You know, sometimes life hands you an opportunity wrapped in barbed wire, and you’re expected to grab it with a smile. That was how I ended up there. Prim’s name was pulled, and everyone was staring at me like I was supposed to throw myself on the altar of sacrifice. And like a complete idiot, I did it. I volunteered. Because what could go wrong? Oh, right, I was just jumping into a battle royale with 23 other teenagers, no big deal. Heroic? More like a temporary lapse in judgment fueled by sibling love and a total disregard for my own survival instincts.

Effie Trinket. Oh, where did I even begin? She was like a walking cupcake with a terrifying obsession for sparkle. Her hair was a giant neon-pink cotton candy puff that was somehow more structured than any building in District 12.

"That’s mah-velous, Katniss!" she chirped in that high-pitched Capitol accent every time I so much as blinked. Right, Effie. Marvelous. Being sent to a death match was basically like winning a dream vacation—if that vacation was in a hostile jungle filled with murderers.

"May the odds be ever in your favor!" she chirped again. Sure, Effie, because the odds of surviving were one in twenty-four. But thank you, Effie, great pep talk.

Arriving at the Capitol felt like walking into a circus made of radioactive paint. Loud colors, hairstyles that defied gravity, makeup that would have given even clowns nightmares—and everyone was smiling, like this was totally normal.

They served us food so fancy it didn’t even look like food. I poked at something that might have been soup, but could also have been liquid regret. I wondered how people there ate without accidentally poisoning themselves. I supposed half of them just vomited so they could eat more.

Haymitch was the mentor everyone dreamed of—if your dream was to be guided by a constantly drunk pessimist. His best advice? "Don’t die." Thanks, Haymitch. I had considered dying, but he convinced me to give survival a shot.

Training started, and surprise—I was good at shooting arrows. Everyone was impressed, as if growing up hunting to avoid starvation wasn’t a dead giveaway. I could probably have won an award for "Best at Illegal Survival," but sure, let’s treat this like a carnival game.

Then there was Peeta, the boy with the bread and possibly feelings for me. I was supposed to train, but mostly I was thinking about how awkward it would be when we eventually had to kill each other. He was sweet and charming, and I was over there wondering if he would club me with a loaf of sourdough.

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The Careers were tributes on steroids. They had trained their whole lives for this, treating the Games like summer camp for psychopaths. While they formed alliances and sharpened their spears, I was trying to figure out where my next meal was coming from.

My plan? Stay as far away from them as possible. Let them kill each other. I would be up in a tree, waiting for the herd to thin out. Survival 101.

The arena was a death trap disguised as nature. The Capitol really outdid themselves—killer bees, fireballs, dehydration. You name it. And, of course, the other tributes who all wanted to kill me. So that was fun.

The first few days were mostly about hiding and trying not to get killed by the Careers. I had been up in a tree for so long I started to wonder if I would sprout leaves. But it was better than getting my head bashed in.

And then there was Peeta. Sweet, sincere Peeta, who had been in love with me since forever, apparently. Except now, we had to fake that love for the cameras. Because why not add Capitol-sponsored romance to my list of problems?

I wasn’t sure if Peeta was really in love with me or just playing the game. Either way, we were stuck in this Capitol version of a dating show, where losing meant death. Romantic, right?

Apparently, if you were impressive enough, rich Capitol citizens sent you gifts. It was like online shopping, but instead of clothes, you got burn ointment. One day I got some medicine, and another day Peeta got soup. Soup. You know what would have been helpful in a life-or-death situation? Weapons.

Near the conclusion of the game, a bunch of dogs charged at us, and everything froze. For a moment, it was just pure terror. Then I saw Peeta, bleeding and barely standing, and I knew this was it. My head spun. My heart was pounding so hard I could barely think. I had no choice. I reached for the berries. If I was going to die, I was taking the Capitol’s game down with me. Besides, I never trusted their fruit anyway.

The Capitol freaked out, called off the game, and suddenly we were both victors. But I had a sinking feeling this wasn’t over. Survival, it turned out, was just the beginning.

So, we won. Yay? Everyone was congratulating me, but all I felt was the weight of the Capitol’s eyes on me. They couldn’t have been happy about the berry stunt, and I wasn’t eager to be their new favorite puppet.

Effie was thrilled, of course. "Mah-velous!" she chirped, as if surviving a death match was something to celebrate.

Returning home felt like stepping back into a nightmare that had somehow gotten worse. Sure, I was alive. But everyone was looking at me like I was supposed to have all the answers now. Newsflash: I didn’t. I was just a girl who volunteered for her sister and ended up as a pawn in the Capitol’s twisted game.

The Games may have been over, but the war was just beginning. Let’s hope this time, the odds were in my favor.

The end.