The rusted hinges shrieked in protest, a sound like a dying bird that echoed through the hollow foyer. The door didn't open so much as surrender. Victor stood on the threshold, clutching his stomach. The goblin-infused mashed potatoes from lunch were staging a coup in his lower intestine. A phantom kick against his ribs—rhythmic thumping, a tiny fist pounding on a dungeon wall. Stay down, he pleaded internally. Digestion is a negotiation. He looked up, expecting a creditor with a baseball bat. Or a stray werewolf looking for a chew toy. Worse. Isabelle stood on the porch, framed by the dying gray light of the District 13 smog. A diamond dropped in a pigsty—sharp, cold, and offensively clean. Her white suit seemed to repel the ambient grime; dust motes swerved to avoid her fabric. Beh

