Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"The apex of achievement was attained by Mr. Snow, an outcome that doubtlessly leaves few in astonishment. Allow me to extend my sincere congratulations to you, Mr. Snow, you have every right to take pride in your accomplishments."

The grandeur of applause permeated the space, a resounding symphony of admiration. Applause—an ostensibly unassuming gesture—unfolded gracefully as hands met in swift communion, the palpable reverberations echoing with the elegance of an orchestrated dance. It was a nuanced tableau of human expression, an exquisite ritual evoking the essence of unity in diversity.

As the room embraced the crescendo of applause and became a theater of reverence, he found himself immersed in a singular experience, at the epicenter of this refined ovation. The convergence of countless palms, harmoniously synchronized, executed each clap with a deliberate yet gentle force. In that moment, the act transcended simplicity, transforming into an art form—each resonant clap akin to the striking of a finely tuned chord.

The surrounding ambiance, once filled with the soft rustle of anticipation, now swirled with the refined cadence of adulation. The room became a vessel of collective admiration, wherein the individuality of applause merged into a collective, harmonious expression of approval.

Recalling the tumultuous days of the past, when the cacophony of bombs shattered the tranquility of existence, he once yearned for a sanctuary of silence. Amidst the echoes of conflict, the marches of the lost rebellion, and the thundering descent of bombs upon the streets, his youthful desire to silence the world seemed a respite. However, with the passage of time, he found solace in the resonance of applause—no longer a cacophony but a delicate, tender and ephemeral embrace, an intimate gesture of tenderness. The applause, tenderly attuned to his ears, metamorphosed into a melodic affirmation of accomplishment, a manifestation of communal respect tailored uniquely for him, a poignant testament to the triumph of his present.

"It should hardly surprise anyone that you've once again achieved the highest score," he heard Livia murmur proudly beside him. Naturally, her exuberance engendered a sense of satisfaction within her, recognizing that his triumph bore indirect advantages for her as well. In a measured response, he momentarily pivoted in her direction, subtly elevating the corners of his mouth, hoping to conceal any burgeoning sense of vexation.

The positivity inherent in her commentary momentarily dissuaded him from joining in the applause, compelling a fleeting diversion of his focus. Regaining his composure, he directed a subtle glance towards her, though she seemed oblivious to the nuances of his expression. Her attention, instead, roamed the expanse of the room, where she proffered a calculated, yet slightly strained, smile of her own. In this shared semblance of demeanor, he found a semblance of commonality, albeit one of the few they shared — luckily.

Instinctively, he assumed a more upright posture, aligning his shoulders with a poised demeanor, as he endeavored to project an air of modesty. The intrinsic understanding that ostentation and overt revelry in personal accomplishments were generally disfavored among their peers governed his conduct in the aftermath of his achievement; after all, no one liked show-offs who blatantly reveled in their own success.

For the consecutive second year, he clinched the paramount position, having garnered the highest score and secured two esteemed internships of considerable repute—achievements thus far unexcelled. In this poignant moment, he harbored an unshakeable certainty, a visceral assurance coursing through every fiber of his being, that he would willingly subject himself to Dr. Gaul's experimental designs before countenancing the prospect of anyone disputing his preeminent standing. The applause, once fervent, gradually waned until a conspicuous silence enveloped the room.

The dean droned on in yet another of his soporific speeches, the words fading into the backdrop of an audience barely engaged. His gaze wandered beyond the confines of the window, where a canvas of celestial drama unfolded. The storm had imbued the once-muted sky with a profound darkness, casting an eerie glow that seemed to absorb all vitality. Two days of relentless rain had wearied him, and the persistent patter against the window pane provided a dull percussion to his thoughts.

As he reluctantly was about to turn his attention back to the monologue, a subtle transformation occurred in the heavens. A delicate spectrum emerged—a rainbow, its ethereal hues painted across the canvas of the tempest. So tender were its colors that they threatened to elude notice, dancing on the periphery of awareness. Almost missed, yet not quite. An internal debate ensued, a silent struggle between discipline and temptation.

He knew better than to succumb to the allure. He knew the subsequent regret would weigh heavy on his conscience. Despite the internal admonitions, he found himself drawn, irresistibly, to the mesmerizing display. All attempts to redirect his focus proved in vain. The luminous arch hung suspended in the storm-kissed sky, a fragile testament to nature's resilience amid tempestuous times.

As he studied the spectral cascade of colors, an involuntary surge of memory transported him. For an ephemeral moment, he heard the echo of the wind through a forest, the gentle rustle of leaves, and the haunting cries of Mockingjays.

Fuck those birds, grumbled Coriolanus Snow, as he got an unexpected reminder of someone else he once wished he could have fucked. He coerced himself to endure the tedious speech, fervently hoping it would mark the conclusion of any more twisted journeys down memory lane. Fuck those birds.

Chapter Text

— Part 1: Prelude —

"It's so nice to see you again. My goodness, how grown-up you look..." Ma Plinth remarked, her eyes moistening with tears. Coriolanus, anticipating the familiar refrain that would follow, fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"My Sejanus would have been treading the same path by now..." he permitted her words to fade into the background, focusing instead on perfecting his signature 'I'm deeply moved but trying not to show it too much' expression. With studied precision, he directed his focus toward the task of furrowing his brows, crafting a subtle crease between them. It was imperative, however, to exercise restraint in this action; the formation of premature wrinkles in his early twenties was a prospect he sought to avert. He conjured an expression marked by an amalgamation of sorrow and anguish. Gently, he enveloped Ma Plinth's hand, slender and wrinkled, within his own, imparting a measured and deliberate squeeze. He awaited the inevitable faltering of her voice, the hushed interlude that would ensue the protracted discourse concerning the loss of her son, poised to make his response after a calculated interval.

As crystalline tears traced the contours of Ma Plinth's furrowed cheek and she began to huff and puff like a melodramatic steam engine (and her visage, already etched with the passage of time, assumed an additional layer of antiquity), Coriolanus contemplated diversifying his script — after all, he did not want to be stuck on the empathy loop, risking accusations of emotional recycling.

During their last repast together, as he delicately broached the subject of an augmented sponsorship—necessitated by escalating expenditures linked to his penthouse's renovation—he had intoned, "Sejanus was truly unique." Unique in the way only a mother could love. Uniquely simple-minded. Uniquely irritating. Uniquely daft and obstinate. Uniquely stubborn. Uniquely deserving of his uniquely self-inflicted demise. Yet, the intricacies of this narrative seemed ill-suited for discourse within the context of pecuniary negotiations. Furthermore, he harbored the certainty that Ma Plinth harbored no inclination to delve into such specifics. In essence, he grappled with an uncharacteristic surge of empathy, graciously affording an elderly, bereaved woman the space to perpetuate her self-deception.

The moment of reckoning arrived as Ma Plinth, in keeping with expectations, succumbed to sobs. This emotional release further tarnished her overall presentation. Her erstwhile sartorial effort to align with Capitol standards, particularly in matters of attire, had undergone a lamentable decline since the loss of her son; it appeared that she wasn't just mourning Sejanus' departure but also bidding farewell to any remnants of fashion sense—assuming she ever possessed such a trait, which, judging by her past-Sejanus choices, abandoned ship along with her grief and her son.

After a while, Ma Plinth gathered herself, halting the cascade of tears. Straightening with an air of pseudo-grace, she rearranged her prematurely graying strands and swiftly swept her prematurely graying locks backward, inadvertently unveiling a few more discreet balding spots to Coriolanus. A wistful smile graced her lips—a mother's tender expression toward her son, Coriolanus mused. Fleetingly, he found himself captivated not by the yellowish tint of her teeth but by the delicate sincerity of her smile.

His contemplation met an abrupt interruption as Ma Plinth embarked on a meticulous inquiry about his university life. A curious ritual had taken root, extending beyond his peers and professors to encompass vivid descriptions of the campus and the nuances of his interactions with the faculty. Her persistent questions, especially concerning the latter, probed with unwavering insistence: Was he treated with kindness? Did they devote sufficient time to him? Did they respond to his queries with care? Were they affable and warm?

Coriolanus, often opting for succinct responses, not out of inherent vexation but due to a perception of Ma Plinth as a time-consuming distraction, regarded the necessary charade that tethered his sponsorship. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but envision myriad other pursuits more consequential than lingering in the afternoon with the sorrow-soaked mother of what many considered a living monument to misfit and intellectual underachievement. No, Ma Plinth, Coriolanus pondered, he was not a victim of misunderstanding; he mastered the art of misunderstanding every concept that ever had the misfortune of crossing his path.

As he ascended the penthouse in the lavishly appointed elevator – his satisfaction tempered by the recent increase of his monthly stipend courtesy of Ma Plinth – he found himself contemplatively anticipating a potential encounter with Tigris. Considerable time had elapsed since their last encounter, and the memory of their prior meeting lingered, colored by the fervor of impassioned discourse.

Upon orchestrating the opening of the door, his expectations were met with a resonant silence, and a subtle pang of disappointment threaded through his thoughts. Tigris, a typically effervescent presence, was conspicuously absent. She, who customarily took the lead in extending felicitations for his accomplishments, reveling genuinely in his triumphs, bespoke compliments infused with authentic pride and affection. This stood in stark contrast to the ambivalent praises bestowed by his academic peers, each subtly tainted with a nuance of jealousy and resentment. The echo of the elevating anticipation of Tigris's distinctive warmth now reverberated through the hollow quietude of the penthouse.

His recently acquired Avox, a slender 26-year-old man with a somewhat unsettling gauntness, possessed short, reddish-brown hair that defiantly sprouted from his head like well-groomed thistles. His countenance was defined by an exceptionally pointed nose, adding an extra edge to his otherwise unremarkable features. In the choreography of servant and master, the Avox adeptly relieved Coriolanus of his burgundy coat.

This living thistle, affectionately dubbed Hedgehog by Coriolanus for its undeniable aesthetic charm, proved to be a paragon of diligence and swiftness. Thus far, his performance had been commendable, with Coriolanus often finding himself engrossed in other matters while the presence of the Avox faded into the background—an unobtrusive figure in the grand tapestry of Snow's household affairs. In essence, one could not reasonably expect more from a glorified coat stand with a pulse.

Despite Tigris' counsel against hiring an Avox, Coriolanus insisted on the necessity of such staff. It was fitting. Their circumstances had markedly improved, and the inclusion of domestic aides was emblematic of the elevated status of a Snow household. Tigris had also undergone a transformation; her perspectives had shifted. With each passing moment, Coriolanus found himself increasingly contemplative, questioning whether her metamorphosis might be stretching the boundaries of change a tad too far.

The day had unfolded with its own wearisome narrative, prompting him to refrain from immersing himself further in the eccentricities of Tigris and her preoccupations. His hope rested on her retaining the intensity of her passions within the confines of her own thoughts. After all, she bore the title of his cousin, she was a Snow—a distinction capable of casting a less-than-desirable shade on him and his standing.

Seeking refuge from the day's tumult, he reclined onto the couch, where the caress of his fingertips traced the contours of relatively new velvet. Despite its opulent price tag, the fabric's embrace lacked the anticipated tenderness. It almost seemed to mock him, as if the couch, despite the wealth, insisted on reminding him of a former Snow status, denying him the sumptuous repose that, by Snow standards, should have been rightfully his.

With eyes closed, he contemplated the script of words he would weave for his girlfriend's impending birthday. The occasion demanded eloquence, an expression of affection, verbal pyrotechnics that transcended mere superficiality. He harbored no intention of weaving a tapestry of deceit, painting an illusion of undying love and unwavering admiration. While Livia might not occupy the pedestal of his desires, she seamlessly blended with the contours of his lifestyle, ambitions, and future. Thus, the canvas of his speech would be painted with the hues of compatibility, complemented by a generous smile and the revelation of a lavish gift, an artful orchestration to fulfill the expectations of the occasion.

On the subsequent morn, Tigris remained conspicuously absent. Coriolanus, usually content with the solitude of a solitary breakfast, harbored a tacit appreciation for the undisturbed morning hours—a respite from the obligatory cordiality of amicable smiles and feigned gestures. Nevertheless, he found himself bereft of any knowledge regarding Tigris's whereabouts. A cursory visit to her workplace had revealed no clues, and it had escaped his notice that she also lodged there overnight. She appeared to lack companionship, revealing little about her social circle, and it seemed implausible that her financial means could sustain extended stays in hotels or equivalent accommodations.

Completing the last morsels of his buttered toast, Coriolanus cast a brief, discontented gaze beyond the window, forewarning yet another day dominated by persistent rainfall. The staccato beat of water meeting glass echoed through the vast space, an unwelcome reminder of nature's untamed persistence amid the controlled confines of his home. The unrelenting downpours of the past week had failed to elicit any semblance of affinity from him; rather, he harbored an unequivocal disdain for such inclement weather.

Hedgehog had meticulously presented an assortment of cheeses and charcuterie on an ornate platter. A small, elegantly folded note adorned the platter:

"Dear Esteemed Mister Snow,

Bestowed before you:

Sapphire Serenity: A daring and audacious blue cheese, enticing you to savor its bold intensity.
Velvet Sonata: Exquisitely refined and cultured, a creamy ballet pirouetting on the palate.
Spicy Rhapsody: A fervent dance of fiery passion.

Sincerely in Silence,
Filly - Avox of Coriolanus Snow"

The calligraphy bore a certain awkwardness, yet the contents were discernible. Coriolanus had successfully procured an Avox from the elite echelons—Avoxes of this caliber underwent meticulous briefing and received preliminary training before entering domestic service. Unlike the majority of Avoxes who lacked the ability to write, those of the upper echelon underwent a foundational education, enabling them to contribute during social events. Acquiring such an Avox necessitated a formal application due to their scarcity and, inevitably, their steep cost. However, with the Plinths' substantial contribution to the "Administration for the Allocation of Avoxes in the Capitol" for their headquarters' renovation, the placement of Hedgehog under the custodianship of Coriolanus Snow was seamlessly orchestrated.

Despite the pretty arrangement, Coriolanus maintained a deliberate abstention from the epicurean ensemble. Despite the ample provisions afforded by the Plinths' sponsorship, enabling the indulgence in an abundance of sausages and cheeses, the impulse to elevate his gastronomic predilections to superfluous opulence eluded him. The penthouse demanded refurbishment, necessitating the procurement of a chauffeur and an Avox for domestic matters, in addition to the acquisition of sumptuous furnishings and requisite sartorial elegance; he was a Snow, after all. Yet, the appetite for finer sustenance... he sought to preserve it as a keepsake, a mnemonic reminder, and a cautionary emblem. While denizens of the Capitol accustomed themselves to the surfeit of culinary delights, Coriolanus Snow resisted the allure of such dependency. He remained resolute in recollection—savoring the experience of yearning, of aspiring for more, and of enduring the pangs of hunger. Naturally, this internal struggle must not betray any external manifestation; instead, it was shrouded in discretion, a clandestine affair between a man and his culinary principles. It only served as a poignant relic, elucidating the reasons for his steadfast adherence to his identity and the imperative to resist the encroachment of luxurious indulgence.

Prior to his departure for the university complex, Coriolanus cast a momentary appraisal upon himself in the mirror adorning the penthouse's entrance foyer. The reflection before him bore the testament of meticulous grooming and inherent confidence. His blonde locks cascaded elegantly, each strand falling into place with a grace that bespoke both intention and natural allure. The jawline, once boyish looking, had gained a pronounced definition that chiseled his features into a portrait of sophistication. A subtle smirk played on his lips, revealing a self-satisfied acknowledgment of the refined image before him. His gaze lingered on the mirror, appreciating the subtle changes that bespoke not only the passage of time but also a deliberate pursuit of personal refinement. In that moment of contemplation, Coriolanus recognized the power of his own image, a manifestation of the standards he upheld and the self-assurance that defined his identity. After all, looking the part was a non-negotiable aspect.

Anticipating the commencement of the new academic term, he had engaged the services of a bespoke tailor during the interlude. The ensemble he presently donned boasted a rich wine-red hue, complemented by a luminescent champagne-colored shirt adorned with diminutive buttons crafted from golden enamel. The tactile experience of the suit was one of plush softness, yet its structure exuded a steadfast resilience, guarding against the unsightly creases that would betray both fiscal constraints and a lapse in self-regard.

For Coriolanus, the abhorrence of disheveled attire extended beyond the realm of mere aesthetics; it represented an emblematic compromise of both financial prudence and personal dignity. The subtle imperfections of wrinkled fabric, especially in the delicate folds at the knees or elbows, bore witness to an individual's disregard for sartorial discipline. To him, such lapses spoke not only of a constrained budget but also of a fundamental deficiency in self-respect—a stance he could neither endorse nor adopt.

In contrast, Coriolanus entertained a personal aversion to the idea of navigating the university precinct clad in a disassembled school uniform, a practice apparently adopted by a student in the cohort below. Though the name eluded him, the moniker "Budgeteer" had become synonymous with the hapless attempt to camouflage the school uniform trousers beneath an alternative shirt. While the boy might endure such a spectacle, Coriolanus Snow considered the luxury of such tolerance an elusive privilege—one he was certainly grateful not to possess.

As he settled into the lecture hall beside Livia, a contemplative sigh escaped him. He embraced Livia, offering birthday felicitations while gracefully presenting her with a bouquet of pristine white roses. The embrace lingered, striking a delicate balance between societal decorum and a deliberate display for onlookers. Its brevity, meticulously calculated, thwarted any potential misinterpretation on Livia's part—his pride vehemently opposed the notion of her entertaining genuine sentiments.

Livia, an adept practitioner of her role, responded with a radiant smile, exuding genuine delight at the bouquet, at least for the external audience. Despite Coriolanus's discomfort in Livia's company, he could not deny her prowess as a consummate actress. She navigated their social dynamics with an intuitive understanding, effortlessly interpreting unspoken expectations. Her ambition, astutely recognizing his burgeoning potential, drove her to capitalize on the opportunity to co-opt a portion of his success—an arrangement that elicited dissatisfaction from Coriolanus, albeit a sacrifice for the sake of maintaining a flawlessly curated public facade. After all, every drama requires its share of willing performers, even if some are more aware of the script than others.

As the anticipation for the lecture loomed, a resonant voice emanated from speakers, beckoning all students to converge in the resplendent Grand Ravinstill Hall. This convocation stood as an anomaly, for the inaugural addresses of the academic year, now embarking on his third and penultimate, had already been delivered the previous week. The students swiftly congregated in the opulent hall, a testament to the university's commitment to architectural grandeur. Livia, with her arm elegantly intertwined with Coriolanus's, awaited the dean's ascent up the staircase to the stage. The subtle intimacy of Livia's gesture was new, prompting Coriolanus to hope it was a fleeting celebration of her birthday rather than an emerging habit. Simultaneously, he couldn't shake the apprehension that her proximity might inadvertently crease his new shirt.

The staccato rhythm of raindrops drummed persistently against the hall's windows, a haunting melody that refused to be drowned out by the collective presence of students within. Despite the enclosed space, the eerie echo of each raindrop reverberated through the hall, creating an unsettling atmosphere. The relentless percussion of rain served as a disquieting backdrop to the gathered students, amplifying a sense of unease that lingered beneath the surface of their collective anticipation.

The university's dean, a former colleague of Dr. Gaul, mirrored her vintage in years. He adorned his graying hair with whimsical green streaks—an eccentricity that struck Coriolanus as mildly ludicrous. The motivation behind the dean's colorful coiffure remained elusive; whether an attempt to align with the sartorial inclinations of the younger generation or an indulgence in a belated mid-life crisis, Coriolanus couldn't decisively discern. The vivid hues instantly evoked thoughts of Tigris and their recent clash, prompting him to veer away from ruminations on the dean's chromatic tresses and Tigris with her … proclivities.

"Dear students, I can sense the curiosity in your minds as to why I've gathered you here today. Allow me to unveil a truly exhilarating announcement. This year, we extend a warm welcome to a cohort of new students joining our esteemed university. However, this isn't just a routine introduction to fresh faces. We are embarking on a unique journey, as these students bring with them a diversity that goes beyond the ordinary. But..."

Coriolanus tuned out the dean's words. The tight clasp of Livia's hand on his arm ceased to register in his consciousness. The sole audible presence for Coriolanus in the room was the rain, which had ceaselessly orchestrated its percussion against the windows of the hall, abruptly falling silent.

His focus narrowed, eclipsed by the vivid hues of the rainbow that danced and intermingled in a gown familiar to him, now ascending the stage in a grotesque ballet of colors. Amid the kaleidoscopic display on stage, each shade seemed to drain from Coriolanus Snow's face, leaving behind only a palette of pure anguish.

In this moment, when he saw Ma Plinth next to her, he found himself rueful for not having treated the shooting exercise back in District 12 with the gravity it deserved.

Chapter Text

He once asked me if it was real. In that moment, I gave him an answer that was mine, the only answer that was right.

The adoration for liberty has long been an integral facet of my existence. The sensation of unencumbered expanses, the evasion of asphyxiation, the indulgence in deep inhalations bereft of larceny by external forces, the caress of a zephyr gently titillating the dermis, the unbridled vocal expressions devoid of societal shackles—all coalesce to form the amorous tapestry of emancipation. However, akin to the majority, I assimilated the curtailment of my affection, the modification of my ardor—not due to its attenuation, but rather a consequence of the enveloping of my surroundings until the very air grew feeble, obliging me to eschew profound breaths in favor of a laborious struggle for sustenance.

During my time in District 12, I conjectured that the architects of these partitions hailed from the District, casting upon me the same disdain reserved for unsightly vermin. It was as if they initially perceived the vestiges of Covey attire, only later acknowledging my human identity, should they deign to cast a cursory glance my way. Subsequently, I entertained the notion of the Peacekeepers of District 12, constricting the walls with their implements, their regulations a bastion safeguarding solely their own interests. Ultimately, accountability for my confined enclave, for the scant air within, became my own when I ventured into the realm of love, only to be deceived. This deception metamorphosed the erstwhile concealed walls, now transmogrified into unyielding steel, discernible to all—for the tributes, their mentors, the entire Capitol.

Oh, dear and gentle freedom, exchanged for tresses of brown, coiled hair and a mellifluous melody, bartered for treachery and malevolence, substituted for an artifice—such a beguiling ruse that prompts me to recollect with dolorous ruminations. For the most exquisite deception is also the most excruciating, the most triumphant, the most abominable of all.

Oh, dear and gentle freedom. What would I relinquish for a final gust of invigorating breeze? What sacrificial offering would suffice for a greater expanse for my ruminations, desires, and the pulsations of my lungs and heart?

Oh, dear and gentle freedom. You have absconded, leaving me abandoned, ensconced within walls designed to pulverize my essence.

Oh, dear and gentle freedom. If parting with you is inevitable, I demand assurances that the relinquishment is unequivocally worthwhile.

Oh, dear and gentle freedom. What recompense would be deemed equitable? What denouement could conceivably parallel your essence?

Oh, dear and gentle freedom. I release you, permit your flight and manifestation elsewhere, anywhere but with me, as there exists no sanctuary for you within these precincts any longer.

The entirety of the space that once harbored you is now saturated with an aching yearning. Consider the facts: He did not emerge victorious in the Hunger Games. He did not mature within District 12 as a facsimile of a human, hovering on the fringes of recognizability. He did not captivate the audience yearning to witness your condemnation to demise. Not him. Me.

He aspired to wrest away my inaugural and ultimate love, ultimately wresting you from my grasp. For this transgression, my beloved, my dear and gentle freedom, I shall wrest his away.

And every inch of the expanse once adorned by your presence is now resonant with applause. Applause for me, a non-conforming District ingenue, triumphant in the 10th Hunger Games, and now a matriculant at Capitol University.

The siren song of authority resonates with the seductive promise of shaping the world in my image, of molding destiny to align with my desires. Yet, with each step closer to power, I am cognizant that I am bartering the last remnants of my dear, gentle freedom. The ironies abound as I reach for the reins of power, realizing that in the pursuit of control, I may inadvertently relinquish the sovereignty I sought to preserve.

This is not a love story, esteemed readers. At least, not one that conforms to conventional paradigms.

Thus, I scan the audience, only needing to locate the most appalled expression, and it's there that I find my mark. Most will vaguely recall me and my rainbow hues, but not you. Never you. You might wish to erase me from your memory, yet actions carry consequences, and I'd sooner become one of Dr. Gaul's test subjects than allow you to strip away my freedom and attain everything you desire. No, if life fails to hurl a substantial obstacle onto your path, preferably aimed at your heart—assuming you have one, one that can actually bleed—, then I must seize control. Lo and behold, a pallid face marked by terror, fear, and memories he'd prefer to bury—or in his case, shoot.

