The chariot moved slowly, the wheels creaking with ceremonial weight as it rolled down the wide Capitol avenue. Goo stood beside Rue, both of them posed, silent, gleaming under artificial lights.
He hated it.
Not the attention.
The performance of it.
In Lookism, violence had been blunt, sudden, sometimes theatrical—but this? This was blood wrapped in velvet. People in the crowd threw flower petals at them like they were saints. Somewhere, high above, cameras zoomed in. Goo could feel them—the gaze of millions, watching from their living rooms, sipping Capitol wine, judging whether he looked likable, charming, marketable.
He straightened his back, raised his chin just slightly.
If they wanted a show, they'd get one.
Rue looked like she was going to be sick. Her face was pale, eyes darting between the crowd and the cameras. Goo leaned down just slightly, voice low.
"Breathe slow," he said. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth."
She blinked at him, startled.
"I thought you didn't care," she whispered.
"I don't," Goo said. "But if you pass out, they'll make it a meme."
She swallowed, then gave the tiniest nod.
The other tributes were being presented one by one. Some wore flames. Others had wild armor or glowing body paint. The Careers—Districts 1 and 2—stood tall and proud like athletes before a match.
Goo watched them carefully.
The girl from District 2—tall, broad-shouldered, with a jaw like stone—was sizing everyone up. Her stance said she was ready to kill. The boy beside her was leaner, quicker-looking, the kind who would fight like a viper: fast, hard, and mean.
They'll pair up, Goo thought. Stick together until the bloodbath ends. Then turn on each other.
He cataloged others just as quickly.
The twins from District 3 were already glancing nervously at each other. Codependent. Unstable. They'd fall apart the moment one got hurt.
The boy from District 10—young, but he had shoulders like a bull. Strong. Slow. Unfocused.
Goo's mind kept moving. Not because he needed to do this. But because the part of him that had once fought gangs and assassins couldn't stop.
Control the room.
Own the pace.
Strike first—when they least expect it.
"Smile," someone hissed from offstage.
He gave a small, amused smirk. A half-second grin that wasn't warm so much as curious. Calculated. Like he was already thinking five moves ahead.
The crowd ate it up.
They screamed.
Rue looked at him like she wasn't sure whether to be impressed or afraid.
After the parade, they were ushered into the Tribute Tower. Polished floors. Cameras in every corner. Food that smelled too perfect. Goo walked through it like he belonged there.
Seeder met them at the elevator, arms crossed.
"You made an impression," the mentor said, dryly.
"I know," Goo replied.
Seeder studied him for a long moment. "You're different."
"Also true."
"…You planning on winning this?"
Goo looked at him. His smile disappeared.
"I'm planning on surviving."
Seeder nodded slowly. "Same thing in the end."
That night, Goo sat on the edge of his ridiculously soft Capitol bed. He didn't sleep. He didn't need to. The adrenaline was still there—beneath the surface, like oil waiting for a spark.
He thought about the Arena.
He thought about Rue.
He thought about what it meant to survive in a world that demanded you kill children to stay alive.
And for the first time since waking up in this world, Goo Kim frowned.
This place, he thought, is worse than Lookism ever was.