The stage was enormous—lit like a funeral pyre, hot with expectation.
Every tribute had been polished, painted, and propped up to sparkle for the Capitol. Goo sat in the wings, arms draped over the back of his chair, watching them one by one. Caesar Flickerman danced through each interview like a man born for masks—grinning, gasping, goading stories out of kids who were already halfway to the grave.
The audience clapped on cue.
Laughed on cue.
Mourned on cue.
Goo's lip curled slightly. All of it was a script. Every word carefully chosen to paint tributes as lovable, pitiful, or heroic. Sometimes all three. It wasn't about the Games. It was about narrative.
And he'd played in worse arenas than this.
Rue's interview came just before his.
She was dressed in a flowing green gown that shimmered like morning leaves. Goo watched as she smiled awkwardly under Caesar's practiced charm. She talked about healing herbs, her family, how she sang to the mockingjays.
When she mentioned Goo—"He doesn't talk much, but he watches everything"—the crowd murmured.
Caesar chuckled. "Is he scary?"
She hesitated.
Then: "He's... not scared. And I think that's scarier."
Then it was his turn.
The crowd hushed before his name was even finished.
"Goo Kim, District Eleven!"
He stepped into the light.
No nerves. No smile. Just slow, steady movement—one hand in his pocket, the other adjusting the cuff of his sleek black jacket. When he sat down across from Caesar, he didn't lean forward. Didn't shake his hand. He just watched him.
Like a lion staring at a glass wall.
"So, Goo," Caesar said brightly, "you're quite the mystery."
Goo tilted his head slightly. "Am I?"
"Well, the Capitol wants to know more. You barely spoke in training. You got a near-perfect score. And you've made... quite an impression." He gestured toward the audience. "Tell us—who is Goo Kim?"
Goo smiled faintly.
"No one they can control."
There was a pause.
The crowd didn't know whether to laugh or shiver.
Caesar blinked. "Confident. I like that. Are you worried people think you're... dangerous?"
"I am dangerous."
That time, the audience did laugh—but nervously.
Caesar, ever the professional, kept the smile going. "Any special skills you're hoping to use in the Arena?"
"Silence."
"Silence?"
Goo leaned forward—just enough to cast a shadow over Caesar's perfectly lit face.
"People say the Games are about strength. About speed. But the Arena isn't a battlefield."
He paused.
"It's a confession booth."
Now the room was dead silent.
"You show them who you are. One kill at a time."
Backstage, Rue hugged her knees tighter.
Caesar was still smiling, but his hands had started fidgeting.
"Any last words before we wish you luck?" he asked.
Goo stood.
"No."
He turned to the audience, eyes sweeping the glittering Capitol faces.
Then, softly: "See you soon."