My dearest, dearest blonde boy, you've never appeared more striking.

Chapter Text

"Such a magnificent dress, I'd wager it's crafted—"
"She's hot, I don't know about you, but I would for sure let her… District origins notwithstanding."
"I think it's disgusting that they let her attend uni with us."
"Didn't she affirm back then that she hailed not from District 10 or 11, or was it Coryo who purported that?"
"Though she may not be a native, she is, after all, a victor, implying... she stands somewhat superior to the rest, doesn't she?"

As Coriolanus, burdened with pronounced dark circles beneath his eyes, settled beside Livia in the hallowed halls of the university cafeteria, he cast a disgruntled gaze upon his tray, fervently hoping to divert his attention toward the culinary offerings rather than the incessant chatter of his peers.
One couldn't help but reluctantly give credit, he ruminated bitterly while sampling a spoonful of soup, to that sly, devious cunt for fanning the flames of public intrigue.

"You look dreadful," he heard Livia's annoying voice whisper into his ear, a biting commentary as he cautiously nibbled on an eccentric-looking pastry. "If you don't catch up on some sleep soon—" Before she could complete her sentence, lost on the disinterested ears of Coriolanus, she found herself rudely interrupted by the arrival of Felix Ravinstill. With an exuberant entrance, Felix took his seat across from them, gleefully announcing with an overly boisterous tone and an almost comically wide grin, "Guess who they picked?"

Coriolanus, who had been feigning disinterest up to this point, suddenly felt a surge of tension. He strained to conceal the unease, the palpitations in his chest, and the creeping tendrils of panic that threatened to surface. Gradually tilting his head toward Felix, he made a deliberate attempt not to let his lips betray the turmoil within, resisting the temptation to form a line too rigid on his face. Despite his efforts, he sensed his body betraying him, a subtle trembling that began to manifest. Could he attribute it to the cool breeze, he wondered? Would Felix and Livia be fooled? And wouldn't it appear peculiar alongside his lackluster expression and those deep, shadowed rings beneath his eyes?

Felix's grin expanded, bordering on the disconcerting, resembling a predatory creature baring its teeth before a calculated strike. Coriolanus, familiar with Felix's nuances, grasped the implications of the silence and the abrupt manifestation of excessive self-assurance. He understood it, yet resisted acknowledging the truth to himself. Felix wasn't suited for this. Felix wasn't prepared for this. Felix didn't merit it.

Yet, the die was cast. Felix Ravinstill had been selected as her mentor. Five students were tasked with guiding the five newcomers, acknowledging that life in the Capitol and its intricacies were entirely foreign to four of them. Consequently, each District student was paired with a mentor from the 3rd or 4th year. The process of this allocation remained shrouded in mystery, prompting Coriolanus to surmise that it was orchestrated through connections, as was customary. This hypothesis clarified why Ravinstill had claimed her as his mentee, especially considering his limited repertoire, primarily consisting of indulging in alcohol—an apt reflection in both his academic grades and practical experience (the latter being scant, provided one deemed his internship with his uncle as meritorious). In the preceding days and nights, he found himself pondering whether he would be chosen. Objectively, without allowing emotions to cloud his judgment, it seemed the most logical outcome: he had previously mentored her successfully, so why not again?

Yet, amidst this rationality, a sense of relief engulfed him. With Felix now her designated mentor, the specter of his past mentoring role had receded into the recesses of many minds, effectively disassociating them.

But, these considerations took a backseat. The crux of the matter lay in deciphering her true intentions, her thoughts, and her sentiments toward him. He contemplated revealing that he had been actively searching for her, and, should the matter of the gunshots arise, he would explain it away as an attempt to ward off birds. In this narrative, he would have desperately sought her, finding nothing and concluding that perhaps her love had been insufficient. However, he grappled with the realization that, even with the utmost precision in choosing his words, she was not naive, she was not stupid enough. She would see through the ruse, rendering such an explanation futile.

How does one elucidate to another that their presence had become a hindrance to one's own future? How does one articulate that there was no recourse but to eliminate the sole remaining risk? She wasn't unintelligent, but her acumen fell short in truly comprehending the stakes, the precarious balance in his life, and what she had the potential to wrest from him... and what she still could wrest.

Ideally, he would have meted out to her the same fate he once imposed on Dean Highbottom. Alas, the notion of administering rat poison seemed too perilous, particularly without foreknowledge of the extent of her disclosures and to whom. Time was of the essence. Now, she had Felix, an eager interrogator keen on extracting every nuance about her.

And then there was Ma Plinth—oh, that backstabbing, pesky old hag. Right in the midst of mourning her imbecilic son, she decided to generously extend sponsorship to five students from the Districts. Absolutely brilliant move, defying all logic. Most, if not all, of them lacked any semblance of formal education, and now they were expected to dwell in the Capitol and rub shoulders with folks like himself? It wasn't just stupid; it was downright repugnant. It was as if Sejanus Plinth, from beyond the grave, was orchestrating one last irritating encore—sure, he might have snapped his damn neck, but hell, Coriolanus would have exhumed his carcass and shattered every bone himself if it meant ridding the world of the twisted aftermath of dealing with a Plinth.

He acknowledged the need to have a conversation with her. There was no more room for hiding, at least not for him. Thus far, he had only caught sight of her once on the stage in her peculiar dress and then again in the corridor as she entered one of the smaller lecture halls. Her external appearance hadn't undergone significant changes—still overly slender, still conspicuously petite, still seemingly fragile. Yet, Coriolanus understood more acutely than anyone here that what met the eye wasn't the complete picture. Behind the dark, lustrous, soft curls, beneath the expansive, warm smile, concealed within the enticing shadow of her long, dark lashes, amidst all the tenderness and ecstasy elicited by her touch, beneath her robust yet melodious voice, and beneath the superficial charm that might captivate the less discerning, there resided a cunning illusion, a facade, a stratagem, a falsehood. Coriolanus Snow wasn't about to repeat the same error, not about to be ensnared again by the glimmer in her dark eyes, no matter how they sparkled during her songs, no matter how beautifully they radiated in the sunlight, reminiscent of rich, dark chocolate.

The regret of relocating here in that absurd dress was inevitably going to catch up with her, and he was determined to ensure it. If she intended to mock him with that dress, she could savor the moment while it lasted.

As for Tigris and her skill in tailoring, any sentiment he once held for her had perished. It met its demise when she opted to create a rainbow-colored dress for the victor of the 10th Hunger Games for her first entrance in the Grand Ravinstill Hall, aligning with her fashion line, "Little Golden Bloom," or briefly, LGB, initiated about a year ago.

The origin of her inspiration had not escaped his memory.

The weariness clung to him like a physical weight, making his body feel burdensome, as if an invisible load pressed down on his shoulders. Yet, he recognized the nature of this unseen burden, and his priority was to shed it swiftly—discreetly, of course. They couldn't afford public scrutiny; the collective memory needed to expunge any hint that she and he had shared anything more than a mentorship. Sure, he had played that role back then, and a few had been privy to the kiss, but who cared? It was just a nudge to motivate her, nothing more. After all, he was a victor.

Felix animatedly discussed his assignment, detailing everything he intended to show her. Coriolanus had to absorb every piece of information, extracting potential advantages. However, his attention swayed elsewhere.

She took a seat two rows ahead, surrounded by a group of three or four girls, maybe more, but the exact number was inconsequential. She appeared oblivious to his presence, engrossed in conversation with one of the girls when a strand of her hair cascaded forward. Without conscious thought, Coriolanus Snow instinctively raised the index and middle fingers of his left hand, as if to delicately tucking the unruly lock behind her ear…

… what was that saying again? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, well, you won't be fooling me again.

Chapter Text

The struggle to assimilate was palpable among the others. It wasn't surprising, given their origins and the fact that their experiences were limited to what they knew. My heart particularly went out to Grainy, the girl hailing from District 11. She not only felt like a fish out of water; she was one. On our initial day, as we traversed the campus before congregating in the cafeteria, Grainy seized the buffet with a sense of urgency, grabbing anything within reach and voraciously stuffing herself. When her mouth could no longer accommodate more, she resorted to cramming her pockets, prompting two campus guards to forcefully restrain her. As she lay on the cold marble floor, with food debris spilling from her mouth and a campus guard's knee pressing into her back, the onlookers couldn't tear their curious eyes away. Grainy transformed into a peculiar spectacle, an unsettling yet captivating diversion from their otherwise monotonous lives—a living confirmation of their hierarchical superiority.

It wasn't a collective consideration that occupied their minds, acknowledging that Grainy hadn't ingested sustenance for days. Her instincts were tuned solely to survival, a programmed response to the harsh circumstances. Instead of empathizing, they preferred to observe with a veneer of ostentatious superiority. She wasn't perceived as a genuine human, but rather as an anomaly. She lacked the dubious privilege of arbitrating who qualified as a human and a figure worthy of sympathy, and who was cast aside.

The indelible image of Grainy, tears streaming down her face, fixated on me from the floor, remains etched in my memory. I pondered whether her choice was guided by the fact that I was the first from her kind she glimpsed, anticipating a semblance of understanding. Alternatively, her gaze could have conveyed an assertion of superiority, as she boldly embraced her authentic self, refusing to succumb to external pressures merely for the sake of survival. The exact nuance eludes my memory, but it's inconsequential now, for since that day, Grainy vanished. Officially deemed unqualified, she was promptly dispatched back to her district, leaving behind a lingering sense of injustice and a testament to the harsh reality of their stratified world.

Assimilating wasn't a particularly challenging task for me. I was accustomed to never truly fitting in, be it in the District or here in the Capitol. Barb Azure once told me that adaptability is a talent bestowed upon few. I reckon for some, it might be an innate trait, while for others, it's a necessity imposed by life—a prerequisite for progress. Adaptability, in essence, is a continual process of tearing away at oneself until so little remains that it's just enough to be accepted by others. However, what if acceptance demands tearing oneself apart completely, leaving nothing behind? How does one navigate life without an anchor, a compass, a heart, and a mind?

Survival here demands not just tearing myself apart but reinventing who I am. I must fill the layers I've shed, akin to a snake, with all the things people here love. I must become an empty vessel, filling myself with the superficial allure of Capitol indulgence and other Capitol shit, bereft of a beating heart.

"I'm assigned to you, nice to meet you again. Maybe you remember me?" Felix Ravinstill stared at me with wide eyes and tight lips, exuding a sense of nervous uncertainty about how to conduct himself.

I gently rested my hand on his upper arm, stretched the corners of my mouth as far as possible, looked up at him, hoping my eyes would reflect the hallway lamp's light, and took a step closer. "Of course, I remember you. I'm thrilled to have you as my mentor here."

It worked once, though the aftermath was undeniably harsh. Once, it succeeded, and I was naive enough to fall for it. But this time, I'm more astute.

This time, I won't buy into my own lie.

This time, I won't let myself fall in love with the fabricated illusion, deluding myself into hoping it could turn into reality.

I’m a survivor, after all. Don't you ever forget that.

Chapter Text

She was everywhere. Fucking everywhere.

It seemed an insurmountable task to banish her from his thoughts, for fragments of her existence hovered in every nook and cranny. Foremost among these were the projections of her interview, a constant loop on campus screens. With prior experience in front of cameras during the Hunger Games, she had joined the journalistic student initiative. As her celebrity status grew, her interview became a fixture on the campus airwaves. Regardless of Coriolanus's whereabouts, her face danced in an endless loop, as if the camera had become tethered to her image. Clemmie usually held the coveted Number 1 spot, being the president of the club, but she seemed determined to spotlight the new student, the former Hunger Games victor—Coriolanus suspected the ratings must be astronomical, although he hadn't bothered to inquire with Clemmie.

He had watched the interview repeatedly, scrutinizing her expressions—the sparkle in her eyes as she lifted the corners of her mouth, the casual melody of her voice, and the subtle deceit. She spun tales of honor, extolled the beauty of the Capitol, and professed her fortune at being there. She strategically omitted details about the Covey, brushed briefly over District 12, claiming it was a place where she never felt at home or truly belonged. Bitterly, Coriolanus concluded that she didn't need him. Felix, he surmised, lacked the intellectual depth and care to prepare her adequately. This was her triumph—a two-hour interview that played repeatedly on campus screens. Coriolanus couldn't escape the awkward pauses in conversations, the upward glances, and the collective gaze fixated on her. It reminded him of his younger self, marveling at her prowess and capability. He had seen the interview more times than he could count. By the fifteenth viewing, he abandoned counting, unwilling to acknowledge the extent of the spectacle, especially because she managed it without him.

As if the relentless replaying of the interview wasn't enough, there was the fucking dress—a sensation, a craze. Every third girl seemed to sport a variation of it. The rainbow colors had become an obsession, and Tigris's "LGB" collection, coupled with Clemmie's keen sense for trends, turned it into a campus-wide phenomenon. Those mid-length skirts, with colors that seemed to transcend in the light like delicate snake scales, became a ubiquitous sight.

After she showcased it on stage—a creation from Tigris—the campus was flooded with these skirts. Coriolanus found himself surrounded by rainbow hues and her face at every turn. Safe havens were scarce. The credit—or blame—didn't fall solely on her and Clemmie; Tigris played a significant role. Tigris, who should have been an ally, a source of support and comfort, had seemingly chosen a different path. As he pondered when she last uttered, "Snow lands on top," his mood plunged even deeper.

The relentless onslaught of her presence, whether in digital form on the screens or through the multitudes donning her trendsetting attire, became an inescapable reality for Coriolanus. As he navigated the campus, he felt like a solitary figure surrounded by the radiant aftermath of her fame. Even the walls of his dormitory offered no respite. Posters and prints featuring her adorned the common areas, transforming the once-neutral spaces into shrines to her triumph. Every communal space echoed with whispers and conversations about her, creating an atmosphere that Coriolanus found increasingly suffocating.

As another tantalizing snippet of her interview danced across the screen, Coriolanus briskly navigated his way to his seat, secretly hoping that Livia's presence might serve as a welcome distraction—a reluctant acknowledgment that underscored the depth of his current desperation. How had he come to a point where he sought solace in the company of Livia?

"Have you even talked to her?" Livia's inquiry cut through the air, carrying a tone of interrogation that hovered between concern and curiosity, leaving Coriolanus to fidget with his bag and feign disinterest.

"Whom are you referring to?" He evaded eye contact, his fingers futilely attempting to smooth out an imaginary wrinkle on his sleeve. Livia's pointed gaze lingered, her inquiry hanging in the air, a persistent undercurrent beneath the surface.

"You know precisely whom I mean," she retorted, her tone now laced with unmistakable severity, thankfully kept low enough for only Coriolanus to discern.

Fortuitously, the professor initiated the lecture at that moment, providing Coriolanus a convenient escape from Livia's pressing question. He seized the opportunity to immerse himself in the lecture, deliberately and entirely disregarding her inquiry. There was, he felt, an audacity in her probing about the subject. Livia had no business meddling in the intricacies of his current predicament.

Yet, as the lecture unfolded, the nagging echoes of Livia's question persisted. It wasn't without merit. The truth stood unassailable; he had engaged in conversation with her. However, the reality proved vastly different from whatever expectations—or perhaps fantasies—he may have harbored.

In the midst of academic discourse, Coriolanus grappled with an undeniable fact: she needed to vanish. The enigmatic figure who had adopted the name "Lucy", claimed by Covey as meaningful—two names, a Covey insignia—, had purposefully discarded the "Gray." She was now merely "Lucy." The term felt alien, an oddity on his tongue, and strange and wrong when projected onto the screens around the campus.

No, she wasn't just "Lucy."

In that moment of contemplation, Coriolanus instinctively grasped the undeniable truth, a certitude that refused alternative narratives. It was akin to the simplicity of mathematical truth—1 plus 1 equaled 2. She wasn't "Lucy"; she was "Lucy Gray," his Lucy Gray, an assertion that had nothing to do with his decision to get rid of her, a truth standing independently, an irreversible reality.

His gaze shifted briefly toward Felix, who occupied a few rows ahead to his left. Silently, Coriolanus reiterated this truth, as though the sheer force of his conviction could somehow transmit to Felix Ravinstill, echoing across the lecture hall like an unspoken proclamation.

Chapter Text

In the softly illuminated expanse of Capitol University's prestigious hall, a diverse assemblage of students, hailing from varying echelons of academia, converged for an impassioned discourse. The ambiance, suffused with an air of historical weight, had been carefully crafted. Above, the wooden details on the ceiling chronicled the Capitol's triumphant subjugation of the past rebellion, casting a silent but pronounced testament to its dominance. A symphony of murmurs and whispers permeated the air as the attendees formed a circle, encircling a substantial wooden table adorned with meticulously preserved records from bygone Hunger Games. The flickering light, which had danced shadows across the tapestried walls, lent a chiaroscuro effect that accentuated the palpable tension within the room. In a discreet corner, a sumptuous buffet had unfolded, presenting an opulent tableau of pastries, cookies, and cakes.

The gathering had assumed a pivotal role — the solemn task of mentor assignment for the districts. Within this charged ambiance, two students had been anointed stewards for districts bereft of victors, while another had shouldered the weighty responsibility for those districts adorned with laurels from previous Games. Coriolanus, a solitary student envoy from District 4, found himself ensnared in the contentious discourse swirling around the judicious allocation of sponsorships. The atmosphere, somehow heavy, had simmered and congealed, a paradoxical blend of delectable indulgence and the stifling gravity of Capitol politics.

Clemmie, a former classmate and now a third-year student representing District 9, perched on the edge of her chair, radiating an air of earnest concern. She adorned herself in one of Tigris's dresses, much to Coriolanus's chagrin. As he observed her, memories of their once-close connection echoed in his mind, now overshadowed by the growing distance between them, a chasm widened by the presence of "Lucy." She had chosen to showcase her newfound source of favorable ratings in a manner that felt dissonant to Coriolanus; she had chosen to showcase a girl not under her ownership or authority, a girl who wasn't rightfully hers to present.

"You can't be serious," she declared with a sincerity that hung like a delicate veil in the air. "We need to make it fair; otherwise, no one will want to watch it. I'm definitely in favor of setting a limit. Of all you people here, I believe I possess the keenest understanding of garnering good ratings, don't you think? That's the goal for the next Hunger Games. It baffles me how none of you seem to see that." Her words, laden with a mix of conviction and disappointment, echoed in the hall, a poignant contrast to the obliviousness of those around her.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, Caesar, a second-year student representing District 2, exuded an initial air of disinterest and boredom. However, as the conversation unfolded, a subtle agitation crept into his demeanor. His gaze, in the beginning quite distant, now flickered with a spark of intensity.

"It's a competition, in case you've forgotten," he retorted with a measured nonchalance. "And every competition is about winning. I say the district that can afford it should be able to send as much food as they want. We should reward people for indirectly financing and supporting the Games. We shouldn't protect the lazy districts by imposing a limit."

The air in the room hung suspended, a collective inhalation arrested by the clash of divergent perspectives. Clemmie's self-interest, as she represented District 9, collided with Caesar's pragmatism, compounded by his inherent self-serving motives as the representative of District 2. It became glaringly apparent to Coriolanus that none among them possessed the discernment to view the situation objectively from a distance and determine what was truly best for Panem.

Each individual, ensnared in the web of their personal interests, remained blind to the broader tableau. Coriolanus perceived a deficiency in their ability to step back and contemplate the grander picture—a characteristic flaw shared by many of his peers. Simultaneously, this myopic focus on personal gain rendered them predictable and more manageable. It was a trait, a vulnerability that plagued his contemporaries, making them susceptible targets, their steadfast fixation on self-interest acting as both a glaring target and as a pervasive weakness.

In the midst of the ongoing discourse, Coriolanus deliberately steers his focus toward Lucy Gray. Seated adjacent to him, her face remains a bastion of inscrutability, revealing little of the interest that may or may not linger beneath the surface. Despite her outward nonchalance, Coriolanus keenly observes a quite interesting detail — she indulged in her fourth pastry.

Bite by tiny bite, almost imperceptible in size, she consumed it, a practice he recognized all too intimately, perhaps even excessively so. This ritual had woven itself through his childhood and adolescence, a subtle act that could swiftly become the day's most cherished highlight. When one is acquainted with the perpetual absence of enough food and then unexpectedly encounters something delectable, the rest of the world fades into a distant murmur. Rather than indulging voraciously, one adopts a measured approach, taking only the smallest of bites each time, as if convinced that such restraint would extend the pleasure, ensuring each morsel is thoroughly relished.

His gaze momentarily flitted towards the buffet nestled in the corner, a lavish display still overflowing with tempting delicacies. Returning his attention to Lucy Gray, he discerned that her seemingly indifferent consumption mirrored his own idiosyncrasies. It was a realization that prompted him to abstain from partaking in the culinary abundance laid before him. The room, in stark contrast, appeared to have collectively forgotten the visceral pangs of true hunger, as if the days of rebellion were mere echoes in a distant past, scarcely worthy of recollection.

In this moment, it became apparent that only Lucy Gray and he clung tenaciously to the memories of deprivation, reluctant to release their grip on a past that, by all accounts, should have been consigned to oblivion. Even in the face of abundance, Lucy Gray, surrounded by an excess of delectable options, chose the smallest imaginable bites, savoring each fragment with a deliberate slowness. Coriolanus glanced briefly at Felix, seated beside her, but Felix seemed oblivious—understandably so, given his lack of genuine familiarity with Lucy Gray. He didn't know her. Not really, at least.

Felix stood as the representative of District 12 alongside Lucy Gray, a former victor. His countenance betrayed the toll of the heat, beads of perspiration glistening on his forehead, a detail that seemed to amuse Coriolanus. In his imaginative reverie, Coriolanus envisioned Lucy Gray suppressing the urge to wrinkle her nose at Felix's visibly sweaty state, an act of restraint fueled by a perceived sense of pity for her fellow District representative.

The atmosphere, though warm, failed to justify the conspicuous moisture staining the fabric of Felix's shirt. Coriolanus, observing this rather distasteful spectacle, couldn't help but inwardly remark on the inelegant sight before him. Felix, in his advocacy for a sponsorship limit — a position not unexpected given his affiliation—presented weak arguments in his characteristically unpleasant, excessively bright voice. Coriolanus, uninterested in the specifics of Felix's points, noted that the content merely aligned with what was deemed socially acceptable for his role as a representative of District 12.

Perhaps, Coriolanus surmised, Felix aimed to impress Lucy Gray, both sharing a vested interest in the imposition of sponsorship limits during the Hunger Games. Nevertheless, the repetitive nature of Felix's argumentation struck Coriolanus as pitiable. The continual reiteration of the same points, as if the act of paraphrasing could somehow enhance the persuasiveness of his stance, seemed to Coriolanus a demonstration of intellectual deficiency; only an individual lacking in discernment would resort to such rhetorical redundancy instead of endeavoring to articulate their position with precision and eloquence.

As the evening descended and a temporary ceasefire emerged in the ongoing sponsorship limit debate, Lucy Gray gracefully rose from her seat, prompting an instinctive shift in Coriolanus's attention. Unable to resist, he found himself observing her with an intensity that bordered on scrutiny. Lucy Gray, seemingly oblivious to his watchful gaze, exhibited a discernible flush on her cheeks—a subtle metamorphosis that eluded the perception of casual onlookers but certainly did not escape Coriolanus's keen eye.

It wasn't merely the consequence of the rising temperature within the room; it was the nuanced discomfort that he discerned in her demeanor, a discomfort that coincided precisely with the moment Coriolanus decided, whether by conscious choice or instinct, to indulge in the spectacle of her ascent. He knew her intimately, well enough to recognize the subtleties that eluded others. The flush on her cheeks was not a mere response to the heat; it carried a narrative of its own, an unspoken language of discomfort that mirrored his careful scrutiny. In that moment, he was not to be deceived; he saw through the facade—a discerning strength conspicuously absent in Felix.

