwilling to build an emotional bridge with the Tributes because, most of the time, she will watch them die in the Arena. Minjeong thought this to be a cruel game, looking into uncaring eyes the last seconds before you are sent to fight for your life, but now she sees the appeal. 

Jimin chews on the tea biscuits one after another. When she finishes her tray and her fingers are searching for another biscuit, Minjeong pushes her own towards her. She’s not hungry anyways.

The lame attempt of truce is ignored by the shake of Jimin’s head and the tray is pushed back in front of Minjeong again. 

“I—” Jeno starts, clears his throat. Minjeong glances to his way and finds him already looking. Fingers playing with the hem of the tablecloth, he collects his thoughts and says, “I’m glad you won. I don’t think I had the chance to congratulate you before.”

“I don’t think it’s something you need to congratulate me for,” Minjeong says, a wry smile pulling on her lips. “But thank you, Jeno.”

Jeno seems to perk up at that, his melancholic stupor forgotten momentarily. He pulls his chair closer to the table, looking more comfortable. He was the boy they hung out the most — adorably gullible, sweet in his boyish ways — until he was physically strong enough to be put on other duties than fruit picking. With his boxy white smile, he turns towards Jimin, nudging her with his elbow.

“We watched you every night, didn’t we Jimin? We even tried to collect enough money to get you matchsticks. Everyone chipped in and Jimin even—”

“Jeno—” Jimin warns. 

Jeno blinks at her, confused for a moment. Then seeing the tight line of Jimin’s mouth, he retreats. 

Minjeong always assumed Jimin had a personal vendetta against her for trying to save her. But the thought of Jimin, desperate and trying to raise enough money to help Minjeong a tiny bit, one fire at a time, warms her from the inside. It’s a feeling she hasn’t felt long ago; the flames of her own affection that survived even the glaciers of the unforgiving cold, kept her alive and fighting until the last seconds. The tiny flame was only flickering before — parading around as a Victor, entertaining the ghosts of the children she killed, living in a soulless home that creaked with the loneliness of a sole victor. Now, it comes alive, embers burning low in the cage of her chest.

But it’s not about Minjeong. It’s never been about her. 

Everything she did was for Jimin — to keep her alive because something true in this world needed to bloom stronger, inspire others. She shushed this tiny fire, making it crackle silently.

“Thank you again,” Minjeong says, trying to finish the conversation quickly. 

“I’m sorry that I didn’t visit you after you came home,” Jeno says, sheepishly. “But visiting the victors’ residence seemed like bad luck before the last game. It didn’t matter in the end.”

“It’s okay. I should’ve visited more, too.”

After her victory, she secluded herself into the house. Every creak in the long built, empty row of houses made her jump, her own shadows morphed into bodies ready to hunt her down. Minjeong has only been the second victor who could move in, and even if food and money were plenty now, she refused to leave the house.

Those ghosts will not go anywhere, Taeyeon said when she forced herself into Minjeong’s house. She swirled the wine in her glass and Minjeong almost begged for her to lie so she could hold onto false hope. Instead, Taeyeon tilted her head to the side and shot her with the truth. You need to learn to live with them.

Taeyeon catches her eyes over the table, but thankfully she stays silent. She places her tea cup on the coaster and at the rattle, Jimin and Jeno look up at her. Gently, she smiles at them and leans forward. 

“I think it’s time for you to tell us your strengths.” 

Jimin and Jeno look at each other, communicating only through their gazes. Jealousy has risen inside of her, the flip of a monster, at seeing the smooth interaction, the wordless understanding. Minjeong for a moment wonders if Jeno was the replacement, the embrace that kept Jimin warm when Minjeong left. Or if she has the right to feel jealous because Jimin was never just hers outside the shy kisses and gentle touches during those nights.

Jeno clears his throat. “I’m used to working on the fields so I would say — physical strength? Also I can pinpoint poisonous plants from kilometers away, but I’m sure everyone from this district is perfectly capable of that.”

To the end, his voice gets softer and softer. Taeyeon picks up on his uncertainty and pats his shoulder. 

“No, that’s good. There were victors who won just by avoiding poisonous plants.” Taeyeon gives a reassuring smile, then turns towards Jimin. “And you?”

The confident facade is wobbly at best on Jimin’s face. She inhales deep, straightens her back to look taller, to carve out a space for herself at this table of fighters. Minjeong furrows her eyebrows, watching her stutter out, “I— don’t really have anything I’m especially good at.”

“That’s a lie,” Minjeong says bluntly. Jimin snaps her eyes towards her. “You have excellent survival skills. You know how to tend to injuries, know how to get food or water in the wild. You know where to stab to hurt and where to stab to kill — you will have your whole training period to sharpen those skills, but you are not the lost cause you think you are.”

“You don’t know anything, Minjeong,” Jimin says through her gritted teeth. Minjeong’s cool analysis about her capabilities seemed to hit on a sore spot; Jimin doesn’t seem to like the reflection of the simpler times, when Minjeong knew her better than the lines of her own palms. 

“I think it’s the contrary — I know more than enough.” Minjeong forces a smile on her lips. 

“If you thought I was weak to fight, then what changed?” 

“That I’m not there to protect you.”

