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Cassius followed the signs up to the third floor. A handful of young guys were already waiting in the hallway—so muttering lines under their breath, others stretching like they were about to step into a cage match.
He recognized two of them—rising faces from TV who'd been getting a lot of buzz lately.
The second he walked in, every set of eyes locked on him. A couple of the looks weren't exactly friendly.
Word had already spread through the small circle: the hot actor fresh off a $700-million Green Lantern run was gunning for Peeta.
A young assistant with a laminated badge hurried over, checked his na, and imdiately lit up.
"Mr. Cassius, right this way, sir. We've got a prep room ready for you."
The special treatnt didn't go unnoticed. More stares followed him down the hall.
The assistant led him into a private room where a wardrobe stylist and makeup artist were already waiting.
"This is the look for today," the assistant explained. "Just a simple change of clothes and light grooming—Gary specifically asked for your most natural state."
Cassius thanked them and started changing. The outfit was perfect District 12 civilian gear: loose beige cotton pants, a rough linen shirt, and a worn dark-brown jacket. The fabric felt coarse but clean—exactly the look of a kid who grew up baking bread in a coal-mining town.
Once he was dressed, the makeup artist went to work with a light hand: just enough powder to even out his skin tone, a little ss in the hair. Nothing flashy.
When Cassius looked in the mirror, the Hollywood shine was gone. He looked like a quiet, slightly haunted young man who'd spent his whole life in the Seam.
"Perfect," the makeup artist said, nodding. "That raw, everyday feel is exactly what we want."
A few minutes later the assistant reappeared and walked him down the corridor to a closed door.
"This is the audition room. Good luck, Mr. Cassius."
She pushed the door open.
The space was bigger than he expected—simple, no frills. A few chairs up front, a couple of caras and lights in the back. Five people sat facing the marked-off tape on the floor.
Gary Ross was dead center. Next to him sat a serious-looking woman with glasses—the casting director. Two producers flanked them. And on the far end, a quiet, thoughtful woman with long brown hair watched him with open curiosity.
Suzanne Collins herself, notebook open on her lap.
"Cass, thanks for coming in," Gary said warmly. "This is casting director Linda, producers Jon and Michael, and of course Suzanne—you already know who she is."
"Hello, everyone. I'm Cassius." He gave a small, respectful nod—confident but not cocky.
"Relax, Cass." Gary pointed to the taped square in the middle of the room. "We're not running full scenes today. We just want to see how you live in the clothes and how your instincts react. Linda will give you so quick prompts."
Linda took over, voice crisp and professional. "All right, Cass. First, walk to the center, stand naturally. Imagine you've just finished a long shift at the bakery. You're still dusted with flour, slling like woodsmoke, standing at the door of your house looking out over District 12."
Cassius stepped onto the mark, dropped his gaze, and let his breathing slow. Level-4 Emotion control let him slip straight in.
He didn't over-act. His shoulders loosened into the slight hunch of soone who'd carried heavy trays all day. His eyes went distant, staring at an invisible gray sky, broken rooftops, and the constant hunger that never left. His fingers absently rubbed together like he was trying to brush off invisible flour.
The room stayed dead quiet except for the soft hum of the caras.
Gary and Suzanne traded a quick glance.
"Good," Linda said. "Now shift: you're at the Reaping. You just heard Katniss Everdeen's little sister get called. You watch Katniss volunteer in her place. Give your reaction in that exact second."
Cassius barely moved, but everything changed. His spine straightened a fraction. His eyes snapped up. Shock flashed first, then sothing deeper—helpless rage at the system, stunned respect for Katniss's courage, all of it flickering across his face in the space of a heartbeat. His mouth tightened.
Suzanne's pen flew across her notebook.
"Next setup," Linda continued. "You're already in the arena. You're hurt, hidden in thick brush. You hear footsteps coming—could be friend, could be enemy. In one second you have to decide whether to stay hidden or risk calling out or attacking. Show that single second of decision-making with your body and face."