Coriolanus couldn't conceal a self-satisfied smile, a subtle manifestation of triumph that graced his features as he reflected on the dual victories of the day. First and foremost, he had successfully pinpointed the ideal target, a tool through which his potential plan could find its execution. Lucy Gray's unhurried indulgence in the pastries before her presented itself as an unwitting ally. Their past conversation, though seemingly innocuous, left Coriolanus vigilant. While she may not have overtly betrayed any intentions of divulging his secrets, he remained acutely aware of the latent risk she posed. Positioned prominently on the campus platform, Lucy Gray stood as a conspicuous figure, an individual whose interviews had been witnessed by all and whose distinctive dress had become a ubiquitous presence.

The second victory, equally satisfying to Coriolanus, unfolded with a subtle influence that only he could orchestrate. Lucy Gray, under the influence of his gaze, she had blushed—an outcome that he relished with a particular satisfaction. It was a welcome triumph, a manifestation of his control over the intricate dynamics at play.

Also, clad in the finest suit of the day, a sartorial testament to his meticulous attention to detail, he felt compelled to underscore in his mind a distinction that he believed deserved acknowledgment—unlike certain individuals in the room, notably the one adjacent to Lucy Gray, he was notably unburdened by perspiration. In the recesses of his thoughts, a wry smirk tugged at the corners of Coriolanus's lips as his gaze surreptitiously landed on again Lucy Gray.

Oh, Lucy Gray, he mused inwardly, a sardonic edge inflecting his silent commentary, what a lamentable liar you prove to be.

Just as he was about to exit the room, he heard a male voice emanating from the rear corner, remarking, "It's absolutely disgusting that someone like her is allowed to sit here. Fucking repulsive, if you ask me. They should have left her and the other savages in the districts."

Coriolanus paused briefly at the door, acknowledging the truth embedded in the statement. However, he tensed, feeling his blood almost pulsating in his veins. While the remark about the remaining three district students could be accepted, what grated against his sensibilities was the focus on Lucy Gray. It was one thing for him to find her presence inconvenient, bothersome, even perilous, but it was an entirely different matter for someone else to vocalize their complaints, to demean her. He registered the comment as an insult—not only against Lucy Gray but also against himself.

Chapter Text

Within the lore of the Covey, ancestral narratives are woven through the tapestry of antiquity, predominantly conveyed by way of our melodic ballads. When I was young, before my father's untimely departure, he lulled me into dreams with a lullaby that explored the idea of destiny. The abstraction of "destiny" posed a challenge to my comprehension. In those years, I envisaged an unseen hand delicately pulling imperceptible threads, each thread culminating in a distinct narrative. This ethereal hand, I believed, exerted its influence across myriad threads until the intricate design of an individual's life was unveiled. Yet, when I sought elucidation from my father, an alternative allegory was proffered: destiny, he insisted, resembled a celestial constellation. Bid to cast my gaze skyward, I endeavored to enumerate the stars. My initial perplexity led me to embark upon the task of counting each star. My father, in response, chuckled, enfolding me tenderly, his head nestling against mine. Destiny, he imparted, is a cipher beyond our grasp, akin to the insurmountable task of enumerating the stars. Yet, amidst this cosmic enigma, the prospect of gazing upon a solitary star—much like savoring singular moments as they unfold—remained plausible. Thus, the counsel emerged: forsake the pursuit of tallying the cosmos and divining fate; instead, fixate upon the present, for destiny, immutable and inscribed above, eludes no one. Despite our fervent imaginings, some elements lie beyond our dominion, a verity resonant among us Covey. In simpler words: Instead of trying to figure out everything, we should focus on the moment, since fate is fixed and doesn't run away—it's written up there. No matter how much we imagine otherwise, we can't control everything, just like us Covey.

The pride in my Covey heritage was not always palpable. At 8 oder 9 years old, I became entangled in a harrowing skirmish with two young girls and a boy. Overwhelmed by their numerical superiority, my frail frame and feeble constitution rendered defense a futile endeavor. The catalyst for this tumult was their perceived superiority as denizens of District 12, a circumstance that subjected me to derisive taunts and derogatory epithets, branding me "as dirty as shit" because of my olive skin color—a curious aspersion, considering the identical olive color that adorned the skin of both the boy and a girl among them, yet such nuances held little sway over their prejudiced discourse. Returning to my familial enclave with disheveled attire, I embarked on an ardent cleansing ritual, the abrasion of my skin nearly reaching the point of bloody injury. My father's intervention interrupted my zealous ablutions, the sponge wrested from my grasp. I recounted the story of my humiliation, my desolation, and my fervent desire to disavow my Covey lineage. In response, a punitive decree was levied: four nights beneath the night sky, meagerly shrouded in two blankets, their inadequate warmth incapable of repelling the biting chill. A subsequent malady gripped me, a consequence of those frigid nights. My father never explicitly clarified, but over time, I pieced it together. In moments of his displeasure, he didn't resort to harsh words or brutal beatings, unlike the fate endured by many others in our district. Instead, he chose a unique form of reprimand: subjecting me to the chill of cold and the grit of dirt. Initially, I believed steering clear of trouble would shield me from this particular punishment. However, as all of you know, the company of cold and dirt became enduring companions for some time.

Despite the countless setbacks, notwithstanding the obstacles strewn across my path, there remained a flicker of hope within me for reasons unbeknownst. Amidst the life-threatening struggle in the woods, where I sprinted with all the swiftness my legs could muster, distancing myself as far as possible from him, tears cascading down my cheeks, my heart throbbing with an intensity that threatened failure, the echoes of shots, the haunting calls of the Mockingjays, and his relentless pursuit, I found myself ensnared in a familiar constellation: my unwavering companions, cold and dirt, reappeared. They were the only steadfast companions I had ever known. My initial love had traded me for a girl with superior education, residence, status, and a more substantial safety net. The subsequent encounter in the woods aimed at nothing short of my demise. Though cold and dirt may have been unwelcome companions, they couldn't be accused of disloyalty. Thus, I spent a year and a half in their company. Occasionally, I summoned the courage to venture to my Covey for a few obscure nights, relishing transient warmth and collecting meager provisions—perhaps some fresh belongings or a morsel of food if they could spare it. Yet, inevitably, I returned to my faithful companions. As the saying goes, familiarity breeds acceptance. I wouldn't go so far as to label us as best friends or a romantic trio, but we were no longer adversaries. They shielded me from others, ensuring I remained hidden, secure. They offered protection and shelter. They offered me something I never truly had.

On a certain evening, recognizing a subtle fatigue in the company of my two associates— as is customary in any relationship, there come moments when one craves respite and a modicum of personal space—I chose to revisit familiar territory. Encountering Maude Ivory, an undeniable sense of wistfulness crept over me, each meeting revealing her heightened stature and burgeoning maturity. Consistently enthused by our encounters, she eagerly divulged the latest social tidings. Grateful for this window into life, mindful of every nuance, I, in customary fashion, offered reassurance that I would "properly return" shortly—a mantra echoed not solely to persuade the amiable Maude Ivory but also to assuage my own uncertainties. "Just a bit more time, that's all, and the collective memory will have relinquished me, affording a seamless return," became a refrain at each parting, inscribing the notion until its conviction permeated even my consciousness. Nevertheless, this particular evening was ordained to deviate from the norm, promising an air of extraordinariness. Maude Ivory unfolded the narrative of a woman embarking on a distinctive project, one that aspired to handpick five youths from the districts and transport them to the Capitol—not for combat, but for scholarly pursuits. Five individuals, purportedly possessing exemplary academic aptitude—an accolade that the scarcely distinguished scholars of District 12 could scarcely aspire to attain. The imminent week would witness the woman and her associates scrutinizing the student populace in District 12, potentially singling out a candidate. I queried Maude Ivory, questioning the authenticity of this revelation. Why would a Capitol resident endeavor to bring anyone, let alone five, for scholarly pursuits? What conceivable subjects could they study? Mastery over hunger cessation? Strategies for feeling even more diminutive? Techniques for refining one's status as a Capitol slave? And who would sanction such an endeavor? What rationale could prompt such a desire? Who was this woman, and what motivated her to entertain this notion? A barrage of inquiries ensued, and as temporal progression engendered more questions, a sense of imprudence settled upon me for having dedicated cogitation to this subject—not that more pressing matters occupied my thoughts, but nevertheless, a sense of folly and naivety pervaded. Until, as customary, Maude Ivory disclosed another fragment of information, one inadvertently overheard and indelibly etched in her memory. The progenitor of the aforementioned project bore the surname "Plinth."

In an instant, the veneer of folly and naivety dissipated. Contemplations of severing ties with my devoted companions surfaced—let it be clear, their loyalty and utility were undeniable, yet our relationship was somewhat asymmetrical and emotionally unfulfilling.

Suddenly, my thoughts turned to the starry sky.

Mrs. Plinth seemed written in the stars, and it appeared I was meant to be with her.

Chapter Text

As the day's tempest raged outside, Coriolanus Snow, scrutinizing his trousers, drenched and marred by the grime acquired from navigating the street to his penthouse, resolved that a bath would be a more preferable course of action. The chill seeped into his bones, his fingertips hinting at a slight blueness. Disdainfully, he cast the offending trousers into a corner; the sight of dirt on his garments repulsed him. A Snow by name, the dread lingered that anyone catching sight of him in soiled attire would etch that unsightly image indelibly into their memory, forever associating him with impurity. A recollection from the Rebellion surfaced, where he endured wearing a pair of trousers for nearly three months, the water supply severed, transforming the once green fabric into an unsightly brown-gray hue. Now, any stain on his trousers briefly transported him back to childhood, inducing involuntary shivers.

A few minutes later, his Avox, Hedgehog, had prepared a bath for him. Upon entering the bathroom, he observed delicate rose petals adorning the foam. Were he ever to extol Hedgehog, he would wish to retract every commendation at this juncture. A substantial sum expended and the orchestration of the Plinth relationship, facilitated by their munificent donation to the pertinent administration, had secured an Avox believed to surpass the others. Now, confronted with a bath adorned with red rose petals, Coriolanus pondered, if the Avox had possessed a tongue, whether he would have contemplated its removal once more. The cold dissipated from him almost instantly; his anger surged. The bath, embellished with rose petals, evoked certain words, as if interviews and rainbow attire were insufficient; now, she infiltrated his damn bathroom.

"When I was little, they used to bathe me in buttermilk and rose petals."

To hell with you, Lucy Gray, he ruminated, to hell with you and those fucking rose petals. He seized each one, plucking them from the white, foamy surface, and cast them to the floor, where they accumulated into a damp bloody pile. Subsequently, he gingerly immersed himself in the hot water, endeavoring to relax as the water enveloped his entire body, prompting the closure of his eyes.

"When I was little, they used to bathe me in buttermilk and rose petals."
"When I was little, they used to bathe me in buttermilk and rose petals."
"When I was little, they used to bathe me in buttermilk and rose petals."
"When I was little, they used to bathe me in buttermilk and rose petals."

He opened his eyes with a profound intensity, as though seeking to expel the words, her words, from his consciousness.

"When I was little, they used to bathe me in buttermilk and rose petals."

It was a fabrication, undoubtedly so. He had witnessed the environment in which she was raised, the manner of her upbringing. No one in their right mind would have squandered buttermilk for a bath, and the act of infusing water with rose petals would have been an impractical luxury. No, it was a falsehood, a deliberate manipulation. She had accepted the rose, quickly understanding its significance to him, and erected a bridge between them—a bridge constructed from deceit, manipulation, and self-interest. A bridge that proved successful for a time, only to crumble later due to its inherently unstable foundation.

"When I was little, they used to bathe me in buttermilk and rose petals."

Involuntarily, he extended his left hand, sweeping the floor until he located the mound of rose petals, selecting one between his fingers. Before he could arrest the motion, he raised it toward him, contemplated its vibrant red color, toyed with the delicate petal between his fingers, and delicately rested it on the white, frothy surface. He observed as it leisurely drifted atop those snowy clouds, buoyed by the warmth of the water. Peculiar, he mused, a foundation crafted from snowy foam, yet resilient enough to support a rose petal.

"When I was little, they used to bathe me in buttermilk and rose petals."

Contemplating their initial and singular conversation, occurring during the second week following her arrival, he acknowledged his futile attempts to locate her in the preceding week, inquiring about her, though opportunities eluded him—as if she purposely evaded him. Naturally, he couldn't publicly intercept her amid a throng of onlookers; that would raise suspicions. No, he needed a chance to approach her privately, a near-impossible feat on the bustling campus, given the intense public interest in her. She was invariably surrounded by a multitude of individuals. To compound matters, Felix was her constant companion. Felix knew that he had once been her mentor, with a vivid recollection of their shared kiss. It had been a thoughtless and impulsive act to kiss her so openly—a misstep that haunted him with bitter regret.

He tilted his head backward until he sensed the plush pillow cradling his neck. With a swift motion, he liberated the pillow from the bathtub, venting his frustration as he tossed it vehemently to the floor. The gradual descent of his head onto the cool expanse of marble was a deliberate act, a surrender to the stoic embrace of the stone beneath him. Engrossed in contemplation of their conversation, a quiver traversed the expanse of his body—a subtle tremor that dared to defy the enveloping warmth of the water. It was as if her words, like some sort of echoes, resounded through every sinew, every muscle, penetrating to the very core of his being. The concept of her words merely clinging to him proved insufficient, an inadequate portrayal of the profound depth of the sensation. This was not a superficial attachment, a fleeting caress upon the skin. Instead, the experience unfolded as a complex and disconcerting interplay of emotions. It transcended the ordinary; it wasn't just a clinging—it was a symbiotic dance, an intricate connection that defied the boundaries of the physical realm. The sensation went beyond mere attachment; it was akin to a slow transgression, each word taking root within him, orchestrating a subtle possession of not just his body but his very essence. Coriolanus, in the midst of this profound experience, couldn't help but acknowledge the bitter irony that underscored it all—she was meant to be his possession, not the other way around.

He endeavored to suppress the quivers, to stave them off, yet her words reverberated relentlessly. Eventually, he surrendered, allowing the words to permeate.

In the depths of his memory, he found himself standing before the door of the small lecture hall...

He arrived early and leaned against the wall. In that moment, he appreciated the solitude, especially without Livia, who had distanced herself since her birthday party. It wasn't the cold he minded, but the thought of others noticing it chilled him.

"No rose for me this time?"

He hadn't seen her approach. It felt as if she materialized suddenly, like a ghost aiming to startle. His heart skipped a beat, unsure if it was the abruptness of her appearance or her proximity that caused it. She looked almost as he remembered—like a haunting specter, beautiful. Her smile was warm, sending shivers down his spine.

As he stood there, time seemed to stretch into eternity. His mind and body felt suspended, as if her presence held him in place. The ticking of the clock echoed, each second emphasizing the frozen moment. Amidst it all, fear lingered—the one thing untouched by the icy stillness, the emotion he longed to banish, to cast away into the depths of the forest.

"Too bad, Coriolanus Snow, no sweet words for your former tribute and mentee?"

He was too stunned to grasp the nuances in her tone. It sounded affectionate, kind, friendly... yet, beneath it all, there was a subtle undertone, a dissonance between her facade and the concealed depth beneath. Something simmered beneath the surface, expertly masked by her, leaving him to wonder: Maybe there was nothing there at all, perhaps it was all in his imagination.

Chapter Text

Every vestige of color had abandoned his face. It was as if I gazed upon the countenance of a ghost; every strand of his essence appeared taut, frozen, suspended in an eerie, icy stillness. A statue materialized before me, bereft of movement. He regarded me with a gaze that likened me to the embodiment of Death or an avenging angel who had, at last, unearthed him, destined to cast him into the infernal abyss. I held no anticipation of a different reaction, and yet, within the recesses of a pulsating organ that had brought me here in the first place, a faint, imploring spark of hope resided—a fragile, whispered thought, a beguiling, forlorn fantasy.

This fragile emanation knelt, crawled on all fours, a supplicant creature begging for recognition, craving comprehension, yearning for its voice to finally be heard. What did this ethereal flicker, this fleeting notion, this fanciful apparition and elusive fantasy convey to me? It fervently desired, with a passionate plea, that the frigid statue before me would metamorphose, envelop me in its thawing embrace, and murmur assurances that all would be well. Safety would be mine, sanctuary would enfold me, and love would cradle me.

But, instead of attuning my ears to its subtle melody, instead of extending a hand to lift it from the ground, instead of acknowledging and understanding its plea, I condemned it to the darkest recesses in that very moment. I incarcerated it in the deepest catacomb, imprisoned it, ensuring not a solitary murmur could escape. I confined it, embellishing the locked chamber with a whimsical sign: "Trespass not. Under no circumstance unveil. Danger lurks within. Perils include but are not limited to death (literal), heartache, and internal bleeding. A resounding refrain to all audacious, romantically suicidal souls, to all heedless romantics: Keep locked. DO NOT UNVEIL." (Side note: Regardless of the gleaming blonde hair, notwithstanding the beautiful blue eyes, irrespective of the gorgeous broad shoulders, and even in the face of the enchantment when his skin brushes against yours — it's not worth it, under any circumstance, HAVE SOME RESPECT for yourself and move on. Maintain your fucking composure, or else: Potential death (literal) incoming.)

"Too bad, Coriolanus Snow, no endearing words for your past tribute and protégé?"

I don't know how much time had passed. He continued to fixate on me, his face an unyielding facade of frigidity, the same motionless, cold expression. Oddly, a sense of satisfaction tinged with a hint of amusement crept into my consciousness. The realization dawned that, in this very moment, he must have sensed an unspoken vulnerability, akin to a helpless deer caught amidst the relentless waves or a sweet, little lamb ensnared within the den of a lion. What, I wondered, had he envisioned me saying? Was there a fear that I might unleash a torrent of threats? Disclose his darkest secrets and gruesome deeds to the world? Unveil the intricacies of his transgressions in a forthcoming interview? Perhaps he harbored a lingering dread that I was merely biding my time, patiently awaiting the opportune moment to obliterate, to forever ruin every facet of his envisioned future.

It was rather peculiar, the whole situation. I wasn't the predator, not the serial killer, not the one wielding great power. And yet, in this fleeting moment, he made me feel like I had the upper hand. The wolf masquerading as a sheep. The wolf with its lethal bite, immense swiftness, and muscular stature... A wolf, a sheep, and a District girl walk into a bar. Who comes out?

With a radiant smile that had become second nature, a skill honed through years of theatrical performance, I voiced my question, "How long do you plan on keeping me waiting?" The artifice of my grin, a mask I'd worn throughout my existence as a performer, concealed the complexities within. "Look, I imagine this is strange for you as well… I get the peculiarity of our circumstance. I simply wished to express my regrets for that day I left. The fear of fleeing gripped me, leading me back, then pushing me to contemplate running once more. Amidst the forest's labyrinth, my indecision practically danced. I should have remained, offered an explanation, especially considering… our shared intention to escape together. I deeply regret not speaking to you then. When I finally resolved to tell you, you had vanished. I convinced myself it might be for the best, a fleeting summer love affair… It was just a summer fling, nothing more. So, time has passed… and before it gets awkward, I wanted to say sorry for not running away that day, for not staying with you, for failing to explain adequately… Maybe we could be friends again? We started as friends, did we not? But I get it if it feels weird for you. I don't want to force you to be my friend. So, what do you think, Coriolanus?"

I lifted the corners of my mouth even higher, casting a gaze at him filled with increased affection and intensity. Suddenly, a very subtle tremor caught my attention. It was as if the figurative statue before me was melting, and I observed the droplets slowly cascading down his form.

Despite the tremor, he visibly tensed once more. This time, he met my eyes directly—truly met them, not just a casual glance. His mouth curled into a smile, and despite the slight quiver in his body, he spoke with a composed, friendly tone: "Don't worry about it. I'm happy to see you here again, and I believe we can rekindle our friendship. I hope you find your footing quickly; though, knowing you, that shouldn't be much of a challenge. You're right, let's leave the past behind; who likes to dwell on a fleeting romance, right? I do want to extend a warm welcome to you here in the Capitol and at the university, and if you need anything, anything at all, you know where to find me, Lucy."

What caught me off guard wasn't his reaction. I had anticipated he would respond this way—how else could he, being Coriolanus Snow? No, what surprised me, and nestled a bit of discomfort, hurt even, deep within, was that he referred to me as "Lucy" and not by my real name. Of all people, he should have known better.

Chapter Text

Allow me to share a vivid portrayal: The little hall was far from enchanting. Its size proved inadequate for the multitude it aimed to host, rendering an atmosphere of congestion. The floor, upon my initial step into the room, betrayed an unexpected stickiness, a seemingly incongruous detail in an otherwise seemingly clean space. A puzzle that lingered in my mind—why a floor could feel this way when the cleanliness was apparent.

As we navigated the preliminary moments, tasked with finding our designated seats, a sudden chill permeated the air. I couldn't help but shiver as I settled into my place, a discomfort momentarily alleviated by Felix, who discreetly offered the warmth of his coat. In truth, having endured a prolonged period of perpetual chill, the allure of Felix's gesture proved irresistible in this moment, but I knew better than to accept.

Yet, amidst this physical discomfort, my attention was drawn to the sea of faces fixated upon me. Their gazes were penetrating, searching for imperfections, for vulnerabilities to exploit in their future conversations. It was as if they sought confirmation that someone of my ilk was inherently flawed, a narrative they could readily embrace.

Undoubtedly, there were those who refrained from such gossip. However, it would be a mistake to perceive them as morally superior. Their restraint did not stem from a compassionate understanding of my predicament, navigating a return to an environment where many wished for my brutal demise. No, they refrained from gossip not out of empathy, but because, like the others, they failed to perceive me as a human being. I was the fresh subject, a showpiece; they monitored my wardrobe choices, my hairstyling nuances, and my enthusiastic portrayals of the purported beauty of our surroundings during interviews. In their eyes, I had transformed into a pet—a petite, adorable entity over which they now held dominion. The unsettling truth was their perception of heroism linked to this newfound control.

I wasn't merely a young woman subject to their judgment; instead, I found myself welcomed into their homes like a kitten, permitted to adorn myself, and encouraged to display acrobatic prowess. However, theirs was not the affection bestowed upon a cherished pet. Rather, their fondness endured only until the pet displayed its true nature—biting back and forcefully reminding them of its inherent wildness. In that instant, alliances shifted, and those who had initially embraced me would seamlessly join the ranks of those who vehemently opposed my presence. Their welcome would be fervent, accompanied by remarks such as, "I told you so. This Lucy Gray is just like the others." Their laughter, confident and triumphant, would resound, leaving me to ponder the longevity of my acceptance. How long until my "fan club" unveiled their true intentions, realizing that I was not just a sweet and adorable facade, but a force uninterested in bowing to their false superiority, certainly not inclined to subservience by licking the soles of their expectations?

It's truly disheartening that I've opted for theirs among a myriad of metaphors. The notion of a pet, which, in reality, harbors a brutal essence, or the inherent proclivity for violence within each individual... I imagine that, when you invest such significant time with them, immersing yourself in their fabrications and rhetorical acrobatics, embracing their moral contortions as your own convictions, you inevitably grapple with the quandary of discerning when their influence takes precedence and you've assimilated to an almost excessive extent. In this respect, Sejanus exhibited a greater resilience than I did— rest assured I took care to emphasize to Mrs. Plinth the strength, the eagerness, and the underlying heroism that had infused his splendid character.

Returning to this dismal hall, its ceiling adorned with haphazard scenes from the rebellion, one could hardly deem it a masterpiece. The miniature crowds were hastily and thoughtlessly carved, with only the Capitol's flag receiving meticulous attention; the rest faded into negligence. Whoever undertook the ceiling carvings was assuredly no great artist, perhaps merely untalented and indolent. The rebels, carved diminutively, lacked even facial features, represented only by a downward circle as a head. In contrast, the Capitol figures received more detail; a few officers boasted relatively well-carved uniforms. Yet, the striking element was the postures of the respective groups: Capitol citizens stood erect, triumphant, and self-satisfied, while the rebels seemed almost to crawl on all fours. Arms awkwardly extended forward, backs small and round, and legs disproportionately short for their torsos. It was, as previously stated, simply unsightly.

One might assume that someone like me, hailing from District 12, lacks an understanding of beauty and architecture. However, do not overlook the fact that I witnessed the sparkling lake bathed in glaring sunlight, the leaves saturated in various hues of yellow and orange during the fall, and the verdant meadows. I comprehend beauty—and ugliness—, much like anyone else.

