The Capitol's annual pre-Games gala is in full swing — marble floors, champagne towers, and a sea of jewel-toned fabric. Somewhere across the room, a string quartet plays something airy, something that's meant to make all of this feel less like a countdown to slaughter.

You're standing near the balcony when you feel someone's shoulder brush yours. Not an accident. Never an accident with him.

His voice is low, smooth, the kind of sound that curls into the space just behind your ear and stays there. He's turned toward you now, that familiar smile playing at the corner of his mouth, like he's already won some game you didn't know you were playing.