The courtyard of Lycée Dévoreur thrummed with a restless, feral energy. It was a concrete jungle, cracked and crumbling, where the rules of survival had twisted into something grotesque under the weight of desperation. Resources were scarce—food, books, even pencils were rationed—but hunger, both literal and metaphorical, gnawed at everyone. And so, the Hunger Lottery was born, a daily ritual as brutal as it was bizarre. Each morning, the girls of the senior class were granted the right to claim a boy as their “snack,” a temporary shrinking and, well, consumption. It was tradition, they said. It was survival, they insisted. But to those on the receiving end, it was a humiliating game of predator and prey.
Sanabel strode through the crowd like a queen surveying her kingdom. Her boots clicked against the uneven pavement, her posture unapologetic, her raven-black hair swinging with every confident step. She was a senior, a predator among predators, with a tongue sharper than any blade and a smirk that could unravel the bravest of souls. Her dark eyes scanned the sea of students, searching for the day’s unlucky morsel. She wasn’t just hungry—she was ravenous for entertainment, for control, for the thrill of the hunt.
And then she saw him. YourI, a lanky junior with a mop of messy hair and glasses perpetually slipping down his nose, was fumbling with a stack of tattered textbooks near the rusted water fountain. He was oblivious to the predatory gazes darting his way, too busy muttering to himself about some overdue assignment. Sanabel’s lips curled into a wicked smirk. Oh, this was going to be fun. He was perfect—scrawny, awkward, and completely clueless. A snack in every sense of the word.
She sauntered over, her presence parting the crowd like a shark cutting through water. YourI didn’t notice her at first, not until her shadow loomed over him, blocking out the weak morning sun. He glanced up, startled, and nearly dropped his books. His hazel eyes widened behind those dorky glasses, and Sanabel had to bite back a laugh. Poor little lamb. He had no idea what was coming.
“Well, well, well,” she drawled, crossing her arms and tilting her head to appraise him like a butcher sizing up a cut of meat. “What do we have here? A little Snackboy, ripe for the picking.”
YourI blinked, his cheeks flushing a faint pink. “Uh… w-what? I’m just… I’m just trying to get to class—”
“Oh, honey, class is the least of your worries right now,” Sanabel interrupted, stepping closer. She towered over him, her voice dripping with mock sweetness as she poked a manicured finger into his bony chest. “Look at you, all skin and bones. Barely a mouthful. But I’m feeling generous today. I’ll make do.”
He adjusted his glasses nervously, taking a shaky step back. “I-I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Can you just… let me go? I’ve got a history test in ten minutes.”
Sanabel threw her head back and laughed, a rich, throaty sound that drew the attention of the gathering crowd. “A history test? Oh, Snackboy, the only history you’re making today is as my mid-morning treat. Haven’t you heard of the Hunger Lottery? Or are you too busy burying your nose in those boring books to notice the world eating you alive?”
YourI’s face paled as the realization hit him. “Wait… no, no, no. You’re not serious. I thought that was just a rumor—”
“Rumors don’t come with official school policy, darling,” she cut him off, her grin sharpening. She leaned in close, her breath warm against his ear as she lowered her voice to a purr. “Under the rules of Lycée Dévoreur, I, Sanabel Veyra, hereby place an official order for one scrawny junior named YourI. And guess what? You can’t say no. One order per term is mandatory. Lucky you, I’m cashing in mine early.”
The crowd around them erupted into a mix of cheers and jeers. A group of senior girls nearby cackled, one of them shouting, “Get him, Sana! Make him squeal!” Another chimed in, “Poor little nerd, he’s toast!” YourI’s gaze darted around, searching for an escape, but the circle of students tightened like a noose. His hands trembled as he clutched his books to his chest, his voice barely above a whisper. “This… this can’t be legal. There’s got to be a way out—”
“Legal?” Sanabel echoed, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. “Sweetie, this is Lycée Dévoreur. The only law here is hunger, and I’m starving.” She snapped her fingers with a dramatic flair, summoning the attention of the nearby Shrink Station attendant, a bored-looking sophomore in a faded uniform. “Hey, Shrinky, get over here! I’ve got a fresh order, and I want him bite-sized in five minutes flat.”
The attendant shuffled over, dragging a clunky, ancient-looking device behind him. YourI’s eyes widened in horror as he registered the contraption—a rusted metal box with dials and wires sticking out at odd angles. “Wait, wait, wait!” he stammered, holding up his hands in desperation. “Can’t we work something out? I’ll do your homework! I’ll write your essays! I’m really good at math—”
Sanabel smirked, stepping even closer until their noses were inches apart. “Tempting, Snackboy, but no dice. I’d rather taste that nerdy essence of yours than read another word of algebra. Besides, watching you squirm is half the fun.” She flicked his glasses playfully, making him flinch. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle. Probably.”
The crowd roared with laughter as the attendant powered up the Shrink Station, a low hum filling the air. YourI’s pleas grew more frantic as the device whirred to life. “Please, Sanabel, I’m begging you! I’ve got allergies! I probably taste terrible!”
“Allergies just add a little spice,” she shot back, winking at the onlookers. The shrinking process began with a humiliating public ritual—YourI was forced to stand in the center of the courtyard as a beam of sickly green light enveloped him. His clothes, comically oversized, began to sag as his body dwindled, shrinking inch by inch until he was no taller than a candy bar. His tiny voice squeaked in protest, barely audible over the crowd’s cheers.
Sanabel crouched down, her grin wicked as she plucked the now-tiny YourI up between her thumb and forefinger. She dangled him in front of her face, inspecting him like a rare delicacy. “Oh, look at you,” she cooed, her voice laced with exaggerated delight. “So small, so helpless. I could just gobble you up right now. Nom nom nom!” She mimed taking a bite, her teeth snapping playfully near his tiny form, making the crowd erupt into hysterics.
YourI’s minuscule screams were almost pitiful, his tiny arms flailing. “Please! Don’t eat me! I’ll do anything!”
Sanabel’s laughter was low and dangerous as she tilted her head, studying him with predatory amusement. “Oh, relax, Snackboy. I’m not going to eat you… yet.” She straightened up, slipping him into the pocket of her leather jacket with a casual flick of her wrist. Leaning down so only he could hear, she whispered, “I’ve got special plans for you, little morsel. Let’s just say I like to play with my food before I take a bite.”
And with that, she turned on her heel, striding away from the cheering crowd with YourI tucked safely—or not so safely—in her pocket. His tiny heart pounded with dread, his fate dangling in delicious, terrifying suspense. Whatever Sanabel had in store, one thing was clear: the Hunger Games had only just begun.
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