Caesar, a second-year student representing District 2, entered the room with visible boredom, at least until he saw me. His facial expression instantly changed to a distinct grimace. I looked away, towards the buffet in the corner, hoping not to reveal anything. It didn't help that I still shivered, despite the stuffy air in the room—I fervently hoped that Caesar wouldn't misinterpret it and take it as a reaction to him. You may be wondering about this tall, brown-haired, dark-green-eyed boy, but I will address that elsewhere. After all, today was not about Caesar.

I approached the buffet, selecting a small, delicately sweet pastry—just one. I aimed to avoid the impression of gluttony, demonstrating restraint so that others wouldn't perceive me as someone who couldn't resist seizing the food meant for them, much like poor Grainy. Placing the pastry on my white porcelain plate, I caught wind of his name. Someone had apparently greeted him. It struck me as peculiar how the arrangement of a few letters, the utterance of a handful of syllables, could leave such a sharp sting. Who needs heavy weaponry when there are names that can relentlessly haunt you? Trust me, latter cuts deeper.

I paused for a brief moment, needing a few breaths to regain composure and return to my seat. I knew his place was diagonally across from mine—that was the first thing I searched for when I saw the seating plan hanging at the front door. The table formed a circle, and I had a rather unfortunate view. After briefly examining the cuticles of my thumb, tightly clinging to the porcelain plate, I marched back, deliberately avoiding eye contact with him. In that moment, I couldn't discern whether I hoped he hadn't seen me or whether I wished he would look at me right now.

Nervously, I placed the plate on the table in front of me, delicately took the pastry in my hands, and broke off a tiny piece. Although the room seemed completely packed with students discussing the lives of others—oh, excuse me, I meant debating the limit of sponsorships during the Hunger Games, each student receiving a substantial bag of Unicredits—I couldn't help but smile inwardly. Holding the small pastry in my hands, breaking off a tiny piece, sitting diagonally across from Coriolanus—so close yet not quite—I felt like my 16-year-old self again, waiting for him to reappear at the zoo, preferably with something sweet in hand. He always scrutinized me closely when I took those small bites—slowly, one bite at a time. Initially, I thought he might be a bit jealous, that I was the one eating, as I understood he was hungry too. But eventually, it became clear to me: he ate just like me…bite by bite, when it came to delicious things.

Chapter Text

"What happened next?" Clemmie mumbled amidst the clinking of spoons, each one laden with an excess of pudding. I anxiously observed, fearing that the surplus pudding might cascade onto her light yellow blouse, leaving an unsightly, chocolate-hued blemish.

"It's... difficult to explain…" I responded, my gaze fixed on her as she theatrically rolled her eyes.

"Come on, Lucy, do I really need to plead for every little detail?" Another spoonful entered her mouth, and predictably, this one veered off course. Unaware of the mishap, she continued, prompting me to swiftly seize the napkin in front of me, intercepting the impending disaster on her blouse.

"Oh no," she stammered, grabbing another napkin and inadvertently pressing the substance deeper into the fabric.

"That won't help. If you can't remedy it, I can consult Tigris. It would be a shame for such a lovely blouse."

Clemmie lifted her head, bestowing a warm smile upon me before expressing her gratitude.

Seated on a bench in the heart of the campus, the late evening afforded us a sparse population of students meandering about. The atmosphere was serene, and the gentle breeze provided a welcomed respite. Confined within oppressive rooms for extended periods had left me yearning for fresh air, a breeze that danced freely, and the touch of the sun on my skin. I could swear that the Capitol's sun was less generous than the one I had known before. The initial weeks proved particularly challenging. Persistent, unrelenting stares pursued me incessantly—a minor annoyance compared to the monotony of spending the day indoors, subjected to the convoluted verbiage of individuals attempting to impress rather than seek truth. Their intricate wordplay, borrowed from the eloquence of their predecessors, left me craving authenticity in a sea of superficiality, but who am I to talk and to demand, right?

The entirety of my morning was absorbed by a myriad of lectures. Although I possessed the ability to read and write—an anomaly in the context of District 12—, when confronted with the realms of mathematics, physics, chemistry, and the curated history of Panem (mind you, molded by Capitol censorship and interpretation), I found myself utterly adrift. Sustaining focus for prolonged periods proved arduous, and my vexation grew each time, post-lecture, when professors sought me out, inquiring about my comprehension. Once, in a false display of confidence, I claimed to be following along admirably, only to be confronted by subsequent queries that left me floundering. The old man's face radiated with every erroneous response, especially when his gaze fell upon me, rendering me mute, reluctant to utter another word. It was, without a doubt, confirmation in his eyes: one could hardly have expected anything different from someone like me.

In my childhood, a pervasive sense of unattractiveness enveloped me, an unspoken consensus as no one ever offered a dissenting opinion. A Covey girl, it seemed, was not bestowed with conventional beauty. She was not adorned with the endearing label of "cute" or deemed desirable by the denizens of District 12— Until the moment arrived when she grew a tiny bit more, reached a certain age, and her freedom to wander alone in the nocturnal hours was abruptly curtailed. It marked the juncture at which she could no longer evade the vigilant gazes of specific peacekeepers. They were undeterred by my petite stature, indifferent to my youth, or perhaps even more engrossed because of it.

In the present setting of the Capitol, I didn't perceive myself as ugly; rather, I grappled with a sense of intellectual inadequacy, feeling unworthy among individuals who seemed to possess superior knowledge and had delved much deeper into literature than I had. This awareness of my perceived intellectual deficit lingered, a daily reminder.

Yet, the challenge lay in the fact that there was a part of me resistant to the inclination to categorize, pigeonhole, or succumb to patterned thinking. What I'm trying to convey is that I had never assessed others based on the number of books they had read, the multitude of papers they had scrawled, their ability to recite stolen words, or the quantity of flawed ideas they could generate. The absence of this judgmental urge meant that I fundamentally understood the insignificance of the mental compartments others tried to impose on me, the imaginary boxes intended for confinement. These were built on different premises and constituted nothing more than ethereal constructs. After all, one cannot construct a cage out of air alone. It necessitates convincing people that the cage's boundaries are real, encouraging them to believe in their existence. Only then can people be coerced into stillness, accepting their perceived confinement. However, I refuse to be confined to such a cage, especially one made of damn air.

"So, Lucy, you haven't really addressed my question," Clemmie said, eyeing me with an amused expression. Her attempts at acting were less than stellar; anyone could easily discern her level of fascination and captivation. It must have felt surreal for her—a scenario so unlikely yet unfolding due to some twist of fate.

"It's not really that intriguing; it was just—"

"You know, Lucy, I strongly disagree with you on that. I've known Coriolanus Snow since we were little. And let me tell you, the boy may be many things, but someone who engages in numerous romantic escapades, he most certainly is not. Moreover..." She paused, shifting her gaze to the darkening sky above. "The way he looked at you... I don't know."

"How did he look at me?"

Now refocusing on me, she sighed, picked up her spoon once more, and continued in a somewhat subdued tone, "Well, have you ever seen how a predator eyes its chosen prey? When I was little, I always thought it must look like a blend of hatred and hunger. But in Dr. Gaul's lab, I witnessed firsthand how a predator truly regards its prey. It doesn't exude hatred or mere hunger... it just emanates pure eagerness… a sort of overwhelming greed and desire."

Chapter Text

Let's entertain the notion that you're granted a second chance at life, a fresh beginning of sorts. So, picture this: you dwell in a place where you find yourself at the bottom of the hierarchy, but, you're still breathing. Your abode is within the woods, and as long as you remain within the confines of the forest, you enjoy a relative sense of security. Accompanying you are two steadfast friends (whom you've acquainted yourself with), and now and then, you chance upon another individual who imparts bits of district gossip. Then, one day, you catch wind of something extraordinary, compelling you to venture beyond the woods. You decide to head to the Grand Square and call out for a woman who is a complete stranger to you, yet her features resonate with an uncanny familiarity, leaving no doubt as to her true identity. Your cries reverberate, and the Peacekeepers arrive, forcefully subduing you, but luck and the stars are on your side. The woman, this compassionate and gentle soul, hears you—she hears that which only her ears can comprehend: "I knew Sejanus!" Three simple words, yet they capture her attention. With ample monetary compensation, all your worries and fears regarding the other District residents dissipate. The compassionate woman relentlessly questions you, day after day, eager to learn everything about her son—his words, his demeanor on that day, whether he ever found joy in this place, the impression he made on you.

No need for falsehoods—I had no reason to lie. I recounted the tales of Sejanus, the brave, not exactly taciturn, sweet, innocent Sejanus. The sweet woman weeps, and your heart shares in her pain because no mother should mourn the loss of her son. The pain intensifies because you know precisely who took him from her.

Now, you're granted a second chance—a life in the Capitol, if one could perceive it as such. Yet, you're alive, and beggars can't be choosers. The stars have already dictated your fate.

"Tell me, Lucy Gray, what do you hope for in this new beginning?" Mrs. Plinth inquired of me at her dining table on the initial evening after my arrival in the Capitol. "What are your aspirations for the future, I mean?" She gazed at me with her exquisite, melancholic eyes. Despite the pain, sorrow, and seemingly boundless grief, her striking beauty couldn't be overlooked.

"What do you mean?" I genuinely didn't comprehend the question. "To stay alive," would have been my preferred response.

"Well... you have options, not many, I won't deceive you, but I'll assist you in seizing as many opportunities as possible."

And for the first time, I detected a resilience in her voice, an assertion, a strength that was so familiar... Then, it dawned on me once more: No wonder. Mrs. Plinth hailed from a district herself.

Chapter Text

Coriolanus directed his gaze downward to the remnants of a partially consumed toast. His scrutiny intensified upon the straight, yellowish-brown furrows, within which traces of delicately molten butter had settled. It was a modest, unassuming breakfast — a repast seemingly inadequate, devoid of opulence, and lacking the sophistication befitting an individual of his elevated stature. Recollections of a bygone time stirred within him, invoking images of a pre-revolutionary breakfast.

An omelette, intricately adorned with verdant herbs and embracing a core of velvety cheese, held a particular place in his memory. The cheese, a favorite element, especially delighted him with its sinuous tendrils that lingered between fork and palate. His mother, a bastion of propriety, had, on numerous occasions, reproached his inclination to whimsically manipulate his food. Despite her verbal censure, there existed a secret interplay between mother and son. Deliberately prolonging a cheesy filament, Coriolanus would lock eyes with his mother, a mischievous glint in his gaze. Her responses were nuanced—occasionally a subtle shake of the head, at times a scarcely perceptible smile, and on occasion, a harmonious blend of both expressions. Adjacent at the breakfast table, Coriolanus's father, engrossed in the radiant glow of his personal screen, had remained detached from these familial theatrics. This detachment, however, afforded a reprieve from the potential scrutiny of paternal disapproval. The morning's reverie, infused with the richness of cheese, felt akin to a shared secret—an unspoken understanding exclusive to mother and son. While verbal endorsements were absent, the graceful curvature of her lips and the tender gaze bestowed upon him conveyed a sentiment that transcended the limitations of spoken language.

Coriolanus harbored a genuine aversion towards toast. The abrasive, uneven texture, coupled with the lingering taste of subtly singed bread on his palate, failed to elicit any favorable sentiments. To him, this basic fare resembled sandpaper, an unassuming sustenance symbolic of economic frugality—a gastronomic emblem that had dutifully accompanied him from childhood through adolescence. Over time, it metamorphosed into an entrenched habit, an alimentary ritual staunchly resistant to abandonment.

Hedgehog, Coriolanus's designated Avox, presented him with a breakfast tray adorned with an assortment of cheeses and delicately cured meats, an ostensible daily ritual that invariably culminated in the untouched tableau of uneaten sustenance. Amidst this habitual scene, Coriolanus engaged in speculative musings concerning the ultimate fate of the offering—did the Avox truly consign it to waste, did it seamlessly integrate into the subsequent evening repast, or, perhaps inconceivably, did the overlooked victuals undergo a clandestine metamorphosis into the Avox's private breakfast at a later juncture? The latter prospect, a transgression of established norms, warranted unequivocal censure.

As contemplation continued, a revelation unfurled within Coriolanus's ruminations. Avoxes, by the nature of their imposed silence, were constrained to a circumscribed array of consumables. The surgery that severed their tongues, a procedure frequently entrusted to fledgling med students, posed a dual limitation: not only did it render the Avox incapable of enjoying solid nourishment, but often, the meticulousness of the surgical student hand determined the extent of injury to the oral cavity. This somber reality found expression in the university's architectural acknowledgment—a dedicated facility for such procedures, an unassuming structure imbued with clinical pragmatism, evidently shaped by fiscal austerity. The structure, exclusively erected for the disquieting task of severing tongues from traitors, rebels, and deserters, harbored a level of irony in its architectural composition that bordered on the excessive—it eerily mirrored the shape of a tongue when observed from above.

A retrospective lens shifted to the contentious legal decree enacted a year prior, a legislative convolution encapsulated within Section 185, Paragraph 3, Subsection a) of the Administration Act Pertaining to the Treatment of Terrorists and Traitors, colloquially known as the AAPTTT. The refined articulation of this legal provision assumed a labyrinthine intricacy: "The surgical severance of the lingual apparatus from the oral cavity shall be conducted under the vigilant supervision of a medical professional, vested with the rank of no less than a resident physician. This overseeing medical practitioner is mandatorily required to be physically present within the designated surgical suite throughout the procedural duration, ensuring, with unwavering diligence, that the Avox subject to this intervention is duly subjected to a state of partial anesthesia anterior to the commencement of the severance process."

The meticulous legal language describing the extraction process brought forth absurd mental images of lawyers debating the finer points of semi-conscious sedation while the unfortunate Avox awaited their tongue's fate. This nuanced legislation, while ostensibly intending to regulate the procedural landscape, precipitated a maelstrom of public discourse. The allocation of fiscal resources to facilitate the specified lingual extraction process, specifically earmarked for the administration of half-anesthesia, emerged as the epicenter of vehement public discord. This clause ignited such a conflagration of disapproval and dissent that it ultimately compelled Caesar's mother, erstwhile Minister of Justice, to relinquish her position. The allocated funds, originally intended for the anatomical severance process, found an unexpected diversion into the coffers of a burgeoning Hunger Games campaign.

Although Coriolanus had encountered no difficulties or issues with Hedgehog thus far, this state of affairs could naturally change, and even Avoxes occasionally needed to be reminded of their place. He picked up the handwritten note that Hedgehog, as always, had placed beside his elegantly adorned plate. The note was inscribed on exquisite cream-colored paper, and read:

"Dear Esteemed Mister Snow,

presenting today's selection with care and creativity. A symphony of the exquisite Celestial Blue Vein, Velvet Whimsy, and Enigmatic Ember cheeses, paired with meticulously cured meats such as Moonlit Meadow and Silken Twilight.

May your morning be a gastronomic delight with this unique journey of flavors.

Sincerely in Silence,
Filly - Avox of Coriolanus Snow"

Coriolanus delicately placed the note back beside the impeccably adorned plate, mulling over the enigma of muting Avoxes while sparing their hands. In his belief, the Capitol ought to acknowledge that the written word wielded no less influence than its spoken counterpart, granted there were sufficient literate eyes to decipher it. However, he contemplated, no accumulation of self-penned pages could ever convey the raw impact of screams steeped in anger and despair.

Did Hedgehog, he pondered, carry a sense of remorse for his desertion in those past dark days? Or was he too young, too childish, in a literal sense, to grasp the ensuing consequences? Although scarcely older than Coriolanus himself, Hedgehog, much like other children from less privileged families, had been coerced into service against the rebels. Some were even dispatched into the confined shafts to plant bombs. The tight spaces mandated the use of children for the task, prompting recruitment initiatives. Some parents managed to shield their children from these tumultuous times, while others steadfastly refused to send their offspring into the dark depths—motivated by fear or a simple yearning to return home. Regardless of the circumstances, these children were branded deserters and subsequently consigned to the muted existence of Avoxes.

Coriolanus concluded his meal with a final nibble of the now-chilled toast, brushing the small crumbs off his silky morning robe. He determined that he had devoted ample time to pondering trivialities. Caesar's mother had jeopardized her career by fixating excessively on Avoxes, a path Coriolanus was decidedly not inclined to tread.

In customary fashion, Hedgehog had laid out Coriolanus's attire for the day: this time, a suit in a rich forest green, complemented by yellow-gold cufflinks embellished with the Panem flag—his father's vintage cufflinks, but of course now polished—and a crisp white shirt. While convention dictated that the Avox should assist in the dressing process, Coriolanus had insisted on undertaking it himself. He found solace in the ritual of adorning himself. It marked, in a sense, the commencement of his day. The refined suit, the luxurious fabric, his reflection in the mirror—all played a part in a ritual that dictated his demeanor. His clothing served as a form of armor, his appearance a proclamation of superiority. To anyone who laid eyes on him, the message was clear—he was someone adept at accomplishing tasks. Superiority, determination, resilience, victory—these were the qualities he sought to radiate, and nothing less. His morning ritual was the prelude to embodying these attributes—a symbolic first step to power and purpose.

Fitting for someone adept at accomplishing tasks.

With great precision, Coriolanus began the ritual of dressing himself, each movement a deliberate gesture in the choreography of his morning routine. The forest-green suit clung to him like a second skin, the fabric a testament to both its quality and the status it bestowed upon its wearer. As he fastened the yellow-gold cufflinks—relics polished to a gleam—he couldn't help but feel a connection to his father, a reminder of the legacy he carried forward. The pearl-white shirt, crisp and immaculate, completed the ensemble. In the mirror, he surveyed the image before him—a calculated projection of power and control. The clothing wasn't merely an adornment; it was a symbol, a manifestation. The attire was his armor, and with each piece, he fortified himself against the challenges of the day.

On this particular day, Coriolanus opted for a leisurely walk to the university instead of relying on his usual chauffeur—an addition to the Snow household courtesy of Plinth sponsorship. The twenty-minute journey provided the perfect opportunity to clear his mind. Mentally rehearsing the evening's speech, he contemplated the idea of inserting a more extended pause after the second paragraph, allowing the audience time to grasp his thoughts and offer applause. Yet, this consideration did come to an end as something else seized his attention.

A substantial crowd had gathered in front of the university's imposing main building, a structure that alone commanded attention. Scanning the scene, Coriolanus attempted to discern the nature of the gathering, but the distance afforded him little more than the impression of a boisterous assembly. After a few minutes, he approached the initial individuals congregating in front of the main building. Standing beside a young boy clad in his former school uniform, Coriolanus raised his voice above the crowd's murmur, inquiring, "What's happening up there?"

The boy turned towards him and responded, but it was too faint to comprehend.

In return, Coriolanus shrugged and looked at the youth inquisitively, who then almost shouted, "There's a public execution taking place."

Coriolanus thought he had misheard and asked again, but when the boy repeated it, he abruptly looked ahead, stood on his tiptoes to see more, but it was in vain. Too many people stood in front of him.

"Who is being executed?" he shouted again to the boy.

But instead of the boy, the person in front of him answered, "The last winner of the Hunger Games."

And then he heard it. A gunshot. Another shot. And then another. And another.

"Why is he being executed here?" he shouted into the group, assuming someone would answer.

The schoolboy beside him then said, "Heard the guy got caught jerking off into a cupcake from a Capitol bakery."

Coriolanus rolled his eyes, and then another response came from the person in front, "Yesterday, he was yelling about how much he hates the Capitol and that we can all go kiss his ass."

"Where did he shout that?"

The man in front of him leaned back slightly, and without turning around, he continued, "Yesterday, a student threw a party and brought along the guy from District 5 as a… special guest. Imported him from his district, probably trying to show off. However, the guy got pretty aggressive at the party, and well, as punishment, he was apparently shot right in front. I guess they do it here because this is where his crime occurred."

"Oh, I didn't think of that," the schoolboy chimed in, "but yeah, wouldn't have made much sense to shoot him in the district."

No, thought Coriolanus, you're wrong again: Here, it's just a little spectacle, a pat on the back, but in the district, it's a reminder followed by the echoes of gunfire.

"You're probably a student here, right?" Now the man in front turned around to him, surveying him with pity.

Coriolanus nodded.

"I feel sorry for you, boy. Back then, I didn't have to deal with this shit."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the people from the districts. Supposedly students." The man, around forty, sporting a rainbow-colored beard and a shiny pate, delivered his response with such revulsion that he appeared on the brink of a genuine retching episode.

"Not for much longer," added the schoolboy beside him. "My mom says when one of them dies, others follow suit. They're like dominoes."

"They should have just shot them all up there," the boy's neighbor now joined in. "Did you hear it? Five shots. Probably because the guy is from District 5. They could have spread the shots around. One for each."

"I thought there were five of them?" the schoolboy asked.

The neighbor, likely in his mid-20s, wearing a rainbow-colored shirt, replied, "Not anymore. One of them is gone. Only four of them now."

Coriolanus sensed his heart accelerating, heavy pulsations echoing through his chest, each beat a fervent knocking seeking liberation. It felt as though his heart might audaciously unveil itself, presenting its rhythmic tale to the bystanders. His breath hastened, and delicate beads of cold sweat emerged on his forehead, a cascade of hues draining from his face, leaving behind a canvas of muted intensity.

"Kid, are you okay?" the man in front asked, lightly placing his hand on Coriolanus's shoulder.

Coriolanus acknowledged with a nod, attempting to conjure a smile before abruptly extricating himself from the crowd, hastening in any direction—away from them all—and resenting his morning spent dwelling on Avoxes and other trivialities instead of recognizing the glaring truth. He should have known better, without a doubt. Out of all people, he should have known better.

Distracted by the absurdity of the rainbow fashion, the resonating interview, her beaming smiles, Tigris, Felix—oh, by the way, fuck you, Felix, fuck you and your enthusiasm for something that should never have graced your inept existence—, Lucy Gray, and her supposed "Oooh let us be friends," her "Oooh I was so unsure whether to run away or to stay with you, so I just ran some damn circles, with wind in my hair, some lame music in the background and fucking birds sitting on my finger," her "Oooh all I needed to do was smile nicely, and I could shove another lie up your lovesick ass."

He should have known better.

While there may have been those still captivated by her allure, the masses traverse the realms of love with alarming swiftness, falling in and out of love quickly. Presently, with the intrusion of this stupid boy from District 5, they've served the populace a stark reminder of the true nature of District denizens. Regardless of how enchanting and amiable her smile would be during the falling-out-of-love phase, it demanded more than mere pleasantries. Coriolanus Snow understood this. Yet, Felix would remain oblivious to the expectations, too far up Lucy Gray's ass—metaphorically speaking, of course—, incapable of discerning his role and responsibilities.

A hunt loomed on the horizon, and Lucy Gray found herself without the essential armor of a green suit. Instead, she had at her disposal a clueless, horny boy, whose primary claim to fame was his last name—not exactly the most robust defense strategy.

Out of breath, he stopped, gasping and gasping, struggling for air, frantically scanning his surroundings. There was no one in sight; he had run far enough from the onlookers.

Following Lucy Gray's proclamation of wanting to "rekindle their friendship" and her repertoire of other bullshit, he had resolutely resolved to eschew the gamble. Undoubtedly, she was privy to his intentions in the woods – she wasn't naive, and he certainly wasn't foolish enough to succumb to the allure of a friendly gesture and fall for this whole friendship thing. Instead, he opted for a more decisive approach, reminiscent of his success with Highbottom. Effortless. Predictable. It would unfold seamlessly once more. Lucy Gray's penchant for pastries, especially a particular kind she indulged in within the little hall during the sponsorship-limit-debate, nibbling with exquisite deliberation? Ideal. Perfect. After all, anything could be a vessel for poison.

Now, Coriolanus found himself leaning against the chilled wall, his gaze shooting skyward with a palpable sense of panic. In this moment, he underwent a profound alteration of his once resolute decision – a nuanced modification, if you will. Lucy Gray must not be subjected to gunfire. The Capitol's punitive execution must not be her fate. If Lucy Gray were to meet her demise, then Coriolanus Snow, with unwavering conviction, asserted the exclusive right to orchestrate it. As her mentor, he had guided her through the Hunger Games, stood as her beacon of salvation, and lingered as her final love—yes, fuck you, Felix, as if. She was his tribute, his girl, his Lucy Gray.

He took a deep breath. And then again. And again. And again. And again.

Trusting Felix's inept hands with the situation?! Utterly futile, especially when all those hands seemed capable of was a desperate attempt to cling to Lucy Gray, especially to her shoulders and her thighs. No, this called for someone with a skill set beyond the pitiful wails for her attention—something she very willingly, one could even say very openly, bestowed upon Coriolanus.