Abruptly, Jimin stands up, throwing her napkin on the table. It knocks over a teacup, the fragrant scent of jasmine lingering in the air. Minjeong slowly pushes back her chair, standing too. Planting her hands on the table, leaning over it to catch Jimin’s stormy eyes, she wonders how every time they talk, the train of the conversation derails and causes mass casualty. 

“We have to discuss tactics—”

“I have nothing to discuss with you.”

Jimin turns around and storms out of the dining car. Minjeong watches her go, but she doesn’t move to follow after her. Suddenly, Taeyeon’s cold hand is tapping hers and Minjeong refocuses on the present, plopping back down on her chair. For a moment, she takes her time to rub her temples and force the slow inhale and exhale until she calms down. Looking up, she finds Jeno looking at her so she puts on a fake smile.

“Sorry. Things have been rough with Jimin ever since I came back,” she says sheepishly.

“I don’t want to make excuses for her but she—” Jeno starts, looking over his shoulders to gaze at the door Jimin slammed shut seconds ago. “She had a tough time after you volunteered. She watched you getting dragged away, fighting for your life each night — and almost dying in her stead. You didn’t even come to visit her once you returned.”

“I had my reasons not to.” 

Jeno nods, understanding. “Yes, but she also came up with her own explanations. She thought you regretted volunteering for her.”

“That’s not true.”

“She doesn’t know that.”

Minjeong sees the benevolence in Jeno’s actions but it doesn’t make her less angry. Jimin is old enough to come up to her and tell her grievances; Jeno can try and mess with Minjeong’s conscience. It is not going to work when it’s not paired with Jimin’s soft brown eyes, if the serrated edge of her doubts are not coming straight from Jimin. Maybe Minjeong is too proud, maybe she has given up her humanity a long time ago, but she doesn’t feel guilty for brushing Jeno off.

“It doesn’t matter,” Minjeong concludes. “She’s a Tribute now and this is the Hunger Games. If she wants to have a chance at survival, she will have to put aside whatever is bothering her. I’m her mentor, I’ll try to help her with everything. She just needs to ask.”

Jeno’s eyes harden on her for a moment like he cannot recognize her. 

Perhaps he can’t. 

He pushes his chair out, standing slowly. He doesn’t storm out — it’s not in his character — yet there is a certain edge in which he says, “If you don’t mind, I’ll look for her.”

Minjeong's stomach twists again, uncomfortable and poisonous. 

“You’re being childish,” Taeyeon comments once the door clicks shut silently after Jeno leaves, resting her chin on the back of her hand.

“I am not.”

“Both of you are.”

Anger wakes inside of Minjeong so suddenly, she can barely bite it back. The hot lava of anger slips through the tight seam of but cools down enough to not scorch her old mentor.

“She holds a grudge for what? That I saved her? Well, I am not sorry.”

“I don’t want to be caught up in your little hmm— power struggle,” Taeyeon says, letting a smile spread on her lips when Minjeong snaps her head towards her at those words. Clearing , she forces seriousness on her features. “But I want you to sort things out with her before we arrive at the Capitol. Do you think people will sponsor her if it turns out she hates the person who volunteered for her, their most recent little Victor?”

Minjeong’s eyebrow twitches but she doesn’t say anything. Suddenly Taeyeon’s cold fingertips touch her hands.

“I know it’s hard to give up your pride, but— she’s still here. But she might not be after the games.”

The high walls of self-preservation crumble so easily, and Minjeong’s shoulders curl forward to save her chest from the sudden weight of the boulders of sadness. Grief is early yet, it’s a constant afterthought. It lingers behind her teeth, makes her words soulless, emotionless. This grief sits in her muscles, locking her up when she should reach out. But without the constant glare of Jimin’s eyes, she lets herself sit with her grief for a moment. 

Burying her face in her palms, her words come out muffled. 

“I don’t wanna do this.”

This: gravel for forgiveness. This: risk losing more of Jimin than she already has. This: letting Jimin step into the Arena. 

This: let Jimin die.

Taeyeon’s hand is a lifeline thrown to her while the waves are crashing over her head. Then, her words push her back under the icy of the ocean of despair, saltwater filling her lungs and burning her eyes.

“There is nothing you can do. Aside from the obvious.”

Prepare her, crush her bones into fine dust until she’s moldable to withstand the cruelty of the game. Drop on her knees, as ridiculously painted faces pick and choose between dying children to find their favorites, like they are just choosing between adorable puppies, and beg to choose Jimin so that she has an infinitesimal chance to survive. Watch the screen, watch her get hurt, get hunted and try to solve her problems from the outside. 

“I don’t know how you keep doing this.”

Taeyeon pulls back her hand, hiding it under the table. She sighs with the grief of losing dozens of children and Minjeong realizes there is a reason why Taeyeon doesn’t talk about it — bottled up tightly in the back of her mind, she can pretend it doesn’t exist. 

“I like to think I do everything I can for the Tributes,” she says, careful words come out soft but gritty with a hidden layer of anger, “and that I am just the closest person to blame for their death. That I’m not the one pushing them over the cliff. Because the question is — why is there a cliff in the first place?”

Taeyeon reaches for the bottle of wine in the middle of the table but her hand stops, trembling fingers hovering just outside of her reach. She thinks better of it, and stands slowly. The train rocks slightly as they rush towards their end and Minjeong wonders if she’s seeing herself in Taeyeon. If she will find something t