Jason, sitting across from them, simply glowers. His dark eyes fix on me like I’ve personally offended him by existing. I ignore him and focus on the ham, savoring the salt and fat on my tongue.
“This food, though,” Caspian says around a mouthful of apple. “Makes you wonder what the catch is.”
“The catch is we fight to the death for entertainment.”
“Right. But still.” He gestures at the spread. “Could be worse.”
Before I can tell him exactly how wrong he is, a shadow falls across our table.
“Robin.”
I look up to find Evander standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight. The doctor looks annoyed.
“Your check-up appointment. Now.”
“I’m eating.”
“You’re late.”
“I don’t own a watch.”
His eyes narrow. “Move. Now.”
I glance longingly at my half-eaten plate, then at Caspian, who shrugs apologetically. The bread rolls will be gone by the time I get back. So will the cheese.
I follow Evander through the corridor, my stomach growling in anger. “You know,” I say to his back, “for a place that’s going to kill me in a few weeks, the food situation is really adding insult to injury.”
Evander turns. For a second I think he’s going to snap at me—but then his mouth quirks. “You’re complaining about the bread?”
“I’m complaining about not getting tofinishthe bread.”
Evander laughs, opening his office door. “I see you’ve got your priorities straight.” He gestures to the examination table.
I sit on the edge, the metal cold even through my clothes. “Why am I here?”
“I need your blood, and I’m still monitoring you for concussion. And I want to check your cheek.”
I roll my eyes. “My cheek is the least of my concerns. Marco beat the shit out of me yesterday. Now I won’t be able to run properly for days.”
Evander moves closer, studying my face with those sharp, assessing eyes. There’s something calculating in his expression, like he’s seeing more than just bruises and cuts. “Something tells me you’ll find the energy.”
“Is that how Marco has lasted so long here?” I find myself blurting out. “He just takes out his competition during the training sessions?”
Evander sighs. “You should listen to Marco. He’ll be trying to help you. During training, he won’t hurt you enough to damage your ability to fight—he needs you to put on a good show.”
“A show?”
“It’s theatre.” He moves to a cabinet and pulls out a glass vial and a thin needle that gleams under the harsh lights. The sight of it makes my stomach clench, but not from fear. From hunger. I should still be eating breakfast.
“Theatre?”
“Hold out your arm.”
I extend my left arm, watching as he ties a rubber band around my biceps. The needle slides in with a sharp pinch, and dark red blood flows into the vial.
“What’s this for?” Haven’t they taken enough from me?
“Standard tests. Blood type, diseases, that sort of thing.” He watches the vial fill, his expression neutral. “But yeah, theatre. When you fight, they’ll pretend you’re all from Victora. Makes the citizens feel proud of their home.”