Someone who was capable of mentoring her, guiding her, protecting her.

Someone adept at accomplishing tasks.

Chapter Text

The opulent residence where I found myself was nothing short of grandeur. Nestled within one of the lofty towers meticulously erected by the Plinth family in the aftermath of the Dark Days, this abode stood as a testament to both affluence and architectural prowess. It stood as the nearest sentinel to the campus, a mere seven-minute stroll from its imposing gates. An initial insistence on furnishing me with a chauffeur, ostensibly for enhanced security rather than indulgence, was met with my vehement refusal. The notion was eventually relinquished, acknowledging that my confinement to halls, rooms, and apartments throughout the day warranted at least a few precious minutes of unbridled freedom.

Despite the capacious expanse, adorned with exquisite embellishments and equipped with opulent accouterments, it failed to transmute its essence: a gilded cage. Granted, a cage of striking allure and imposing stature, yet a cage, nonetheless. It evoked an odd sensation as I navigated through its chambers on that peculiar morning—the bedroom, the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, the study, and the elongated corridors. The lofty ceilings and expansive dimensions of each space left an impression that the apartment was disproportionately vast for my being. I felt akin to a diminutive child, wandering astray in the dwelling of a giant. Simultaneously, a sense of confinement loomed—scarcity of space, dearth of air, and a shortage of sunlight. The contradiction was not lost on me, yet, as life often dictated, one facet did not preclude the existence of the other, and thus, I inhabited spaces steeped in paradox.

The walls and cabinets within my bedroom bore a luminous shade of blue. Upon waking, I endeavored to convince myself that it mirrored the heavens above. Yet, the color, however vivid, was too artificial, too monotonous, too unembellished, and too uninspiring and prosaic to rival, to emulate the celestial blue. A valiant attempt, but it remained a distant echo of the celestial blue, nothing more than a failed effort, a mimicry.

Within the cabinets lay an array of garments—velvet, silk, leather, feathers. That morning, I indulged my senses, running my hands through the diverse textures, savoring the tactile richness beneath my fingertips. In District 12, the mere touch of such fabrics would have been a coveted luxury. I conjured an image of Mayfair Lipp's face—disgust intermingled with envy and jealousy had she glimpsed me amidst this azure-tinted haven, surrounded by opulent fabrics. When my fingertips grazed a grey dress adorned with feathers, the countenance of Billy Taupe manifested in my thoughts. His expression, a medley of disgust and disappointment, mirrored an unequivocal letdown. A fleeting shiver attempted to dislodge these ruminations from my mind—I refused to dwell on Mayfair or, more emphatically, on Billy Taupe. His affair with Mayfair had propelled me into the crucible of the Hunger Games, dismantling my life and initiating an irreversible cascade. Rationalizing that he possessed no entitlement—absolutely none—to be repulsed and disenchanted proved a futile reassurance. Nevertheless, his countenance lingered, casting a shadow of both repulsion and disappointment.

In a deliberate act, I closed my eyes and, for a span of five seconds, traced my index finger fleetingly across the array of garments. A random choice determined that a deep violet, snug-fitting dress, cascading gracefully to my knees and flaring at the hem, would be my attire for the day. Crowned with a stand-up collar, it exuded an air fitting for a woman navigating the transition from one cage to another. The fabric, caressing my skin with a pleasant touch, bore an unanticipated tightness, augmented by the lofty collar, evoking a sense of near suffocation. Gazing at my reflection in the mirror adjacent to the wardrobe, self-recognition wavered. I beheld a semblance of myself and, concurrently, a divergence. Dissatisfied with the reflection that elicited a peculiar sentiment, I averted my gaze promptly. A cabinet door creaked open, revealing a pair of violet ankle boots awaiting retrieval. My hair, deliberately left unbound, remained the sole aspect untouched. Hastily, I seized pink feathers, each adorned with a dainty hairpin, from a diminutive compartment and secured them in my hair.

Upon that morn, the long-awaited visit from Mrs. Plinth was destined to grace my dwelling, but the preceding day delivered a missive carrying tidings of her frailty, intensified by the relentless flu wave. The mere thought of being deprived of our morning rendezvous left me disheartened. In this strange, acrid, and ruthless realm, she emerged as the singular figure adorned with an unsullied soul, a heartbeat resilient, and an internal compass unwavering. The denizens surrounding her, it appeared, had chosen to either entomb or shatter their own compass—an undertaking, perhaps, deemed a prerequisite for claiming citizenship within the Capitol.

Question 1: Does your reservoir of humanity suffice to discern between virtue and vice?
Yes—Regrettably, the examination concludes here; your induction into citizenship is precluded; you shall be redirected to the districts.
No—Congratulations, you may proceed.

However, the reality was far from straightforward, even as I yearned for the comfort of simplicity. The inhabitants of the Capitol weren't inherently malevolent, evil, or corrupt. They were adrift, bloated with privileges clutched as entitlements bestowed at birth, entangled in a web of falsehoods that shaped their narrative. Behind the zealous defense of these privileges lurked a fundamental sameness shared by all the inhabitants of Panem—a truth begrudgingly acknowledged on both ends.

Within the exorbitantly spacious kitchen, the cabinets adorned in a dark green hue adorned with pale yellow and light orange blossoms, ostensibly mirroring a forest or meadow, yet amounted to nothing more than a feeble imitation. Retrieving a slice of toast, I forewent the formality of the toaster, opting instead to lavish it with a spread of butter. The refrigerator, replete with epicurean treasures, provoked a pang in my heart at the thought of Maude Ivory undoubtedly standing before a comparably opulent cold storage unit, moved to tears by the abundance, moved to tears by the luxurious food choice before her. The saline essence of butter summoned memories of Covey, my kin dwelling far from this verdant artificial replication. I speculated whether they presently churned butter. Having consumed the toast, I endeavored to expel thoughts of Covey—the day offered no solace, and for university, I required every ounce of energy and fortitude I could summon. The luxury of succumbing to melancholy or reminiscing about a more liberated past was denied to me. Instead, I compelled myself to recollect Mrs. Plinth's counsel from my first evening in the Capitol: "You must look forward, my dearest Lucy Gray, your future awaits solely in that direction." A sentiment divergent from my father's counsel—Covey's predilection for retrospection, as in our past, we uncover our future. But my father wasn't here; none of the Covey were here.

As I made my way to the university buildings, the bustling streets enveloped me in a sea of individuals attired much like myself. Yet, amid the shared fashion, I couldn't help but detect a subtle undercurrent of questioning glances. It was as though an unspoken inquiry lingered in the air, pondering my seamless integration into their midst. There existed an intangible peculiarity, a strangeness in my demeanor that seemed to invoke these uncertain stares. In response, I alternated between a defiant gaze, holding my ground until the curious onlooker relented, and a subdued lowering of my eyes, a gesture born from the weariness of engaging with such scrutiny so early in the morning. Perhaps a handful recognized me, while others merely cast their eyes in my direction; looking back, such distinctions are elusive to discern.

I found myself thrust into a myriad of preparatory courses, each one a hopeful venture that I might unveil a spark of talent or, more practically, not succumb to complete bewilderment. Ideally, the Academy might have been a more suitable destination, but Mrs. Plinth insisted on directing the four of us—originally five—to the university. Her rationale was tethered to Sejanus's alternate life trajectory, one that would have seen him pursuing higher education at the university. My academic journey included forays into mathematics, a realm where the symbols danced in inscrutable patterns, and physics, an enigma that resisted unraveling. Biochemistry introduced me to a plethora of symbols, prompting me to wonder how many more were yet to be revealed. History proved elusive, my Covey upbringing offering narratives divergent from the tales circulating in the Capitol. The day's agenda mandated attendance at a political science lecture, beckoning me to question how many subjects I had to endure before the verdict of unsuitability was pronounced upon me. Climbing the stairs to the imposing main building, I mused on the delight the dean must derive from proclaiming my alleged inadequacy for the esteemed mantle of a Capitol student—as anticipated.

Upon reaching the summit, the incessant replay of snippets from my interview greeted me. It felt peculiar to face my own reflection, to acknowledge that it was, indeed, my own face, and yet, simultaneously, to struggle with recognition. The artificial smile, paired with words that rang hollow, seemed to distort and warp my facial features. The young woman portrayed on the screens was undeniably me and, paradoxically, someone else entirely. Yet, within this paradox, a certain logic prevailed: up there on the screen, "Lucy" was displayed, while down here on the paving stones in front of the university edifice, stood "Lucy Gray," albeit attired as "Lucy."

"Lucy!"

I whirled around suddenly, taken aback, as if bracing for an ambush. Clemmie approached with a beaming grin, clearly elated, adorned in a vibrant rainbow-colored skirt. "Lucy, did you hear the news? The numbers have doubled, believe it or not. You're a true sensation. And guess who stopped by my parents' house last night, inquiring about you?" She fixed me with an intense, suggestive gaze, yet the identity of the person she referred to eluded me. Panic surged within me. The last thing I wanted was anyone in the Capitol probing into my affairs.

Clemmie clapped her hands joyfully, answering her own question with sheer enthusiasm, "Lucky. Lucky Flickerman asked about you, and—"

My attention drifted away. The mere mention of the name Lucky Flickerman brought a lump to my throat, a wave of unsettling emotions crashing over me.

"Lucy! Lucy, speak up!" Clemmie shook me gently, a hint of concern in her expression. Realizing I might have revealed something, I momentarily straightened up, flashed one of my usual smiles, and responded, "Apologies, not much sleep. What were you saying?"

Clemmie shook her head with a deliberate slowness, a faint, crooked smile playing on her lips. "Sleep is crucial; otherwise, those dark circles will deepen even more. If you're not careful, you might resemble Coryo; he's been carrying around substantial dark circles since your arrival."

I had no intention of discussing similarities, so instead, I said, "What was it about Lucky again?"

"Ah, yes, right. So, he wants to interview you as a former victor and a new student here. I can help you with the organization and the interview." She beamed at me. The only thing missing was the addendum that, as an aspiring journalist, it would undoubtedly benefit her to align herself well with Lucky Flickerman. But that's how things worked in the Capitol and even in District 12: personal interests weighed heavily.

"I'm not sure... I need some time to settle in here, okay?"

We conversed for a while in front of the main building. Clemmie remained enthusiastic, detailing Lucky's visit the day before, his admiration for her role as the editor-in-chief of the student journal, and how she had successfully positioned herself as a trendsetter. The snake-like aesthetic was gaining popularity in the makeup world, thanks in no small part to her distinctive appearance. She didn't disclose the specifics of achieving the serpentine look, and I hadn't inquired.

"You have tiny crumbs on your collar—wait, let me get them off quickly." With a swift motion, she brushed away the crumbs from this morning. "What did you have for breakfast?," she asked amused.

"Toast. With some butter. Salty butter."

She raised her eyebrows, puzzled. "Don't you have... anything else to eat?'' She sounded concerned, but I wondered if the concerned tone was just a pretense since I, too, was feigning the cheerful tone in my voice.

"Well, yes, but in the morning, I'm too lazy to make something else."

She continued to stare at me, bewildered. "You... you make your own food? Haven't the Plinths gifted you an Avox?"

"What's an Avox?"

Clemmie laughed briefly. "I sometimes forget that you... well, anyway. An Avox is a traitor or a deserter—or both—who had their tongue cut out and now serves the Capitol. We have two Avoxes; one of them is our chef. Odd, I assumed the Plinths would have assigned one to you, considering the kind of apartment they gave you... and all those clothes,"—she scrutinized me from head to toe—"that's anything but cheap stuff. They could have easily spent a little more for an Avox."

"I... have to go, or I might be late," I replied dryly, hoping that my face didn't betray the paleness, panic, fear, and anger.

"Sure, just one more thing: You are coming tonight, aren't you?"

She gazed at me with anticipation, and I nodded hastily before swiftly turning away and striding off with quick, almost stumbling steps. No, Mrs. Plinth hadn't purchased an Avox for me. Not because she deemed the money too valuable, but because she possessed a soul, a heart, an inner compass, understanding that I'd rather lick the bare stone floor here than allow a poor, mistreated soul to cook for me in the kitchen. Disgust welled up inside me, and once more, I envisioned the repulsed expression on Billy Taupe's face.

The lecture unfolded within the confines of a modest building nestled at the campus's periphery. The professor, a lean figure in his sixties, adorned with greasy streaks of gray hair clinging to his forehead, delved into the realms of theories crafted by long-gone luminaries. I paid little heed to memorizing names and their respective premises; instead, I found solace in doodling on my paper. Simple circles, as the overt gazes of others lingered on me, dissuaded me from revealing anything personal. My canvas became a tapestry of circles, flowers, and boxes that I filled with dark tint. Adjacent seats, whether directly in front or behind me, remained unoccupied—while many cast their stares, only a few dared to draw near.

As the professor engaged in a lively debate with a student from the front rows—centered on a sort of equilibrium theory, exploring the notion of the so called veto player as a political actor endowed with the power to thwart decisions and maintain the status quo—, I found myself questioning the prudence of agreeing to Clemmie's invitation. Clemmie, animated by the prospect of hosting a soirée at her residence later that evening, extended invitations to both her closest confidants and those occupying the periphery of her social circle. Just the day before, she casually mentioned an estimated attendance of around 100 people. The idea of immersing myself in an environment where inhibitions would unravel, where libations and potentially intoxicating substances might flow freely, where vocal expressions of opinions would take center stage, gave me pause—particularly considering the potential sentiments directed at the four of us from the districts now integrated into their academic milieu.

However, I had already committed, and if I intended to establish my safety net, to make sure that most of them would overlook my outsider status, I needed to ensure they liked me or, at the very least, accepted my presence at such gatherings. I had to present myself as charming and amiable, hoping they would be captivated. It seemed I had to put on a show. Once more.

The day unfolded with a sluggish rhythm, mirroring the monotony of countless others. Yearning for an evening alone with my guitar, I hesitated before my wardrobe, grappling with the eternal question of what to wear. The prospect of navigating a Capitol party's social nuances eluded me, and I wished I could seek Tigris's advice. However, her busy schedule made me hesitant to further encroach on her time. After contemplation, I settled on a short, dark blue dress with delicate straps, baring my shoulders. The fabric formed a butterfly motif across the chest, lending a touch of whimsy to the ensemble.

Clemmie's apartment, strategically placed opposite the campus, reverberated with music that guided me toward the lively gathering. Two stern-faced men in their thirties, clad entirely in gray, guarded the entrance. As I attempted to pass them, one stepped forward, his gaze intense, pointing assertively at a sheet of paper.

A deep voice from behind instructed, "You have to tell them your name."

Panic laced my response, "Lucy... Lucy Baird."

The man in front scanned his list, swiftly granting me passage. Crossing the threshold, I entered a hall adorned with opulence, its golden sheen embracing me. Two elevators awaited, and I cautiously pressed the button marked with an upward arrow.

A voice beside me echoed from earlier, "Do they even have elevators in District 12?"

Standing there was a tall, slender figure with chestnut curls and greenish eyes, absorbed in the display above the elevator.

"No, all there is are wooden huts. Less gold, more green." My retort, sharper than intended, hung in the air. If only I could retract those words, bitten back before they left my lips.

"Well, look at that. Where did the sweet smile go, along with the eager nodding and the sweet praise?" Now, the boy stared at me, while the elevator door opened. He stepped inside, and I followed him inside. The boy pressed a button, and I regretted not asking Clemmie about the hallway number. I felt stupid, lonely, and lost, and I had the impression that the boy could see that very well. I felt almost caught by his comment and decided it was best to ignore him. He seemed to belong to the faction that didn't want me here.

"Didn't think you had the guts to show up here," the boy leaned against the elevator wall, fixing his gaze upon me. His scrutiny, akin to an unrelenting inspection, made me uneasy. "Planning to stay here longer? Of course, by 'here,' I mean, the Capitol."

Refusing to meet his eyes, I responded calmly, "It's a great honor to have a scholarship at Capitol University—"

"For fuck's sake, how many times are you going to say that?" His harsh interruption reverberated as the elevator doors opened, revealing a crowd of students.

Exiting the elevator ahead of me, the boy couldn't resist a parting comment, "Say it a hundred more times; maybe it'll sound more credible then."

Perplexed and slightly angered, I lingered in the elevator for a brief moment. Before the doors closed, I drew in a deep breath and stepped into a room filled with people who didn't recognize my humanity. One might assume I had grown accustomed to the curious, disgusted, amused, and shocked glances that consistently fell upon me, but I hadn't.

A show, a good show, that's all you need to deliver here, I reminded myself, striving to engrain the thought—just a good show. Smile, Lucy Gray, smile, for you are grateful and happy to have the honor of being here. If you don't smile, you'll end up at the gallows faster than you can count to three.

There was no need to push through the crowd; it wasn't necessary. People naturally made way for me, as if I were contagious, avoiding any skin contact. The deeper I ventured into the crowd, the more vulnerable I felt, akin to a sheep descending further into the lion's den. Each additional step meant a step further from escape. I felt my breath quickening, panicked that my smile couldn't keep up with my breath.

"Lucy! Lucy!"

I surveyed the room and located Clemmie, adorned in a vibrant shade of red, stationed in the corner of the adjoining room, encircled by three girls, all fixating their gaze on me. One of them discreetly murmured to another, their eyes never leaving me. One might assume that I had grown accustomed to humiliations, but I hadn't. Taking another deep breath, I lifted the corners of my mouth even higher and approached Clemmie with as much simulated joy as I could summon. At least Clemmie didn't appear to view me as contagious; she embraced me back. It had been a while since I'd experienced a hug, and despite my internal resistance, the embrace felt comforting. When I released her, Clemmie seemed taken aback by my sudden proximity, but it wasn't a negative surprise.

"Come, Lucy, let me show you around."

She grasped my hand, seamlessly translating her words into actions. As she led me through the apartment, the stark contrast to my own abode became evident. Clemmie's place was notably more spacious, with four or five additional rooms, and the predilection for gold was unmistakable. Every room boasted opulent golden chandeliers, frames, lamps, and furniture. If the walls in my new home conveyed a sense of artificiality, the level of theatricality and ostentation here was impossible to ignore.

"Oh, there's Lucky's son. Let me quickly say hello," Clemmie said to me, abruptly releasing my hand before rushing into another room.

Amidst lingering gazes, I found myself feeling uncertain and instinctively sought refuge in a corner chair. Taking a delicate sip from the glass Clemmie had gracefully pressed into my hands during her guided tour of the apartment, I endeavored to make myself inconspicuous, as if attempting to blend into the very essence of the intricately decorated space. The passing moments saw a gradual influx of new faces into the room, weaving an intricate tapestry of unfamiliarity.

After some time, a red-haired girl, whose presence I vaguely recalled from one of the lectures, mustered the courage to approach me. In a voice that carried a hint of surprise, she remarked, "Didn't think you'd go to the math lecture."

Caught in the crossfire of uncertainty and a burgeoning conversation, I met her gaze, contemplating whether to offer a response or await the inevitable discourse that tended to revolve around the perceived intellectual disparities between the districts and the Capitol.

Another girl joined the one-sided conversation and now said, looking at me, "Yeah, surprised me too."

Somewhere, I heard two more "Me too."

I smiled at the group and replied kindly, composed, "We're allowed to attend all sorts of preparatory courses, and after six weeks, we can choose a subject."

"I thought you'd do music," the red-haired girl said again, and I noticed her cheeks turning red.

"Music?"

"Yes, you sing… so beautifully, I mean so many liked your singing back then... so we thought you'd surely choose music."

"That... is a thing?" I asked, genuinely perplexed.

"Of course. I'm studying music," said a blond, slightly chubby boy next to me.

"I...was unaware of that," I confessed, a rare instance of unfiltered truth amidst the initial weeks. My presence had been dedicated to the preparatory courses meticulously outlined on my study plan, and the realm of music had not yet woven itself into the fabric of my academic pursuits.

"You can play the guitar, right?" the red-haired girl inquired. By this point, a complete circle had enveloped me.

I affirmed with a nod, and after a brief pause, another girl handed me a guitar. Gratefully, I accepted it with a smile, and suddenly, it felt effortless. In an instant, I knew precisely what to do. It was as if I had been transported back to District 12, standing on the stage, poised to deliver a performance. Nothing could be simpler, nothing more innate.

"Would you like a song from me?" I playfully teased the gathering, making eye contact with as many as possible. Following several enthusiastic "Yes" responses, I positioned the guitar on my lap and embarked on what had proven to be my salvation on numerous occasions:

Oh my heart, it sings a melody of woe,
For I have fallen for a man who's oh so low.
A scoundrel, a rogue, a blackened soul,
Yet still, my love for him made me whole.

His touch ignited a fire within my bones,
But his actions left me feeling all alone.
He takes, he takes, but gives nothing back,
Leaving me drained, like a withered stack.

So kiss my ass, with your lipstick red,
For all I need is me, and the love in my head.

Despite his flaws, I saw the beauty in him,
A glimmer of hope, a spark within him.
I know he's not the best for me,
But I cannot help myself, I'm under his spell, you see.

So, hold on tight, through thick and thin,
And prayed that one day he'll change within.
Until then, I'd stand strong and proud,
With my head held high, and my spirit loud.

Don't you dare try to bring me down,
For I am a survivor, wearing no frown.
I've been through hell and back again,
And emerged stronger, with a heart full of pain.

So kiss my ass, with your lipstick red,
For all I need is me, and the love in my head.

My charm remains, despite his cruel intentions and games,
For I am a survivor, a warrior, a queen in this frame.
So kiss my ass, oh dear deceiver, for I am free
All I need is me, myself, and my own identity.

So kiss my ass, with your lipstick red,
For all I need is me, and the love in my head.

The applause swirled through the air, a grand symphony of admiration echoing in the space. It momentarily eclipsed any lingering doubts, a transient moment of collective appreciation. Smiling into the crowd, I acknowledged their applause with a grateful nod, standing up as the ovation persisted. With a theatrical bow, I conveyed my thanks, basking in the orchestrated dance of hands coming together. Tonight, all I craved was applause, an exchange for the last vestiges of freedom and self-respect—luxuries seemingly unaffordable in the struggle for survival.

Just when I thought I had navigated the evening unscathed, my attention was abruptly seized. Caius, a friend of Clemmie and the Vice President of the Journalism Club, entered the room. A distinctive yellow strand adorned his otherwise black hair. In his hand, he held a string, and at its end hung a collar. However, it wasn't the collar that caught my breath, but rather the sight of a boy, on all fours, tethered to it. Clad in the simple, tattered garments of a District boy, his face bore the bruises of a recent victor of the Hunger Games.

A voice beside me murmured, "Holy shit, Caius, how did you get him?"

Caius responded with a proud grin, "Let's just say, my father knows someone who knows someone who knows someone..." With a swift pull, he brought the collar closer, dragging the boy along. "He stinks like a dog, but what can you do... Come on, turn around."

Despite aggressive tugs on the string, the boy remained unmoving.

"Come on! Do it now, you filthy animal!" The third forceful pull came with a threat, "Do you want me to tell my father to take care of your dirty family in District 5?" In response, the boy obediently circled on all fours.

As the crowd around me dispersed, a disturbing spectacle unfolded around Caius and the recent victor of the Hunger Games. People swarmed the boy, reaching out to touch him as if he were some creature on display. Bits of food were offered, extended from eager hands, a grotesque gesture of charity toward the subdued figure on all fours. The atmosphere in the room shifted, taking on an unsettling aura of perverse fascination.

Amidst this macabre spectacle, I found a momentary refuge for my guitar in a quiet corner. The attention of the onlookers had shifted, granting me a brief respite from their scrutinizing eyes. In the shadows, I clenched my fists so tightly that my nails dug bloodily into my palms. My chest heaved with a surge of emotions—anger, disgust, and a profound sadness for the treatment in front of me. The scene before me, the casual cruelty, fueled a growing hatred within. Unspoken words whispered through my mind, a wish to incinerate this gilded abomination that reveled in the degradation of humanity.

I found it unbearable. A colossal wave of disgust swept over me, yet a more profound aversion was gaining supremacy within: sharing the same space, passive and inert. Rather than confronting them, rather than encircling Caius's neck with my hands, rather than rescuing the hapless boy from his degradation and anguish, my craven feet carried me, entranced and bereft of control, to the sanctuary of the bathroom. A departing girl left the door ajar, and without acknowledging the queue that had formed outside, I hastened into the restroom, shutting the door behind me, succumbing immediately to the cool floor.

