It was a regular Saturday morning in Panem. The sun had just risen, and the sounds of wildlife and birds broke the silence, accompanied by a chilling gust of wind that moved steadily through the city. It was late October—a time of year when temperatures could dip as low as minus nine degrees.
Beep, beep, beep.
The alarm went off, jolting Tony out of bed like he'd just woken from a nightmare. He stirred, groaned, and stretched until his joints cracked.
"Oh gosh…" he muttered in relief, reluctantly throwing off the covers.
It was 6 a.m., and the town was just beginning to wake. Another day, he thought to himself, stretching again before making his way—clumsily—into the living room.
It was empty. No chairs, no TV, no paint, no curtains. Just bare, cold walls and a sticker on the front door that read: "I'm a winner."
Tony ignored it, like he had for over a month. It didn't faze him anymore. He knew he needed to furnish the place, but money was tight.
I'm working on it, he reassured himself as he darted into the kitchen.
The kitchen wasn't much better—almost as empty as the living room. A single electric cooker and a kettle sat on the counter near a mini refrigerator. That was the extent of it.
He ran a hand over his brow, as if trying to physically wipe away the lingering sleep from his eyes. Then he walked back to the living room—half-naked—carrying a cup of hot tea in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other.
He couldn't miss his morning ritual: watching the sun rise. He loved nature, and he had made it a habit to sit by the window every morning, watching the golden light slowly spill across the horizon over the little hills and scattered trees.
As he sat there, sipping his tea, the town began to stir. He could hear taxis creeping down the road and the distant thump of doors opening and closing as people went about their day.
Just as he was about to stand, his phone rang from somewhere inside the pile of crumpled clothes by the door—the same ones he'd tossed aside the night before.
He picked it up, looked at the screen, and frowned. Too early for calls. He was just beginning to enjoy the view, the tea warming his chest, when it rang again—louder this time.
With an annoyed glance, he answered.
"Hello, Tony." The voice on the other end was deep and smooth, almost presidential.
"Yeah… good morning, Roach. What's up?" Tony replied groggily.
"What do you mean what's up? Yo! We're supposed to go fishing today—remember? It's Saturday, damn it! Get your ass up, the boys are already en route," Roach barked.
"Oh… my bad," Tony said, rubbing his temple. "I almost forgot. Give me five minutes."
Roach didn't bother to respond. The line went dead.
Tony sighed, tossed the now lukewarm tea on the windowsill, and stood up slowly. The breeze slipped through the open cracks in the window like a whisper, reminding him that a sweater might be a good idea. He grabbed one from the pile of clothes near the door, sniffed it, made a face, and put it on anyway. It was fishing, not a dinner date.
By the time he stepped outside, the sky had warmed just enough to spread a pale orange hue across the sleepy streets of Panem. A beat-up silver van with a cracked side mirror screeched to a halt just in front of him. The door slid open.
"Get in, slacker," Roach barked from the passenger seat, grinning as he flicked ash from his cigarette out the window.
Behind the wheel was Garry — lean, dark-skinned, always wearing aviators even before the sun was fully out. He gave Tony a casual nod without removing his eyes from the road.
"Morning, sunshine," Garry said with a smirk.
Tony climbed into the backseat, where Greg — the youngest of the bunch and easily the most chaotic — handed him a beer before he even sat down.
"It's six-thirty," Tony muttered, half-laughing.
"Exactly," Greg said, cracking open one for himself. "Prime fishing hour."
They headed out of town, driving past rows of aging buildings and sleepy-eyed pedestrians bundled in coats. As they exited the main streets and hit the dusty trail toward the lake, the conversation turned to everything and nothing — girls, politics, work, and Roach's latest conspiracy theories.
Garry kept his hand steady on the wheel, occasionally chiming in with one-liners that made Greg burst into those snort-laughs of his. Tony sipped his beer and stared out the window, watching as the city faded into tall grass, half-dead trees, and lonely, open air.
They reached the lake a little after seven. It sat still and glistening under the early morning sky, surrounded by dense trees with golden leaves fluttering in the breeze. It was remote, untouched, and silent — except for the sound of four guys dragging coolers, fishing rods, and speakers out of the van.
Fishing was never really the point. Not for them. They cast their lines lazily, half-watching the water and half-draining bottles. Greg played old-school hip-hop on a portable speaker while Roach rolled a joint, expertly licking the edge as if he'd been doing it since birth.
The smoke drifted in lazy spirals above their heads.
"Hey Garry," Tony said, holding up his half-lit joint, "you ever think we should, I dunno, fish while fishing?"
Garry didn't even look up. "I'm catchin' peace, man. That's better than fish."
Laughter echoed over the lake.
Hours passed in a haze of jokes, snacks, and sips. They caught one fish between all of them — a small, unimpressed catfish Greg named Winston and promptly released back into the lake with a salute.
By noon, the sun was bright and high, and the chill had mostly lifted. The guys packed up slowly, reluctantly, like kids at the end of summer camp. No one wanted to say it, but the silence during the drive back said enough — this was their escape, and like all good escapes, it had an expiration time.
Back in town, Garry pulled up to Tony's place.
