The room was silent.
High ceilings. Stone walls. A single circle of light in the center. Twelve Gamemakers sat above, lounging like gods, sipping from crystal glasses, watching tributes parade in one by one like animals in a zoo.
Goo waited outside, leaning against the wall.
He was the last to be called in.
Deliberate, he thought.
They were testing him. Punishing him. They'd heard what happened with the District 4 boy. The Capitol didn't like losing control, and Goo Kim was not the kind of tribute they could turn into a toy.
He smiled anyway.
Let them try.
"Goo Kim. District Eleven."
He stepped in.
Boots clicking.
Hands in his pockets.
Every Gamemaker stopped talking.
He didn't bow. Didn't speak. He just looked up at them—cool, calm, disinterested.
They waited.
He took his time.
The room was full of tools—axes, throwing knives, training dummies, rope, spears, targets.
Goo ignored all of it.
He walked to the far end where an old rack of armor stood—decorative junk, just there for show. He picked up a helmet. Ran a thumb over the bronze edge.
Then he walked slowly back to the center of the room.
There was a tray of fruit near the Gamemakers' table. Capitol extravagance. Golden grapes. Bright orange slices. A peeled pear, still glistening.
He picked up the pear.
Tossed it in the air once.
Then threw the helmet—hard—with such precision it sliced the pear clean in half mid-air before crashing into the far wall, where it stuck into the stone like a war hammer.
Silence.
Then one Gamemaker—an older man in a velvet cape—blinked.
"That's not exactly a traditional skill," he said.
Goo looked up at him.
"Neither is what's coming."
He turned.
Started walking away.
Then paused at the doorway.
He looked over his shoulder, voice casual.
"Score me however you want. Just remember something."
The Gamemakers leaned forward, curious.
"I don't need weapons."
His smirk returned—just enough to be dangerous.
"They're lucky I'm not allowed to bring my hands."
Then he left.