I refrained from glancing at myself in the mirror, avoiding any self-reflection. A splash of cold water on my face, deliberate breaths, an adjustment of my dress, and the bathroom door swung open.

The line of judgmental glances and spiteful comments went unnoticed. I dared not turn my attention toward the chamber where the brutal spectacle unfolded. Navigating to the elevator, I directed my gaze downward, obscuring my face with the cascade of my hair as I pressed the button marked with a downward arrow.

Stepping into the elevator as soon as the doors opened, I kept my head bowed, oblivious to the two additional occupants who entered behind me. My eyes remained affixed to the floor, avoiding the unspoken condemnations that lingered in the confined space.

"Did you cry?" I heard a mocking male voice.

I had no reserves of strength left that evening, but an inner reservoir of hatred, anger, and aggression still surged within me. "Problem with that?" My tongue and the acerbic tone spilled out faster than I intended.

"Ohhh, quite the mouth on such a little thing. Should be shut, you know." With these words, the boy advanced, closing the distance until only a few centimeters separated us. Instinctively, I met his gaze, catching a whiff of sweat and alcohol. I couldn't place the boy, but in that moment, whether I recognized him or not became inconsequential. He closed the gap, pressing me against the wall with his weight. "You little piece of—"

Before the boy in front of me could finish his sentence, he was abruptly yanked backward.

"For fuck's sake, if you can't handle such a small amount of alcohol, just quit it, you miserable lecher." The tall boy with green eyes and chestnut curls, whom I had met in the elevator on the way up, seized the other boy by the collar. As the elevator door opened, he almost hoisted him up by the collar and propelled him forward with a swift knee, sending him tumbling out of the elevator onto the floor.

I quickly passed by them and stormed out, past the two gray-clad men, simply out into the darkness.

"Hey, wait!" I recognized the voice of the green-eyed boy, but I made no attempt to stop. I ran faster and faster, not daring to turn around.

"Now, just stand still, you—" He had caught up with me because something lightly grabbed my shoulder, then let go immediately.

I turned abruptly and screamed at him, breathless with panic, "Let go of me immediately!"

The boy looked at me bewildered and also somewhat breathless. "I'm not even touching you."

I couldn't argue with that because there was a small distance between us, and he had kept his arms to himself.

I felt my cheeks turning red and replied after a while, "My chauffeur is coming soon; he—"

"Would have been here already if you had one," he retorted with a shake of his head. "You live in the Plinth building complex, right? I'm heading that way anyway."

The idea that he should accompany me in the darkness didn't appeal to me at all. "Th-th-that's really not—"

"Oh for fuck's sake, you're not my type, and believe me, assaulting District girls is not on my agenda today. We don't even have to talk; I'm just saying I'm going that way anyway, so come now and don't annoy me."

With these words, the boy walked past me, and for some reason unknown to me, I followed him with a few steps of distance. After a few minutes, he stopped in front of my apartment building, turned halfway around, and said matter-of-factly, "Get yourself a damn chauffeur; the Plinths can afford it... if they're going to drag you here anyway."

"If you expect a thank you, that—"

"I expect nothing."

"Good."

"See you."

He continued walking, and before I could think about it, I called after him, "What's your name, anyway?"

Without turning around and without stopping, he replied, "Caesar. Caesar Highbottom."

Chapter Text

He had accomplished it once, and the prospect of repeating that feat lingered within his grasp.

However, the initial task at hand required ensuring that he would even have the opportunity to aid Lucy Gray. In the bygone days of the Hunger Games, his role as her designated mentor shielded him from certain complications. Alas, the current scenario presented a slightly altered landscape. Wistfully, he mused that had Felix truly succumbed to his injuries following the arena assaults of yore, it would have alleviated at least one of his predicaments. Alas, the past proved immutable, prompting him to strategize on how to safeguard Lucy Gray from Felix's influence while discreetly manipulating events as her true mentor. Unsettlingly, he contemplated the necessity of orchestrating these machinations behind closed doors, unlike the more public maneuvers of the previous Hunger Games. The acknowledgment lingered that his brilliant efforts would go unnoticed, and no commendation or reward would be forthcoming. Yet, the luxury of sulking over such matters could wait; initial focus demanded establishing a meaningful connection with Lucy Gray. A task rendered formidable by her tendency to shun him, reserving interactions primarily for her fans or the company of Felix and Clemmie.

Felix, however, was not a viable option. He had seamlessly adopted the mantle of Lucy Gray's mentor, tirelessly elaborating on it for weeks. Lucy Gray had deftly ensnared him, just as she had once entangled her original mentor. Equally vexing was Felix's unintentional ascent, positioning him on an imagined plane of equality. A recent encounter in the cafeteria had only intensified his disdain towards Felix, who, grinning excessively, had quipped, "The role of mentor comes with its share of responsibilities, but I doubt I need to enlighten you on that, Coryo." A latent desire to surreptitiously slip a potent substance into Felix's soup and witness the gradual pallor and transformation of his grin into a grimace arose, a fantasy swiftly stifled by the awareness that Coriolanus Snow was not one to be trifled with.

Before entering the lecture hall, a concerted effort was made to relax his composure and temper his heartbeat. Facial muscles loosened, the aim was to mitigate the stiffness that might betray his absorption in the harrowing execution scene witnessed earlier that morning. The door swung open, revealing Livia seated in her customary place. The vacant seat beside her, his designated space, awaited occupancy. A resigned sigh accompanied the realization that the remaining morning hours would be spent adjacent to Livia. Yet, the imperative of maintaining appearances superseded personal discomfort. Departure at this juncture would attract undue attention, and there were matters demanding his attention later, unrelated to the university schedule.

Livia's greeting was delivered with a measured smile, veiling formality rather than genuine warmth. "Did you witness the events involving the District scum this morning?"

The bag dropped, and with a detached, listless tone, Coriolanus responded, "Yes, I heard about it."

"Serves him right. He assaulted Caius like a rabid animal, biting into his neck. Can you imagine such brutality? A bite. To. The. Neck." An accompanying grimace accentuated Livia's distaste, her right hand gesturing to the spot of the alleged attack.

"Did Caius throw a party last night?"

"No, that was Clemmie's party."

The absence of an invitation from Clemmie did not surprise him. Their relationship had soured since academy days—an inconvenient truth given Clemmie's significance as another point of contact for Lucy Gray, besides Felix.

"So, Caius brought the District 5 guy here, and chaos ensued? Dr. Gaul won't be pleased; a former victor meeting such a fate. Currently, victors are deemed valuable. They serve a purpose."

"You and your relationship with Dr. Gaul is… perplexing. I genuinely don't understand, Coryo, how you endure her. Were you at her lab again last night?"

A nod sufficed; discussions with Dr. Gaul remained confidential. Instead, he redirected the conversation, "Were you there? How did people react? What happened…what was said afterward?" Information was imperative. Did the desire for the demise of the new District students manifest solely in those he conversed with that morning, or was it a sentiment shared among the student body?

"Use your imagination," Livia retorted impatiently, as if addressing an impatient child. "It was ghastly. The assailant lunged at Caius, inciting panic... eventually, Clemmie's security personnel intervened, removing the assailant from the premises. Caius was rushed to the hospital. He's been there since last night, and the prognosis is grim. The brute bit into his flesh... I can't continue; it was nauseating and repulsive, right before my eyes, and you know how averse I am to unsavory things."

Coriolanus was a bit too familiar with Livia's rapid deployment of a disgusted expression for his liking. When Avoxes approached her too closely or placed dishes before her at dinner, she would embark on a tirade, claiming to detect the perspiration of traitors and rebels, rendering her unable to ingest a morsel. Post-pity and subsequent punishment of the implicated Avox, her appetite promptly returned, if indeed it had ever waned.

"The evening was horrendous," she continued as the final students entered the hall, "utterly dreadful. That was the last time I attend one of Clemmie's gatherings; now, I'll likely be haunted by the gruesome incident whenever she extends an invitation..."

As she lamented discarding her dress and deliberated on visiting Caius, her aversion to the sight of blood rendering the visit seemingly futile, Coriolanus tuned out momentarily. Considerations turned to the impending need to engage Clemmie in conversation. Yet, before a plan could crystallize, a snippet of conversation refocused him on the lecture hall and Livia. "What did you say?" he inquired, a hint of panic coloring his tone.

Livia rolled her eyes and responded more discreetly; evidently, these words were intended solely for him, shielded from the ears of others: "She was present too... your tribute. Rendered a song. Adequate vocals, perhaps, but entirely unwarranted. No one desired her musical interlude, but you're familiar with her penchant for the limelight—"

"Did she… notice? Was she there when…The boy from District 5 and his attack?"

"How am I to know? My gaze doesn't adhere to her incessantly, unlike yours," she retorted snippily, pivoting abruptly toward Clea, the girl beside her and purportedly her closest friend—if one could dignify their association as friendship. Similar to his relationship with Livia, their rapport bore a certain self-interest, lacking the obligation to exchange occasional kisses.

The day's lecture delved into the intricacies of the legislative process, a subject that had undergone substantial modifications in the preceding year. The reformed legislation aimed at expediting and enhancing the efficiency of lawmaking, enabling prompt responses to potential insurgent threats without being encumbered by bureaucratic hurdles or protracted approval procedures. Dr. Gaul not only vociferously advocated for these changes but, as Coriolanus suspected from his understanding of her character and their recent conversations, also wielded influence during the voting process. The pursuit of control, Coriolanus now comprehended, represented the zenith of satisfaction for this woman. In the realm of politics, she found this sense of command conveniently presented on a silver platter, enticingly accessible from every vantage point.

"The legislative procedure has undergone not only a refinement but a pronounced slimming down, facilitating a swift and more efficacious responsiveness. In the antecedent framework, there was a mandated obligation to confer with the Small Council..."

The professor at the lectern had cultivated a penchant for protracted articulation, accompanied by an exaggerated gesticulation of his fingers, a spectacle bordering on the verge of the clownesque. Ordinarily, Coriolanus found himself occasionally diverted by the excess of gestural theatrics, but presently, weightier considerations commandeered his attention. The pressing matter demanded a strategic contemplation: how, in the world, could he expeditiously ameliorate his association with Clemmie? Time was of the essence, for the fervent populace, wielding pitchforks, would increasingly converge upon Lucy Gray with each passing day.

He could hardly wait for the lecture to finally end. As soon as the professor uttered his final words, Coriolanus swiftly rose, bidding a subdued "Goodbye, Liv," and made his way to the Journalism Club's meeting room. Clemmie, the president, usually spent her breaks there, her gaze fixed on screens and numbers, as Livia and Clea had informed him. The club room was approximately 10 minutes away from his usual lecture hall, but Coriolanus's feet were propelled by excitement and determination. Within a few breathless minutes, he stood before the club room. He ran his fingers through the strand of hair that had strayed forward, smoothed his shirt, and hastily tucked any loose fabric neatly into his trousers before delicately knocking on the door.

"Come in!" Excellent, thought Coriolanus, recognizing Clemmie's voice. He would recognize that voice even in a decade; after all, he had spent his entire school life with her as a study partner by her side.

He slowly and deliberately opened the door, finding Clemmie seated in the right corner with her back turned to him, eyes fixed on the screen in front of her. A few seconds later, she turned around, evidently in the midst of consuming a cookie, which, upon Coriolanus's appearance, she returned to the plate. She stared at him in disbelief for a moment before assertively stating, "What are you doing here?"

Coriolanus closed the door behind him, ensuring they were now entirely alone in the room and out of earshot. He smiled gently. "Can't I visit my old classmate?"

She regarded him with suspicion, her eyes narrowing. "Sure," sarcasm tinged her tone, but it wasn't as if Coriolanus expected a joyous embrace.

"Clem-"

"Save it, Coriolanus. What do you really want here? I don't have a prize for you, so what brings you here?"

"I—"

"Although, no, that's not entirely accurate. I do have something here that you want, don't I?" With a slight nod of her head, she indicated the screen in front of her. Lucy Gray was displayed on it.

"Oh, Clemmie. I don't know how many times I still have to apologize for back then. I should have acted; I should have said it. But Clemmie... you, of all people, should understand best what it feels like to be one of Dr. Gaul's little pawns."

Clemmie fell silent, and Coriolanus gave her time to let the words sink in. Eventually, she responded in a bitter but no longer hostile tone, "You still are. Voluntarily, it seems. Heard you spend time with her every week."

Coriolanus theatrically sighed. "You know, not everything is as it seems, is it? Dr. Gaul ensures that. Always."

Silence settled in once more.

"You know, Clemmie," Coriolanus continued with a somber tone after a while, "this morning, I saw an Academy student. A boy in the old red uniform. He seemed so... unbelievably young and naive, a child, essentially. Even though he'll likely start studying here soon... he looked so young, even though only a few years separate us."

Clemmie nodded.

"When I think back to those times, Clemmie... I feel like not only the tributes were in the arena. Somehow, we were there with them. And the Game Maker of us all was Dr. Gaul... You say 'voluntarily.' I don't even know if that word exists in Dr. Gaul's vocabulary."

"Probably not," she replied quietly, now looking down at the half-eaten cookie on her lap.

"I also fought for my survival back then... though not in the same way you did. There were things I should have done differently. I don't like to reminisce; I'd rather forget some things altogether. I tried to forget for a good while—"

"Stop it, Coryo. I don't want to hear this. You're here because you want something," she whispered back, "whatever you're trying to do here... it works better if you're honest with me."

Coriolanus sighed, contemplated, weighed his options before responding, "You already know why I'm here."

Clemmie chuckled sarcastically. "And you think I would, could help you with whatever it is?"

"On your party last night... that incident, the consequence this morning. People will turn against her; it's only a matter of time. Then, no interview can protect her."

"And why the hell should you protect her, Coryo? You're not her mentor; that's Felix—"

"Because I can. I protected her once; I can do it again."

"And what do you gain from it, Coriolanus Snow? She's no longer a tribute; her victory brings you nothing."

He hesitated before responding to her, "You want the truth, Clemmie?"

She nodded.

He hesitated again. He should let the hunt for her continue, no, he should support the hunt for her. She was a walking risk. She knew what he had done. Sure, her word against his, but with the constant attention she received, even a single word from her could harm him. Hadn't he planned a few days ago to poison her pastry during the sponsor debate next time? Shouldn't he consider himself lucky that someone else was taking care of the dirty work? Shouldn't he be happy that someone else was eliminating his source of risk? Shouldn't he be happy to be free from Lucy Gray and all the memories of damn birds? No more risk for him and his sponsorship with the Plinths, as there was an additional risk that she might feed Ma Plinth with information that was none of her business. He should let the hunt continue. For himself. His scholarship. His future.

Lucy Gray had no place in his life, here at the university, in the Capitol, which was his home and not hers. She had no place here; she was not allowed to have a place here. No poison in the pastry, instead, death by hunting, possibly by a shot like this morning?

No more risk. No more fear. No more reason to panic.

He would be free. Free from Lucy Gray Baird.

And yet, a thought, a constant, persistent thought, echoed through his mind all the time. Back then, during the Hunger Games, she was his tribute, she depended on him, her survival relied on him. How many times had he longed for that bond to revive back in District 12 when he realized that she was slipping away from him more and more? If only he could manage to revive that past bond, she would be his again. And then all thoughts about potential risks would be irrelevant.

"I'm not sure."

Clemmie looked at him in a strange way, a kind he couldn't quite decipher. After a while, she replied, "The girl from District 2 was sent home this morning."

"Why?"

"She... made some accusations."

"What kind of accusations?"

Clemmie didn't look at him but turned her gaze back to the screen. "Not pleasant accusations. Some say she made it up, others... say it doesn't count because she's from the district and therefore not eligible to file a complaint."

Coriolanus sensed what kind of accusation it was. The girl from District 2 was not unattractive. He wondered again if Ma Plinth cried herself to sleep even more because she now had indirectly, alongside her own, two other district children on her conscience through her escapades and recklessness, clearly inherited from her son. She should have used the time to suppress Sejanus's rebellious tendencies. Maybe he would still be alive.

"So, now they're only three." Not a good number, Coriolanus thought.

"Exactly. So, Coryo, what exactly do you expect from me?"

"There will be another interview?"

"You can bet on that."

"Good. Let me help."

"And Felix?"

"Fuck Felix."

Clemmie laughed briefly. "The always friendly Coriolanus Snow... what has gotten into you?"

"Well, you wanted the truth."

"Better not make an enemy out of Felix. Remember which family he belongs to."

"Watch it, Clemmie, or I might think you care about me." He smiled gently at her again. "Besides, I can take care of myself."

"Yes, I don't doubt that... Nevertheless, it could get unpleasant. For me, that is. Also for Lucy."

"Why 'Lucy' anyway? Why did she introduce herself as 'Lucy' in the interview... was that your idea?"

Clemmie shook her head. "Hers. That's what she wanted."

"Okay. I'll handle Felix. I heard Lucky Flickerman showed interest?"

"You hear a lot."

He shrugged slightly. "More of a guess, but Lucky wouldn't miss something like this for the world."

"Yes, that could be."

"He'll want to conduct the interview. Him alone."

"And?"

"Well... his son is… involved with Professor Sludge."

Clemmie made a face. "What the—"

"What can I say... not my type either, but some people like the gray look. Either way, it violates—"

"The regulation. He's his professor. He shouldn't even be able to grade him, actually." Now Clemmie looked quite pleased; she sensed her chance, and Coriolanus recognized the ambitious girl who had accompanied him throughout his school years.

"Good," Clemmie continued joyfully, "then let's do it. You help with the interview, and I'll... explain it to Lucy."

Coriolanus smiled kindly at her. "You're a good friend to her, Clemmie."

Now all enthusiasm suddenly disappeared from Clemmie's face. "No," she whispered back, "I'm not. If I were, I would have told you to stay away from her. I would tell her to stay away from you... I would give her the same advice your cousin did."

Coriolanus's heart felt heavy. Tigris ignoring him for weeks, months, was disturbing enough, but had she turned Lucy Gray against him as well?

"Anyway, I have to get back to work now. See you. Please close the door behind you."

He delicately closed the door behind him, cataloging the exchange with Clemmie as a partial triumph. While he couldn't entirely smooth the ripples, he managed to sufficiently cultivate an alliance that could rationalize a semblance of proximity to Lucy Gray. Yet, on his way to the cafeteria, a disquieting notion crept into his mind—could this maneuver mark a premature demise for his nascent career, a death sentence antecedent to its commencement? The task of elucidating to his peers why he harbored such a vested interest in a student from a distant district loomed ominously. Even more confounding was his inability to reconcile within himself the motivations propelling him to defy the impulse of abandoning Lucy Gray to her predetermined fate.

Rounding the corner and now standing before the edifice's imposing façade, he encountered two Avoxes meticulously attending to a stained floor. Evidently, the ground had been tainted with a sanguine residue. Simultaneously, two young ladies, adorned in crimson-hued school uniforms, scrutinized the same damp patch. One of the young ladies advanced toward the prostrate Avoxes and spewed forth vitriol until hastily rejoining her companion. Coriolanus observed the duo depart with laughter—an undeniably unrefined display, though seemingly inconsequential when directed at an Avox. Nonetheless, he mused, the act of spitting, whether upon the floor or Avoxes, defied the decorum expected of a Capitol damsel.

The rationale behind Lucy Gray's venture into this milieu perplexed him. With any other district ingenue, the allure of an opulent existence, replete with gastronomic delights, all underwritten by Ma Plinth, would have been comprehensible. However, Lucy Gray's idiosyncrasy, her predilection for a forsaken lake, the sylvan expanse, and the unrestrained proliferation of indigenous flora, defied conventional comprehension. Back in District 12, he not only regarded her predilections as peculiar but rather disconcerting, as she appeared to prefer the rusticity of the forest to the sophistication of the Capitol. Yet, such paradoxes were emblematic of her nature—a complex enigma that necessitated a depth of understanding beyond immediate grasp.

As he approached the cafeteria's threshold, anticipating the customary salutations from Livia and her retinue, a lingering query persisted in his contemplation: What impelled Lucy Gray to traverse this foreign terrain? Her solitary existence in the Capitol, bereft of genuine companionship, familial ties, or familiar landscapes, rendered her sojourn even more enigmatic. Absent were the allurements of her cherished lake, the protective canopy of the forest, or the camaraderie of the Covey. The mental image of Lucy Gray, bedecked in that resplendent rainbow-hued garment upon the university stage on her inaugural day, lingered in his mind. Her gaze, singularly directed at him, accentuated by the attire reminiscent of a bygone occasion. It evoked a sense of intentional signaling.

In the Capitol's expanse, Lucy Gray found herself bereft of all… but him. Perhaps, he speculated, her proclamation during their initial discourse—that she sought to extend an apology for her hasty departure in times past—was not a mere fabrication. Could it be that fatigue, coupled with the rigors of his circumstances, had propelled him towards precipitous conclusions back then? Was it conceivable that Lucy Gray donned the dress with a covert expectation of capturing his attention, trusting in his innate inclination to safeguard, to protect her here? Did she recollect the aspirations he harbored in those earlier moments, envisioning her accompanying him to the Capitol? Could it be that he, in his oversight, failed to discern this pivotal initial stride she had taken? Was this her way to show him that…?

No, such conjectures seemed illogical... or did they?

Upon entering the cafeteria, the resounding throb of his heart echoed with fervor, prompting an involuntary smile to grace his countenance, accompanied by a subtle flush on his face.

Chapter Text

The day donned a mournful shroud, its weight bearing down upon me—an unspoken burden carried not only by the haunting echoes of the morning. The disheartening staccato of gunshots reverberated from the Grand University Square, mercilessly piercing the unfortunate soul from District 5, a hapless victim ensnared in relentless gunfire. Since that mournful moment, the air resonated with the sorrowful whispers of Caius's ordeal—the affliction tethered to his hospital bed, the gravity of his neck wound, and the communal relief that swathed our collective psyche upon the malefactor's defeat. Caius, a mere acquaintance, etched visual fragments of that fateful evening into my consciousness, leaving an indelible mark. A yearning emerged for him to find solace in the hospital's embrace. Justice, a delicate notion, remained elusive in the aftermath of such harrowing events. What semblance of justice prevails when it is but a tapestry of fantasy, woven to lull us into a fitful slumber?

Seeking solace, I ventured to the administrative sanctum of the university, contemplating the prospect of bypassing the mundane pre-courses and immersing myself in the melodic sanctuary of the music class. The receptionist, a woman in her late 40s adorned with rainbow-hued strands elegantly interwoven into the left cascade of her coiffure—a chromatic expression emblematic of Capitol fashion fervor—greeted my entrance with a disdainful gaze, as though an intruder had momentarily desecrated her meticulously tended garden, a transgression yet to be ruthlessly quelled.

"I must ascertain the feasibility of such a request," she retorted, a peremptory gesture urging me to retreat.

Observing this rebuff, I chose not to engage in contention, exercising a measure of restraint as a small contingent of individuals entered the room behind me. Clemmie, enigmatic in her movements throughout the day, adeptly maneuvered around my presence. Her motivations remained shrouded—whether seeking refuge from the turmoil of the preceding night, secluding herself within the sanctuary of the club room, or nursing a discomfort at the prospect of being associated with a 'District student' and a former Hunger Games victor. Today, I found myself falling short of fulfilling her expectations, transforming from a delightful spectacle into a superfluous entity. The acknowledgment, unwavering in its resolution, carried an undercurrent of disquiet. Despite projecting an exterior veneer of resilience, an unspoken yearning persisted within me—perhaps for companionship, a transient connection—clinging to the embrace shared with Clemmie the night prior. A fleeting notion, summarily dismissed, yet the desire for a return to the familiar cadence of routine, the exchange of banter, and the camaraderie inherent in sharing triumphs and tribulations, lingered with palpable intensity.

However, today marked an aberration, as neither Clemmie nor the familiar faces of fellow students sought my company. The shots fired cast a crimson demarcation, a symbolic barrier isolating me from the camaraderie I once knew.

Noontime found me solitary at a cafeteria table, surrounded by a bustling milieu. Yet, a palpable aversion emanated from the crowd, a collective inclination to circumvent my vicinity, as if proximity bore the risk of contagion—an affliction whose tendrils could ensnare them with the slightest approach. Such swift metamorphosis: yesterday's attraction, adorned in rainbow hues and celebrated, transmuted into today's pariah.

