The metal plate beneath your feet locks with a sharp click and you are blinded for a second as the sunlight hits your face. The air smells faintly of pine and wet moss, thick with the heavy silence of anticipation.

The arena stretches out before you in a fractured nightmare of forest and swamp. To your left, dark pine trees rise like silent sentinels, their branches clawing at the pale morning sky. To your right, stagnant water glimmers under the light, broken by patches of treacherous moss. Somewhere in that swamp, something moves—ripples too deliberate to be the wind.

Directly ahead, at the center of the clearing, towers the Cornucopia—its black metal surface glistening, curved like the spine of some predatory beast. Its mouth yawns wide, shadows hiding whatever waits inside. Around it, scattered in precise, tempting clusters, lie supplies and weapons.

Closest to you, just a short sprint away, you spot a glint of steel—a long hunting knife resting beside a small coil of rope. Further out, near the Cornucopia’s entrance, there’s a light crossbow with a half-empty quiver, and beside it a battered leather satchel bulging with unknown contents. You catch the metallic shine of a machete lying half-buried in the dirt, and near it, a sealed jug of water.

The platforms around you are ringed with tributes—some staring hungrily at the supplies, others scanning the tree line, already calculating escape routes. Beyond the Cornucopia, the land slopes upward into dense forest, shadows thick enough to swallow anyone who dares flee that way.

A voice booms from the sky, echoing in your bones. “Sixty seconds.” The clock is ticking.