One year to the day since the Games broke.
One year since three tributes walked into myth.
The Capitol no longer spoke of the 76th Hunger Games.
In fact, they never officially acknowledged them.
All footage was archived.
All names erased.
Except in the Districts.
In the quiet corners, in the market stalls, in the whispers passed from field to field, the story remained.
Three tributes.
One flare.
No victor.
Some said Rue had died—not in the Arena, but in the Capitol itself, during an escape.Others said she was alive in the mountains above District 6, teaching children how to stay hidden, how to survive, how to listen.
Some said Cassia returned to District 2 only to abandon it, disgusted by the Capitol's control. She disappeared shortly after, last seen wearing a Peacekeeper uniform—one she never earned, but took.
But Goo?
Goo Kim was a ghost.
No one knew where he slept. Or if he did.
He had no District number.
No family.
No record.
Just a name—spoken like a warning or a prayer, depending on who you were.
District 13's resistance had grown teeth.
Sabotage cells. Underground broadcasters. Whispers of defectors in Peacekeeper ranks.
They called the growing movement:
Echo Line.
A network of quiet rebels connected through code, couriers, and former tributes.
And at the center?
A single repeating message, broadcast every week on stolen frequencies:
"We saw the fire."
"Now we carry it."
—Breaker
Some believed he was in the Capitol itself, planting faults in their core systems.
Others said he was already in District 1, turning the elite's children into sympathizers.
The truth?
He was walking south.
One step ahead of Snow's spies.
One step behind the next rebellion spark.
And when a frightened courier found him in the shadow of a burned-out rail line, handed him a list of names marked for execution in District 10, Goo only said one thing:
"…Then we go west."
Fade to black.
Signal lost.
Transmission pending.