Post-yesterday's ordeal, appetite waned, prompting a futile jabbing of the fork into a despondent steak. The instrument ensnared itself in the steak's fibers, demanding extrication with laborious finesse, only to recommence its forceful descent. At that moment, I relinquished concern for external perceptions. The judgment was rendered, and I could only reinforce what conformity deemed acceptable; I could only affirm what they wouldn't have allowed differently anyway.

"Wouldn't one expect someone of your kind to savor the culinary arts a bit more, or is it a common practice in District 12 to channel all frustrations onto your meals?"

Raising my gaze, I beheld Caesar Highbottom, ensconced across from me with a tray in tow. A surreal tableau unfolded—his attire shrouded in unadulterated black, an anomaly amidst a kaleidoscope of colors adorning others. A sartorial minimalism that defied Capitol conventions.

Placing my fork beside the violated steak, I inhaled deeply, exhaling with measured composure. My response echoed with affability, a veneer masking the tempest beneath. "Perhaps. We like to add a dash of rebellious seasoning to our meals—it adds character."

"Hm, it appears your meals endure quite the uprising. I trust they put forth a commendable resistance." The cadence of his voice bore the ennui of a disinterested narrator, recounting mundane details as an afterthought. Yet, an elusive undercurrent lurked within—was it disdain, teasing, or a modicum of amusement?

"How can I be of service, Caesar?" I aspired for my tone to remain free of sarcasm and false warmth, but even I couldn't fully convince myself of such sincerity. "If not, I would prefer to enjoy my meal in my own company."

Caesar, scarcely acknowledging my presence, focused on his repast, carving a portion of steak. "Service for me? Hm, what sort of service are you referring to?" he mused after a pregnant pause, reclining against the chair with a glance that begrudgingly acknowledged my existence.

"No friends to lunch with?" The words, scarcely spoken, already bore the weight of remorse. The circumstances of the day, the tumult of the preceding night, and the cumulative fatigue since my arrival in this unfamiliar realm conspired to amplify my unease. Panic, an unwelcome companion, seized me. Today was ill-suited for animosity, a day imprudent for provoking the ire of those around me. I should have known better.

Caesar's lips curved infinitesimally, a subtle gesture nearly imperceptible. "None who savagely impale their steak. Speaking of which, where is the girl enamored by the Capitol's splendor, who, if memory serves me right..."—he raised his voice, a mimicry of girlish inflection—"deems it an immense honor to grace these hallowed halls?"

Responding with my most resplendent smile, I infused my words with an enthusiasm that surpassed prudence. "Fine. I ask again. Can I be of assistance, Caesar?"

His gaze remained fixed on me as he cut a slightly larger morsel. "Did you get yourself a chauffeur?"

"Why do you care?"

He chuckled briefly, and a crooked smile revealed itself. "Oh, I don't."

"Then refrain from inquiry."

Abruptly rising, I seized my tray, poised to depart. Yet, an inquiry, pregnant with curiosity, lingered on my tongue, demanding release. "By the way, are you, by chance, related to the Highbottom of the... Hunger Games?"

Caesar laid down his fork, meeting my gaze once again. His dark green eyes, adorned with lengthy brown lashes that could elicit a twinge of envy, held my attention for a short time. "Yes, imagine that, we Highbottoms are not overly overrepresented in the Capitol. That was my uncle, Casca."

"Was?"

"He died shortly after the 10th Hunger Games."

"My condolences."

"Aha? You're aware he created the—"

"He gave me money and brought me back to District 12 after my victory," I responded with stoic candor.

Caesar raised an eyebrow momentarily before muttering to himself, "Why am I not surprised."

Choosing not to prolong my scrutiny of Caesar, especially after noting the definition in his arm muscles and the intricate network of veins on his hands, I turned away, opting not to bid him farewell. As I moved to return the tray to its designated spot, Coriolanus's gaze seamlessly met mine. Positioned a few rows away, his silent examination momentarily faltered, briefly shifting toward Caesar before refocusing on me. Yet, the hitch in my breath wasn't a reaction to his watchful gaze. Instead, it echoed the familiar intensity in his eyes—a resurgence of the same passion that had captivated him during my rendition of that song for Billy Taupe in the course of my interview.

Chapter Text

Many assert that I bask in the glow of being the epicenter of attention, reveling in the limelight, yet the truth is more nuanced. As a vocalist, a lyricist, an artist, and a performer, the gravitational pull toward the spotlight is an inevitable trajectory I navigate. The sensation while on stage, where every gaze converges upon you, and you peer into a multitude of faces, sensing your words and melodies resonating within them, almost palpably feeling their heartbeats synchronize with yours—this experience has evolved into a treasure so profound over the years that at times, it feels indispensable to my very existence. It's not the allure of fame or the acclaim that captivates me; rather, it's the profound communion I experience. In that ephemeral moment when the music emanates from my lips, permeating the ears of the audience and, in some instances, penetrating deep into their hearts, we forge a connection. Age, appearance, wealth—none of these factors wield significance in that instance; rather, in the collective embrace of a song's crescendo, people find a common ground, a space where differences fade away, and a profound connection emerges. The singular thread binding us is the shared sense of connection, the feeling of unity. The synergy of shared vibrations, melodies, and rhythms creates a harmonious resonance within the group, fostering a sense of unity that goes beyond the boundaries of individuality. The music becomes a conduit for shared emotions, a universal language that allows disparate souls to converge in a moment of emotional synchronicity. Whether it's the rhythmic pulse that resonates with the heartbeat of the audience or the poignant lyrics that strike a chord with individual experiences, the music becomes a vessel for collective catharsis, a conduit for a collective high, a euphoria that transcends the individual and binds everyone in a moment of transcendence.

For someone like me, an orphan, this sensation becomes an anchor, an embrace that I'm reluctant to release. When the music reverberates and is truly comprehended—heard in its essence—it's as if we collectively recall our shared equality beneath the celestial tapestry; irrespective of disparate memories and associations, we all resonate with the same interconnectedness. I would shatter every spotlight willingly if it meant encapsulating that moment and savoring it for eternity.

Now, in elucidating my stance, I wish to convey that I don't harbor an affection for being thrust into the limelight. It's not a fondness compelling me toward the center stage; instead, it's an instinct for survival, an unyielding pursuit of security. When I stand on that elevated platform and impart to every onlooker the liberating sensation of momentarily casting aside their burdens, allowing them to simply revel in their humanity—where hearts beat resoundingly, and souls pulsate in harmony with the musical cadence—certainty envelops me. No peacekeeper intervenes in that sacred moment; no obstruction arises from the inhabitants of District 12.

Yet, enough about my narrative. Today, I wish to gracefully bow out from the spotlight, bestowing it upon another deserving soul—a figure whom I believe can weave their own enchantment with the stage. Because securing an audience in the Capitol, especially when one clings to the remnants of humanity beneath a veneer of dissimilarity, is not merely a challenging endeavor but an almost insurmountable feat. Particularly so when one holds a vested interest in the preservation of their own existence.

Allow me to introduce to you today, esteemed readers, Clemensia Dovecote:

Hello dear readers.

Firstly, my gratitude extends to Lucy Gray for graciously affording me the privilege of sharing fragments of my story with you today. Admittedly, embarking upon this endeavor is somewhat daunting, as one ponders where to commence such a multifaceted tale. Shall I unfold the tapestry of my life? Narrate the events that transpired after that moment in Dr. Gaul's laboratory, after which I harbored the apprehension of meeting my demise at the hands of either Dr. Gaul herself or the personnel within the esteemed Capitol Hospital? Or, perhaps, delve into the enigmatic persona of Coriolanus Snow, charting the trajectory of my trust's gradual erosion? Equally tempting is the prospect of unfolding my perceptions of Lucy Gray—the genesis of our camaraderie and the tapestry that wove our connection.

In navigating the contours of what might intrigue you most, I must, with all due respect, assert that such considerations, at their core, are inconsequential. Therefore, permit me to share with you that which holds paramount significance to me.

As you are cognizant, my upbringing transpired within the confines of the Capitol. As elucidated by Coriolanus, my formative years were entwined with the Dark Days of the past rebellion. Hence, stories proliferate of individuals who rose from modest origins to carve out illustrious destinies—tales one might categorize as "success stories"—were not the kind of stories I grew up with. Within the walls of the Capitol, such narratives, if ever they exist, are received with a certain aloofness. Success, in the Capitol, is articulated through the preservation, reclamation, and perpetuation of one's lineage. Financial ascension, undoubtedly desirable, pales in comparison to the central endeavor of consolidating prosperity across generations and safeguarding it from usurpation. Alas, the latter transpired amidst the somber tapestry of the Dark Days. Those turbulent times snatched from us the tales of triumph, the familial riches intended to endure through the epochs. The Dark Days, in their ruthless sweep, divested us not only of our legacy but, by extension, our prospects. The foundation upon which our heritage rests assumes a secondary significance, construed differently than in the contexts you might be familiar with.

Similar to myriad families in the Capitol, mine weathered losses. Hunger did not claim us outright, yet the sanctity of my home lay in ruins—so much so that my mother's lament extended beyond the demise of gilded chandeliers to mourn the tragic loss of my father, felled during one of the indiscriminate bombings.

With the cessation of rebel onslaughts, as the Capitol orchestrated the dispersion of rebels to their respective districts, constraining them within those confines, a transient respite from fear graced my consciousness. Alas, the illusion of respite swiftly dissipated, yielding to the realization that fear, an indomitable specter, would persist as my constant companion—not dirt and cold, as it was for Lucy Gray, but fear, constant, relentless fear. Allow me to impart a perspective on fear: it is akin to a virulent contagion; once contracted, no antidote avails itself, and fear becomes an eternal companion, gradually corroding one's bones, fibers, muscles, and organs until it dominates every facet of being.

Post the snake's venomous bite, fear held dominion over my existence for a substantial period. Fear of snakes. Fear of Dr. Gaul. Fear of the medical custodians within the hospital, staunch sentinels who precluded any semblance of proximity. And fear of Coriolanus Snow—for, amid the throes of my mortal fever, ceaseless tremors, and pain diffusing from the bite's epicenter, a revelation crystallized: I was bitten not by one snake but two within the precincts of the laboratory. One, a manifest assailant, swift and direct. The other, a sweet looking friend, launching its assault from a beguiling sanctuary. A sanctuary so artfully concealed, guarded by an illumination that rendered it imperceptible to the majority. A luminance emanating from a genial smile, impeccable deportment, allure, and a cordial handshake; a luminance fueled by inspirational rhetoric and gracious commendations. An impeccable refuge. A retreat so finely shrouded that its detection eludes the unaided eye, ensnared as it is by the brilliance of Coriolanus Snow.

I have often wondered how my life would have turned out if I hadn't gone to the lab back then, if I hadn't become part of the Hunger Games. After the snake bite, my perspective on certain things changed. Previously, I always apologized, blamed myself for the mistake, and wanted to create neither enemies nor uncomfortable situations. Looking back, I think I was just, as they say, young and naive. And when you're young and naive, you can afford to be kind, considerate, and empathetic. The rebellion certainly shattered some things in me, bombed them to death, but my mother and brother gave me enough love, strength, and support not to lose myself in hatred and revenge.

I wanted to be kind. The nice, sweet girl who helps her friends, who is loyal, who is liked by everyone. Think what you want, judge me for thriving as a people pleaser, but I enjoyed my position. It gave me a sense of security; no one would prey on the sweet, kind girl, not when there were enough people who liked her.

But after the snake bite, I let go of that. It was as if, after all the fever and pain, I suddenly had no desire to be the sweet, kind girl anymore. I was tired of it. The Games, which I never wanted to be a part of, Dr. Gaul, who terrified me, my tribute, who cared as little about me as I did about him, Coriolanus Snow, my former best friend who turned out to be a treacherous snake. He should have told my parents, should have helped me, should have visited me; that's what a good friend would have done. But instead, he decided to switch sides and become Dr. Gaul's sweet little toy boy.

The snake's bite transmuted fear into a facet of myself initially unrecognizable in the looking glass. It seemed as though I had internalized the brutality inflicted upon me, metamorphosing into a serpent poised to expel venom, evolving into the embodiment of my deepest fears.

I refrained from keeping track of the ensuing Hunger Games, as much as possible at least. Not on principle, because they reminded me too much of the 10th Hunger Games and what had happened to me back then. It wasn't just a simple bite; something had happened to me, something I still can't quite put into words today. Whatever Dr. Gaul had done with those colored snakes, it had led to their venom settling in my body, brain, and heart. By the way, the wound never achieved complete convalescence; I can still feel the imprints of the fangs to this day.

My once dark-brown eyes have assumed a yellowish hue—an ironic juxtaposition wherein my most profound aversion is mirrored daily: the ocular manifestation of a serpent. As though the penalizing vicissitudes endured were insufficient, I am condemned to behold my serpentine face for the duration of my existence.

But that's enough about the snake bite.

Now, let us proceed to the more captivating segment — the unfolding of my inaugural, authentic friendship.

Granted, the genesis of this camaraderie is far from a picturesque narrative, not the type of tale one savors hearing, one that imparts a heartwarming sensation. No, the origins of this bond are as unrelenting as the world in which I traversed my childhood and in which I will inevitably one day meet my demise. It commences with the person — not human, in my eyes, she has too little in common with an actual human being — whom I dreaded with unparalleled intensity, the maestro of my nocturnal terrors, the architect of my deepest regrets.

A week before the District students were to arrive at Capitol University, I was summoned to Dr. Gaul's laboratory (officially termed a request, but let's be honest, it was a command, one that surely carried severe consequences if ignored). I had been vomiting all night; I doubt anything remained in my stomach, as it felt like I had purged every ounce of fluid. My entire body trembled to the point where I was developing muscle soreness. Just when I had managed to find some peace, some tranquility, acclimating myself to university life, precisely then, Dr. Gaul sent me a letter, personally written and signed, instructing me (officially requesting) to visit her laboratory the next morning.

When I embarked on my studies, I had resolved, to the extent possible, to leave the 10th Hunger Games behind, to focus on building a career, as befitting someone of my background. My mother, before the Dark Days, was a journalist—remarkably skilled, the chief editor renowned for presenting the most compelling interviews. After the rebellion, she could no longer set foot in her workplace. The death of my father and the burden of war proved too heavy, too much for her. Consequently, she stayed at home, never setting foot outside from the Dark Days until her demise. Not even the hallway outside our penthouse was tread upon. Anything beyond the penthouse was taboo, hostile territory, deemed too unsafe. During this time, however, Lucky Flickerman had achieved remarkable success. Once an intern under my mother, Lucky Flickerman had risen to become the most celebrated figure in the journalistic industry. Lucky Flickerman did not hail from a wealthy Capitol family; his parents were average, humble people who owned an antiquated printing press that would soon prove redundant. However, as rebel attacks commenced and live broadcasts became impossible due to power outages, flyers became the sole means of communication for the masses. Thus, the Flickermans transformed into esteemed entrepreneurs, channeling all the wealth they accumulated into Lucky Flickerman's career. This secured him the internship, despite his modest qualifications and the fact that he was way too old for such a position. Yet, after a few months, he was hired as a bona fide journalist, and you are well aware of what became of him afterward.

But back to Dr. Gaul. I had to temporarily shelve any dreams of a journalistic career because whatever Dr. Gaul wanted from me, it couldn't bode well. The next day, after receiving the dreadful letter, I went to the laboratory with a pounding heart and trembling legs.

Dr. Gaul confronted a cage housing animals—if one could still categorize them as such—possessing the semblance of crocodiles. However, their hide exuded an unnatural violet luminescence, and their ocular orbs, disproportionately large, radiated an intense crimson glow. Whatever arcane machinations had birthed these monstrous apparitions, I found myself less disconcerted by their presence than by the human (albeit only superficially one) standing before the enclosure.

"Miss Dovecote, it's nice that you're complying with my request." Though Dr. Gaul's voice had been absent from my auditory purview for some time, the amalgamation of enthusiasm and frigidity persisted, imparting a chilling resonance.

"Of course," I replied coolly, another shiver coursing down my spine.

"I'll make it brief, Miss Dovecote. I have quite a bit to attend to today, and I'm sure you also have no shortage of tasks at the university. You're probably wondering why I've summoned you here."

A protracted interval of expectant silence ensued, amidst which the auditory tapestry was punctuated by primal sounds emanating from the creatures nearby. Succumbing to the impasse, I ventured a concise acknowledgment. "Indeed."

The inclination to delve into a thorough interrogation — to fathom the ramifications, the feasibility, the approbation process — was eclipsed by an overwhelming apprehension. No inquiry, no elucidation seemed worthy of prolonging my sojourn within the confines of the laboratory. Thus, I opted for a tacit nod.

"The Capitol University is set to welcome five new students from the Districts next week. Among them, there is a young woman from District 12. Lucy Gray Baird—do you remember?"

I found myself in a state of freeze. The words spoken to me seemed like riddles, and I struggled to grasp their meaning, as if my comprehension was lagging behind.

"Do me a favor, Miss Dovecote, and assist her a bit. It will be an adjustment for her. Extend a helping hand."

"What... what do you mean, Dr. Gaul?"

"Oh. I didn't take you for a complete simpleton. Perhaps be a bit... lenient regarding the truth, but not foolish, Miss Dovecote?"

Her gaze shifted from the cage, now fixing me with a felicitous smile. Another shiver coursed through me.

Even amid this moment, myriad questions inundated my thoughts, yet her gaze, both intense and disconcerting, dissuaded me from further inquiry. A snake's bite within this laboratory sufficed for me; I harbored no aspirations to risk another—potentially from the crocodile-like behemoth in the cage. Hence, all I proffered was a nod.

I warned you, didn't I? I told you, my friendship with Lucy Gray had a cruel inception.

Although I didn't quite comprehend what was demanded of me, to what extent I should "assist Lucy Gray," one thing was certain: I had to befriend Lucy Gray. No easy feat, considering she hailed from the districts. No easy feat, considering that she was not only— for a reason that eluded me at the time— of interest to Dr. Gaul. The other snake, whom I encountered in the laboratory back then, the one I grew up with and once considered a friend, he undoubtedly lacked no interest either.

I distinctly recall the intensity with which he gazed at her during the Games, beads of sweat forming on his forehead when she faced danger. While others concentrated on their tributes, my attention fixated on Coriolanus after the snakebite. Back then, I cared little for my own tribute; my desire to distance myself from the Hunger Games was paramount. However, Coriolanus Snow bore the brunt of my furious, hate-laden stares.

My suspicions had already arisen about a deeper connection between them, especially considering the kiss before her entry into the arena. While it caught everyone's attention, many had only partially remembered it the following day, preoccupied with her tribute's presence in the arena. However, I was not quick to forget.

When Lucy Gray stood on the stage a week later in her rainbow-colored dress, everyone's eyes were fixed on these five district students.

Yet, my gaze lingered upon Coriolanus Snow. His unwavering focus on Lucy Gray conveyed a singular message: peace would elude her grasp. Coriolanus bore the semblance of a predatory force, teeth bared, fixated on his quarry, poised to pounce. Once he savored the first droplets of blood, the irreversible course would be set, with no prospect of retracing those predatory steps.

I wished for others to avert their gaze toward him in that critical moment, to discern the reality veiled beneath the veneer of charm.

Yet, convention dictated that all eyes were trained on the quintet from the districts. And predictably, the snake in his covert remained untouchable.

Chapter Text

Coriolanus found himself steeped in a profound lack of rest following the tumultuous incident at the Grand University Square. In the quiet hours of the night, when sleep eluded him, his ruminations were invariably drawn to Lucy Gray and the fragile vestiges of her popularity—a currency subject to rapid fluctuations and currently descending on a precarious trajectory. Concurrently, and at times interchangeably, his contemplations centered around Caesar Highbottom. Situated a year beneath him at the Academy, Coriolanus reluctantly admitted to a conspicuous ignorance regarding Caesar Highbottom; in fact, Coriolanus didn't know much about him. Although Casca Highbottom bore the familial connection of being his uncle, the semblance of any substantial relationship remained elusive. A retrospective scrutiny of their interactions at the Academy yielded an absence of shared moments, suggesting an intentional avoidance if ever their paths did cross. At that juncture, Coriolanus conjectured that Caesar's reticence might stem from a sense of shame toward his uncle—understandable given his uncle's perpetual state of intoxication and a seemingly indiscriminate disdain (particularly directed at Coriolanus for some stupid, petty reason).

Besides his (fortunately now dead) uncle, there was Caesar's mother who had concluded her illustrious career the preceding year, finding herself compelled to resign as Minister of Justice due to the amendment of a legislation pertaining to Avoxes. Section 185, Paragraph 3, Subsection a of the Administration Act Pertaining to the Treatment of Terrorists and Traitors, colloquially known as the AAPTTT, underwent revision under her advocacy. While her resignation was officially characterized as voluntary, the prevailing consensus was that she had little choice amidst the ensuing uproar. The mandatory presence of doctors during the contentious practice of tongue removal and the subsequent squandering of precious medication for partial anaesthesia during the operation were met with widespread disapproval.

Ah, the unforgettable spectacle of willingly tossing a pristine career into the abyss of Avoxes! Coriolanus couldn't help but marvel at the audacity—who wouldn't trade a thriving career for the chance to champion the silent cause of tongueless rebels? Oh, the glamorous allure of sacrificing sanity for the sake of mute dissenters—because nothing says success like navigating a sea of awkward silences.

How Caesar reacted to his mother becoming a persona non grata, Coriolanus couldn't say, given Caesar's perennial silence. The young Highbottom, characterized by a solitary disposition and a scarcity of interests, graduated as the foremost in his class—an aspect of mild intrigue amidst an otherwise unremarkable persona. Coriolanus vaguely recollected the muted admiration of a few classmates for Caesar's physical allure, yet any semblance of attractiveness was eclipsed by his lackluster personality. He embodied the type who dismisses conversation partners for their perceived dullness while still affording them enough attention to condescend, a demeanor that clearly eschewed efforts to cultivate affability. In short, whatever he had in looks, he nullified with his personality.

Speculations regarding Caesar's demeanor intensified in Coriolanus' mind—was it a mere facade or a genuine disinterest in everything and everyone (save for Lucy Gray)? The day in the cafeteria served as a pivotal scene where Lucy Gray became an isolated figure, shunned by the student body. Coriolanus observed her solitude at a lengthy table, deeply engrossed in the steak before her. The question arose: why did Caesar choose to sit opposite her? With numerous unoccupied seats available, and considering Coriolanus had mostly witnessed Caesar dining alone, was it mere happenstance or an intentional act? Did Caesar Highbottom remain oblivious to Lucy Gray's presence, did Coriolanus exaggerate his reaction on witnessing them positioned across from each other (…while talking to each other…)?

The negation echoed resoundingly within Coriolanus' introspective discourse. Whatever transpired between Caesar Highbottom and Lucy Gray left an indelible mark. While Lucy's demeanor lacked overt enthusiasm—no smiles or animated conversation—there lingered, in her gaze when she rose with tray in hand, a fleeting yet perceptible nuance. It bore the characteristics of an assessing, intense gaze, reminiscent of the scrutiny one employs when encountering something of personal appeal.

Tonight, Coriolanus contemplated further negotiations with Clemmie. Despite a surface-level reconciliation and Clemmie's apparent enthusiasm regarding Coriolanus's information on Lucky Flickerman's son, an undeniable distance persisted. Coriolanus recognized the imperative role Clemmie played as a conduit to Lucy Gray—a necessity underscored by the intrigue surrounding another, as-yet-undisclosed door that time would inevitably reveal.

Nevertheless, today he could not divert his attention to Clemmie. Clemmie could patiently await his focus because, if his gravest concerns materialized, he had more pressing matters at hand. Lucy Gray needed to remain in isolation, with Clemmie being her sole companion to portray Coriolanus Snow as a needed, inevitable supportive force. Any additional distractions or allies for Lucy Gray might diminish the impact of Clemmie's hopefully positive words. No, Lucy Gray mustn't have any other distractions; she needed to focus solely on him, Coriolanus. Convincing her of that, subtly, was crucial—a dual approach, both from Clemmie and then from himself, appeared to be the most prudent strategy. Caesar Highbottom had no place in this scenario. Hence, the decision was made: Caesar Highbottom could not become an additional variable in his plan to reclaim Lucy Gray as his own, assuming she had ever been anything else. While Lucy Gray might not align perfectly with his future ambitions, addressing that concern could wait until she was safe and in his company.