Cassius turned slightly, leaning like he was pressed against a rock or tree root. His breathing went shallow and silent. The earlier weariness vanished. Now he was pure wired alertness—face pale, pupils tight, eyes scanning an invisible tree line. Every muscle coiled, ready to explode or lt back into cover. His fingers curled like they were already gripping a rock or branch.
No big movents. Just tiny, lightning-fast micro-shifts in his eyes and the faintest twitch of facial muscles.
Gary leaned forward in his chair.
"Last prompt," Linda said, her own voice tightening with the tension Cassius was putting out. "Final stage of the Gas. You're exhausted, almost broken. You see Katniss—the girl you thought was dead. Give your reaction in that mont."
Cassius closed his eyes, took one slow breath.
When he opened them again, the armor cracked. All the forced strength drained away, leaving raw exhaustion and despair. His body swayed like it might drop. Then his gaze locked on empty air. His pupils blew wide—pure disbelief, like he was seeing a ghost. He didn't shout, didn't lunge. He just stood there, every ounce of strength holding him upright, telling the entire story with his eyes.
A purple orb dropped from his own body:
[Ultimate Emotional Performance 9]
He absorbed it instantly. The experience split evenly between Emotion and Eyes.
The room went completely still.
After a long beat Gary cleared his throat. "That was excellent, Cass. Really powerful."
Linda gave a short nod. One of the producers murmured, "Very nuanced." Suzanne closed her notebook and spoke for the first ti, voice warm but clear.
"You caught Peeta's core—the pain of a boy who's forced to grow up in the worst possible way. For a mont there, you were Peeta."
"Thank you, Ms. Collins. Thank you, Director Ross. Thank you all."
Cassius eased out of the scene, breathing a little harder.
"That's all for today," Gary said. "We'll review every candidate and be in touch. Thanks again for your ti and the strong read, Cass."
"My pleasure."
Cassius gave another small bow and let the assistant lead him out.
The second the door clicked shut, cool hallway air hit him. The ten-minute focus session had taken more out of him than he expected.
Back in the prep room he changed into his street clothes. Rob was waiting, practically vibrating.
"How'd it go?"
"I did everything I could," Cassius said, wiping a faint sheen of sweat from his forehead. "Gary and Suzanne looked pretty happy."
"That's what I like to hear! Gary hand-picked you for this read. Let's get out of here—I already know those other guys don't have your presence or layers."
They headed back to the car.
Three days later, in the early afternoon, Rob's call ca through—voice cracking with excitent and disbelief.
"Bro—sit down! Lionsgate just called. Peeta llark is yours!"
Cassius was in the new house's study, still deep in Peeta's backstory notes. His pen stopped mid-sentence.
He'd felt good about the read, but Hollywood was full of last-second curveballs. A project this big had money and politics flying everywhere. Nothing was locked until the ink was dry.
"That fast?"
"They loved you," Rob practically shouted. "I just got off the phone with their head of casting. Director, author, the whole team—unanimous. You're the Peeta they've been looking for."
The next few days turned into a blur of contract talks.
Rob went in swinging. Cassius wasn't so nobody anymore—he was the guy who'd just carried a $700-million global hit.
Lionsgate had done their howork. The offer was strong.
"Base pay four million dollars," Rob said, sliding the draft across the desk. "Plus stepped backend on worldwide box office—the higher it goes, the bigger your cut. Priority option for the whole series. This is a very fair deal."
He paused, then grinned. "For reference? Jennifer Lawrence's base was five hundred thousand."
Cassius let out a low whistle. The gap between where he'd started and where he stood now felt surreal.
Rob leaned back, arms crossed, looking proud as hell. "You're not the new kid anymore, Cass. You're the guy they want to build a franchise around."
Cassius stared at the contract, the numbers, the clauses, the future it represented.
Peeta llark.
The Hunger Gas.
Another massive leap.
He picked up the pen.
"Tell them we're ready to move."
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