"Still looks like a haunted garage," Greg teased, peeking through the van window at the barren front of Tony's home.
Tony laughed. "You should see the inside."
"Don't tempt me," Roach said, pulling out another cigarette. "Next time, your house. We bring the fish. You bring the furniture."
They all laughed, and Tony stepped out, patting the roof of the van.
"Later, boys."
"Later, Tony," they echoed, almost in unison.
The van rolled away, trailing dust behind it, and Tony stood there for a moment, listening to the silence return. He walked back inside, past the bare walls, into the kitchen. He poured himself another cup of tea, cracked open the window, and took his seat by it, watching the sky begin its slow journey toward dusk.
There were no chairs. No paint. No curtains.
Just a man, a cup of tea, a memory of laughter,
Tony took a slow sip from his cup, the bitter taste of lukewarm coffee barely registering as he gazed out the window. The Day was quiet—almost too quiet for a neighborhood like this. That's when he saw it. A figure, standing across the street, motionless in the fading light. Middle-aged, dressed in a faded hoodie, with a black bandana covering the lower half of his face.
At first, Tony looked away. Probably some kid messing around, he thought. But then something gnawed at the back of his mind.
That's Mrs. Judy's place.
She'd lived in that apartment for years—alone. She rarely had visitors, and never at this hour. Curiosity sharpened into unease.
The man was moving now, slinking toward the side of the house, careful with each step. He crept into the yard, darting into the shadows, then crouched near a window. Tony's eyes narrowed. The figure peered inside, scanning the room like he was casing the place. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small metallic box.
Tools.
Tony leaned forward, heart starting to thump. He knew what was happening. The man was picking the lock.
For a moment, he froze. He could call the police. Or at least Mrs. Judy. But the thought flickered and faded. He imagined the guys down at the lake—the fishing crew—Roach, Greg, and the rest. How he'd tell them this story, how he'd stepped in and stopped a real break-in. How they'd look at him then.
His hands were already moving.
Within seconds, he was out the door and crossing the street. The cool air bit at his skin, and every step felt heavier than the last. When he reached the porch, he crouched low and glanced through the window. Inside, the intruder was quick, moving from shelf to drawer with purpose. A display case lay open on the floor, the velvet interior empty. Rings, earrings, a vintage brooch—all of it disappeared into the man's pockets.
Tony acted on instinct.
He pushed the door open and stormed inside. "Hey!"
The burglar jerked around, startled. They locked eyes, tension hanging thick between them.
"Put it down," Tony ordered, voice rising. "Now."
But the man didn't stop. He lunged forward.
In an instant, the quiet house erupted into violence. They collided in a chaotic flurry—arms grappling, fists flying. Furniture toppled, glass shattered. Tony managed a punch that sent the man reeling, but pain exploded in his side—sharp and searing.
A gunshot rang out.
Time slowed. Tony stumbled back, hand pressed to his side, warm blood seeping through his shirt. The burglar lay sprawled on the ground, the gun between them, smoke still curling from the barrel.
For a moment, nothing moved. Just the sound of Tony's ragged breath and the thrum of his own heartbeat in his ears.
Then, slowly, he stepped forward.
The man didn't move.
Tony crouched beside him, reaching out with trembling fingers. He grabbed the bandana and pulled it away.
His breath hitched.
The face staring back at him was familiar. Too familiar.
"Greg?"
The name escaped his lips in a whisper, as if saying it aloud would somehow make it untrue. But there was no mistake. It was Greg—his friend, his fishing buddy, the same man he'd been cracking jokes with on the lake that very morning. Tony's mind reeled.
He looked down at his hands—bloodied, trembling. He looked around the room—his fingerprints everywhere: on the doorknob, the shattered cabinet, even the weapon.
His friend was dead.
And everything pointed to him.
Panic swelled in his chest like rising water. This wasn't how the story was supposed to go. He was supposed to be the hero—the guy who stopped a robbery, the guy who saved the day.
But now he was the only one left standing.
Oh God. Oh no. He staggered back, struggling to catch his breath, heart pounding in his chest. Panic surged through him as he leaned against the wall, torn between breaking down in tears or running back to his apartment and pretending none of this had happened.
His hands trembled as he knelt beside Greg's motionless body. Desperation overtook fear as he rifled through Greg's pockets. That's when he found them—gleaming earrings, unmistakably diamond. He reached further and uncovered a small gold and silver pouch, heavy with more of the same. A handful of diamonds. Real ones, he was sure of it.
He froze. Blood roared in his ears, his thoughts spiraling. What the hell had he walked into? The air felt tighter, heavier. He dropped the pouch, the diamonds scattering across the floor like spilled secrets.
Snapping back to reality, he lunged toward the door. But something in him made him pause—he turned and shook Greg, one last desperate attempt to wake him. Nothing. Greg was still, lifeless.
He had to leave. Now.
Sirens wailed in the distance. The police. They must have heard the shot. He ripped off his shirt and frantically wiped down everything he could remember touching—doorknobs, furniture, anything. Every second dragged like a lifetime.
No more time. He bolted, leaving behind the diamonds, the body, and the chaos that would soon unravel. All he could think was: run, run, run.