Initially, he had planned to take a more deliberate approach, affording Lucy Gray additional time. However, given the sudden inclusion of Caesar Highbottom as a potential new element in his scheme (one that required swift resolution), decisive action became imperative. The upcoming ball, it seemed, provided the earliest opportunity.

Coriolanus completed his afternoon coffee, rising from his desk where dozens of papers lay scattered—an aftermath of the turbulent events involving Lucy Gray, causing him to fall behind in his academic responsibilities. Seeking solace, he made his way to the bathroom for a warm shower as the days grew cooler, the soothing warmth permeating his bones. Post-shower, he delved into an elaborate facial and body care routine. Tigris, in a time predating their recent major dispute, had presented him with the latest creams, peels, and lotions featuring freshly patented formulas from her workplace. Among them, his favored indulgence was the facial peel, with its tiny beads promising exceptionally soft and refreshed skin—something particularly essential as the dark circles around his eyes deepened. As he rinsed the creamy substance from his face and patted the water away with a small towel, he scrutinized himself intently in the mirror. Despite the weariness, his skin retained a flawless appearance, his chin exhibiting a taut and muscular contour, cheekbones striking a prominent yet balanced profile, signaling the days of malnutrition were firmly in the past. His long neck appeared somewhat broader and more masculine, while his shoulders had developed a broad and masculine demeanor. The intensive workouts had contributed to his upper arms gaining considerable muscle, transforming his image from that of a boy to a more mature version since Lucy Gray last laid eyes on him.

Caesar Highbottom, while not ugly, lacked the same magnetic charm and impact as Coriolanus Snow. Coriolanus possessed a finesse in handling people, an adeptness in charming them. In any attempt at flirtation, Caesar Highbottom would find himself hopelessly adrift, lacking the necessary experience, compounded by his perpetual solitude and the perpetual donning of black attire—Coriolanus' judgment seemed almost irrefutable.

His fingers traced lightly over his facial features, gliding past his chin, teasing over full lips, dancing along the sharp angles of his cheekbones, and venturing into the deep indentation under his eyebrows. They continued their exploration, following the contour of his pointed nose and weaving a tantalizing journey past his mouth and chin, lingering over the rhythmic rise and fall of his Adam's apple, and delicately grazing the defined lines of his collarbone. Almost entranced, he swept his hand over his broad, muscular chest, savoring the tactile connection with each ridge and contour. Guiding his touch downward, his fingertips encountered the soft fabric of the towel enveloping his hips. A subtle quiver of anticipation filled the air as he unraveled the confines of the towel, allowing it to cascade to the floor. In a moment unbridled by hesitation, he surrendered to his own image, to the allure of his own desire.

His hand found its way to his long-hardened dick, and with skilled rhythm, he indulged in self-pleasure. His gaze remained unwavering, fixed upon his flushed reflection in the mirror. The intensity of his stare mirrored the escalating fervor of his movements.

His breath quickened, matching the tempo of his rising passion, and his mind clung to the unresolved enigma of Lucy Gray. The mounting stress propelled him into a relentless whirlwind of thoughts, each question racing at an unforgiving pace. The air grew thick as he struggled to breathe, the ardor within him mirrored by the growing hardness between his fingertips. In the throes of self-indulgence, Coriolanus asserted his dominance, his conviction unwavering. Lucy Gray belonged to him, an object of desire that transcended the boundaries of the tangible. As he climaxed, the steam, now a haunting mist, clung to the air, casting a surreal veil over the scene. His breath intermingled with the lingering warmth, creating an atmosphere charged with a complex mix of emotions.

As his eyes dropped, fingers slippery with the residue of his release, a revelation dawned upon him. Beyond the assertion of Lucy Gray as unequivocally his and his alone, he keenly felt the imperative for a second shower.

Chapter Text

Tigris had gifted me a garment of unparalleled elegance—the most exquisite dress my eyes had ever encountered. Its ethereal beauty unfolded in layers of fabric, meticulously intertwined to create a cascading waterfall of luminous violet, as though the dress itself was a living, breathing entity. Each layer, individually delicate and nearly transparent, draped gracefully over my skin, imparting an otherworldly sensation of divine touch. Each layer seemed to defy gravity as they flowed; they were not merely stitched together, they were poetry in motion. Each layer, though delicate and translucent on its own, became a harmonious convergence, creating a play of shadows and highlights that gave the dress an almost mystical depth. The hues of violet, ranging from the palest lavender to the deepest amethyst, were expertly blended into a gradient that mirrored the transition of twilight. The fabric shimmered as if kissed by the gentle caress of moonlight, casting a subtle, enchanting glow that accentuated every movement.

As I adorned myself with this piece of art, the fabric flowed through my fingers like a whisper. The single strap, a masterstroke of design, was not merely functional but a sculptural element in its own right. Crafted with a gentle curve, it embraced my right shoulder with a sinuous grace, its touch as soft as a sigh. The bare expanse of my left shoulder, left free to breathe, added a touch of vulnerability to the ensemble's regal splendor.

The canvas of the beautiful gown was adorned with a tapestry of miniature wonders, a testament to the skill of the artist who breathed life into the fabric, creating this symphony of tiny pearls and glittering stones. The flowers seemed to bloom in delicate perpetuity, their petals capturing the essence of a blossoming garden. The birds in flight conveyed a sense of boundless freedom, their wings brushing against the edges of reality. And the butterflies, with wings adorned in gemstone hues, were not merely embellishments but ethereal creatures that seemed ready to take flight at any moment. Every stitch, every bead, and every glimmering stone told a story—a narrative woven into the very fabric of the dress. The golden thread, like a celestial pathway, connected the motifs with an intricate elegance that mirrored the interconnectedness of nature itself. As I continued to explore the details with my fingertips, the dress whispered tales of enchantment, telling stories of nature's timeless beauty and allure.

As my fingers delicately traced the celestial menagerie adorning the gown, each intricate creature seemed to awaken beneath my touch, as if the fabric held a silent dialogue with the very essence of nature. The butterflies, with wings adorned in a spectrum of dark violet, turquoise, pale yellow, forest green, and soft pink gemstones, unfolded their kaleidoscopic dance beneath my fingertips.

In this tactile exploration, an overwhelming sentiment enveloped me—a profound sense that my mother's spirit lingered in the delicate folds of the dress. I could almost hear her whispering words of approval, a maternal echo resonating from a realm beyond the shimmering fabric. "A garment befitting the woodland spirits that dwell within us."

I heeded Tigris's counsel and refrained from the temptation to touch my hair, allowing its undulating waves to descend. It was a moment of newfound serenity, the first time since my return to the Capitol that I felt a genuine sense of harmony within my own skin.

Yet, as my gaze met the reflection in the mirror, a different emotion suddenly swept over me, eclipsing the echoes of my mother's voice and killing my genuine adoration. This ethereal dress, a living testament to Capitol opulence, should have stirred within me a sentiment of disdain and resentment. It stood before me, an overt manifestation of luxury carefully interwoven into every fiber—a lavishness so distinct that it found its exclusive haven within the Capitol's embrace.The dress's singularity, its harsh and cruel and bitter elegance, did not reside in the vibrant kaleidoscope of gemstones, but rather in a rich, overwhelming, dominating color that saturated its very essence—red, a profound and haunting shade of bloody crimson.

The ball was the first of the semester, thus referred to as an "opening ball." Invitations extended not solely to the Capitol University student body but reached out to alumni, sponsors, and esteemed associates of the institution. The ball was destined not to unfold within the cloistered confines of the university but instead, a short distance away, in a transfigured edifice—a former bank transformed into an opulent banquet hall through the artistic ingenuity of the Heavensbees in the aftermath of the Dark Days. Clemmie had been recounting the details in the past weeks—the soaring ceilings, gilded stucco adorning the walls, intricate ceiling paintings, the grandeur of scale, and acoustics of unrivaled perfection, all converging to compose a symphony of refined elegance. Beyond its role as a venue for balls, the hall played host to weddings and a myriad of events, ensuring an atmosphere of unparalleled sophistication.

Envisioning a substantial attendance, I quietly nurtured the hope that the throng of attendees might afford me the opportunity to gracefully assimilate into the background. Given the prevailing circumstances, the prospect of standing out held little allure; the recent execution of a young man on the Grand University Square had cast a shadow over the popularity of former Hunger Games victors. In an ideal scenario, I would have gracefully evaded attendance, particularly in light of the disquieting memories from my previous social engagement. Alas, attempts to dissuade Felix proved futile, and the luxury of displeasing or sulking him was an indulgence I couldn't afford.

As the door to my apartment swung open, Felix theatrically held his breath, hand placed dramatically over his left chest, before uttering, "Lucy, I've always found you… beautiful, but today, you radiate in..."—he paused, searching for the apt expressions—"even greater elegance and..."—once again grappling for words—"and... and... more impressive..."—his brow furrowed in contemplation—"..uh…very, very impressive..."—I waited patiently for his chosen terminology—"uh... beauty." A subtle lift of my lips conveyed gratitude, and I responded succinctly, "Thank you for the lovely words, Felix."

After his typical self-satisfied nod, Felix and I proceeded to his car. Adorned in a light green suit paired with a neon yellow shirt and an unusually expansive violet bowtie, he caught my gaze during the journey. Proudly, he pointed to the bowtie, remarking, "I matched the color of the bowtie to your dress. You must have wondered why I interrogated you about your dress for so long."

Dear readers, such curiosity did not occupy my thoughts—neither on that day nor during the ride to the hall.

I nodded, maintaining a gracious smile.

"The hall… I think you will love it," he continued, his enthusiasm undeterred. "Did you know that my father hosts his annual birthday banquet there since the renovation? Everyone of importance is there, wishing him a happy birthday, you know."

Persisting in my smile, I replied with gentle inflection, "I can imagine."

"Oh, Lucy, I don't believe you can really imagine it. Trust me, it goes beyond your imagination. But don't worry, I know it's not your shortcoming. No one expects of you such things. You are… from the district—it's perfectly acceptable." Despite his lively tone, an incongruence lingered between the surface and the sentiments veiled beneath his words. He continued to elaborate on his father's birthday banquet, delineating the presence of influential figures eager to convey their felicitations. Left unspoken was the poignant reality of Felix's exclusion from these grand banquets, where he celebrated his father's birthday confined within his own four walls, distanced from the important guests and his father—a revelation once shared with me by Clemmie.

What Felix also delicately omitted from his myriad tales about his father was the impending specter of elections, casting a shadow over the upcoming week. Yet, the prospects for President Ravinstill appeared dim. On the contrary, the effervescent popularity of the alternative candidate, Concordia Sertorius, had taken hold in the heart of the Capitol. Her allure was heightened by a resonant motto, eloquently delivered in interviews incessantly echoing across the campus: "A bright future for Panem." The weariness of ceaseless discourse on war and the collective scars it bore had begun to weigh on the populace. Concordia Sertorius, with her promise to steer away from the gloom of the Dark Days, beckoned with a refreshing perspective – one that envisioned a thriving Capitol, on the mend, poised to gaze optimistically into the horizon.

Upon entering the hall, I couldn't help but acknowledge that Clemmie had not overstated its grandeur. It was, unequivocally, impressive. My gaze was entranced by the ceiling, a marvel of breathtaking artistry. Despite the slightly muted hues, the beauty of the craftsmanship, the gorgeous details, and the compelling forms remained undiminished. The ceiling seemed to narrate a story, yet the people surrounding me demanded my attention, forcing me to avert my eyes before I could decipher the tale.

There was no need for me to scan the room; it was glaringly evident. All eyes were fixed on me. My heart quickened its pace, and Felix, who insisted on our arms being linked, offered little—actually no—solace. Advancing further into the hall, I encountered an increasing number of scrutinizing gazes. Beads of sweat started to trace along Felix's temples. Sensing his escalating unease, by the time we reached the refreshment stand, he abruptly released my arm, murmured a hasty, "I need to take care of something, be right back," and vanished for the remainder of the evening.

I endeavored to divert my attention from the penetrating gazes enveloping me, a conscious effort to convince myself that the venue, teeming with people and exuding elegance, was too expansive, too majestic and too imposing for anyone to confront me directly, to harm me publicly. I whispered reassurances, suggesting that perhaps it was nothing but a foolish figment of my imagination. I clung to the belief that Felix, in truth, had important matters to attend to, rather than acknowledging that he had discerned the less-than-friendly looks and chose to seek refuge, steering clear of any negative association with me, a student from a District.

I delicately cradled a bluish glass, its stem gracefully mirroring the form of a silver lightning bolt. With a sense of intrigue, I turned my attention to the contents within. A luminous elixir, pale yellow in color, swiftly captivated my gaze; its liquid essence bore a slight resemblance to liquid gold. Countless minuscule bubbles danced upwards, playfully converging on the liquid's surface. Bringing the glass to my lips, I indulged in a sip of this mysterious concoction. Initially, a subtle bitterness greeted my palate, only to quickly yield to an unexpected sweetness. A peculiar, almost enchanting fusion of flavors enveloped my senses—an experience both unfamiliar and delightful. So I succumbed to the allure of the elixir, taking subsequent sips.

"Lucy, there you are!" I turned around to find Clemmie standing before me. She wore a long gown of deep rose, the upper reaches of the dress were a canvas for delicate white feathers, a stark accent against the rich, rosy backdrop. Her hair, strictly gathered into a tight bun, showcased the grandeur of huge earrings. Each earring boasted resplendent pink diamonds, capturing and reflecting the ambient glow of the room.

With a beguiling smile, Clemmie gracefully relieved me of my glass, savoring the remnants of the liquid nectar before placing it on a tray borne by an older attendant. "Let me confide in you," she began, almost breathless, as she picked up another glass from the table next to us, "today has been nothing short of a tumultuous ordeal. Anyhow," she continued, her gaze sweeping over me from head to toe, "you look absolutely divine. Tigris has outdone herself. No wonder she crafts dresses for you; through you, they become even more resplendent than they already are."

Her compliment caught me off guard, and a delicate blush painted my cheeks. Clemmie's laughter echoed with genuine delight. "Lucy, you wouldn't happen to be—" Abruptly, her attention shifted past me, and as I followed her gaze, I beheld Lucky Flickerman, pale-faced despite the many, many layers of makeup. Grateful in that moment that he seemed solely captivated by Clemmie, I turned away, my heart weighed down. The last time I encountered Lucky Flickerman was during a time irretrievable, a memory locked away even in the recesses of my thoughts.

"Sorry, but I must leave you alone for a moment," Clemmie declared hastily, gliding past me with her glass in hand, destined for the beckoning call of Lucky Flickerman.

In solitude once more, I found myself beside the table full with glasses that glistened in the ambient light, surrounded by a commanding resonance that reverberated through the expansive hall. The focal point of attention was an elevated podium, a majestic platform rising with stately grandeur within the beating heart of the Grand Heavensbee Hall. The podium, bathed in the soft glow of strategically placed spotlights, seemed to anchor the room in an atmosphere of sophistication and gravitas. Its edges were adorned with subtle gold accents that caught the light, adding a touch of regality to the already imposing structure. The little carvings on the base seemed to depict scenes of probably historical significance and elevated the podium from a mere stage to a piece of living art. Ascending the podium via a gracefully curved set of stairs, one could appreciate the meticulous attention to detail in every inch of its design. The speaker, now standing at the pinnacle, became a focal point framed by the architectural masterpiece. A dark, polished wooden railing encircled the top, offering both support and a subtle boundary that separated the orator from the vast space below. As the speaker's voice resonated through the hall, the acoustics of the podium played a crucial role, amplifying every nuance and inflection. The rich, resonant tones seemed to meld with the polished gold around us.

At the pinnacle of this elevated structure, the speaker stood with unwavering confidence. The platform provided a literal and metaphorical elevation, granting the orator a panoramic view of the gathered multitude. From this commanding vantage point, he cast his discerning gaze upon the audience, the architectural magnificence of the podium echoing the speaker's own air of undeniable self-assurance.

"Esteemed students, revered faculty, cherished friends of Capitol University, distinguished guests,

With deep honor, I officially commence the opening ball for this semester. A semester filled with the potential for...

I wanted to force my senses to wander elsewhere, deliberately avoiding the cadence of his oration. A steadfast resolve compelled me not to cast my gaze upward, resisting the temptation to witness his presence, hear his voice, or perceive his essence. Alas, resistance proved futile; an intangible force seized my chin, lifting it skyward, binding my attention.

"...to rejoice once again within the revered walls of the Grand Heavensbee Hall. This privilege is a gracious gift from the benevolent Heavensbee family, to whom I offer my heartfelt gratitude and extend..."

He was clad in a sartorial ensemble entirely draped in black. It was an uncommon spectacle, as I struggled to recollect a moment when he had embraced such a monochromatic look. The dark fabric, encompassing the shirt, bowtie, jacket, trousers, and shoes, conveyed an otherworldly refinement. Within the inherent shadow of the hue, black emerged not as an absence but as a luminous, pulsating force that ensnared my gaze. The shirt, crisply tailored, embraced the contours of his form. The jacket, obviously cut with precision, draped elegantly over his shoulders, and the trousers flowed seamlessly downward, creating a silhouette of sleek sophistication. Each article of clothing seemed to harmonize with the next. Even the shoes, polished to a mirror-like gleam, echoed the deep obsidian tones of the ensemble.

His pale blonde hair stood out in stark contrast against the encompassing sea of darkness, much like the pristine snow-white rose positioned on the left side of his chest.

"...express my deepest gratitude on behalf of the university for the bountiful contributions that..."

I avoided staring at him, choosing instead to direct my gaze downward, then to the side, focusing on the table full with glistening glasses. I desperately hoped he couldn't see me from the podium, praying that the unease, the loneliness, and the desolation I felt were concealed. His speech became a distant murmur, a familiar voice I attempted to shut out completely, refusing its entry into my ears.

As his voice seemed to permeate from every corner, I instinctively reached for another glass, draining it completely. Then another followed, and yet another, and one more after that. The stares around me, filled with malice, hatred, and false superiority, became unbearably noticeable. Rationality suggested it might have been wiser not to indulge in another glass, but that wasn't my modus operandi back then. Just like the stage in District 12, I sought courage in each sip, making the world incrementally more bearable. Instead of the harsh whiskey from District 12, I found solace in the effervescent concoction here. This ball, or rather the Capitol itself, felt like a place where everyone spoke a language unknown to me. People chatted, laughed, and reveled in each other's company while I, unable to comprehend, merely observed their moving lips. Unlike District 12, where I had the Covey by my side, standing steadfast on the stage, here in the Grand Heavensbee Hall, I was surrounded by strangers. And so, I reached for another glass. Clemmie had abandoned me—what else could I expect? Was I still foolishly clinging to the hope that she would become genuine with me? Why did I hold onto her so desperately? Felix, too, had deserted me—as I stood alone, facing dozens of glasses on the table, in a breathtaking dress whose beauty I suddenly felt unworthy of, I would have welcomed even Felix's company, which should tell you quite a lot.

"...and so, I am looking forward, like all of you, to an unforgettable evening and..."

While he delivered his speech, an eerie silence blanketed the hall. Yet, as if telepathically, I sensed the whispers, the gossip, and the malicious words of those around me. And so, I reached for another glass.

"...I thank you all and..."

The speech finally came to an end. Applause erupted, and the hall buzzed with conversation and the melodies of the orchestra. Downing two more glasses, a resolution crystallized—it was time to make my way back to my apartment. The effects of the alcohol were taking hold, and a sense of fatigue from my surroundings persisted. In the midst of the applause, I made my way toward the exit, threading through the scrutinizing crowd. Suddenly, an unforeseen hand gripped my shoulder. Whirling around swiftly, I released a sigh of relief.

"You're not leaving already, are you?"

"I am tired. And let's be honest, it's not like anyone here wants me around."

"I do."

In a haze, fueled by alcohol or perhaps the escalating loneliness that gripped me tighter each second, I extended my arms around her, embracing her.

"Lucy Gray... is there something…?" Her voice carried a genuine concern; my silence prompted her to embrace me more tightly, enveloping me in a profound hug. We lingered there for a while, our arms serving as a shield against judgmental gazes.

And so, I stayed—not out of any particular enthusiasm for the evening. I stayed because there was no sanctuary for me in the Capitol, not even within the confines of my apartment. Before tears could overwhelm me within those familiar walls, reminiscent of Clemmie's party where I witnessed the boy from District 5 crawling on the ground, enduring the wretched ball seemed the better choice. But that wasn't the sole reason. Mrs. Plinth's insistence on my social presence had echoed since my first night in the Capitol. Now, with my initial popularity fading, the urgency to navigate social intricacies became increasingly pronounced. I buried any resentment or animosity deep within, alongside other emotions.

After a while, I let her go, and I noticed my weight suddenly shifting backward. Before I could take a step back, she strengthened me at both upper arms. "You need to be careful. How many glasses have you had?"

"I don't remember," I answered truthfully.

She slowly shook her head as she let her arms slide down mine, then grabbed one of my hands. "We better sit down before someone notices." With these words, she led me to a corner of the hall where a few chairs were lined up next to each other. The music was barely audible from this corner, and besides us, there was no one else in this area. Most of the guests had gathered in the center, where people were beginning to dance in pairs.

As we sat on the chairs against the wall, Tigris let go of my hand, gently adjusting her shimmering gold dress. The dress was made of a thick, firm fabric, maintaining its unique shape. The material was quite glossy, and the dress's skirt was square-shaped, although this detail was lost in the sitting position.

"I wanted to try something different," she said cheerfully when she caught my scrutinizing gaze. "Something... less conventional, not quite so traditional."

"You succeeded," I replied and couldn't help but smile.

Tigris rolled her eyes, and her mouth corners also moved upward. "The more conspicuous, the better for business."

"It seems to be going quite well, doesn't it? I've seen some dresses that seemed all too familiar."

"Yes, but don't worry. The most beautiful dress went to you."

"I can't tell you enough how beautiful it is."

"It must please you, Lucy Gray, as it was designed specifically for you." Her gaze wandered through the colorful crowd. "The others wear their dresses because they think it makes them look fashion-conscious, or because they want to show they can afford the current collection. Your dress is tailored to you; it... it can only be worn by you. Another one, produced for the masses from my collection, wouldn't even be considered."

"Does he also wear a suit from you?" My words were faster than my understanding.

Tigris quickly turned her gaze back to me. "No," she answered coolly, "that's not from me."

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's okay. In that regard, we're both very much alike, aren't we? We can't conjure Coriolanus out of our minds."

I smiled wryly.

"But it's strange," Tigris continued, leaning back against the chair while observing the guests again. "that he wears all black, I mean. Somehow inappropriate for a ball. He looks like he's attending a funeral. Besides, he doesn't even like black."

I nodded in agreement. "Ironically, he'll stand out more today with his black outfit…than anyone else."

"Yeah, he can team up with Caesar Highbottom. He's the only one who also wears black at such events."

My smile faded, and my lips formed a straight, stern line. I was just glad that Tigris wasn't looking at me right now.

"Let's talk about more pleasant topics. Felix told me this week that his parents want to hire you as the new designer for their official appearances."

I had expected a joyful reaction, a huge smile, an enthusiastic narration about what it meant for her when even the President and the First Lady wore her clothes. But instead, she tensed up, and her long, trembling fingers slightly clenched into a fist.

"Tigris...?"

She remained silent and kept looking at the crowd. After a while, she replied, "President Ravinstill is not a generous person. He never does anything for free. He's a politician... even worse, he's the most powerful politician. He won't give you a helping hand unless he expects to cut yours off for it. Anyways, I doubt he wins the upcoming election."

"I don't quite understand. What does he expect as—"

Before I could finish my question, Clemmie appeared and interrupted me: "Hey, you two, shouldn't you be dancing and drinking instead of sulking in the corner?" Something about her tone seemed unnatural, almost affected. Also, for some reason, she was completely red in the face and seemed... agitated.

"You're right; we shouldn't sit around here for too long, or it won't reflect well on us, right?" Tigris said with a meaningful look, rising from her chair.

"No... that's... I didn't mean it that way, of course. I just thought, I... I can... or maybe not, should I leave again... I just wanted to..." Something was terribly wrong with Clemmie, who never lacked words. It was as if she found the whole thing extremely uncomfortable.

"It's okay, I know, Clemensia. I still have to talk to a few people, or they'll be upset that I ignored them today. Can I leave you two alone?" Tigris looked at Clemmie until she nodded several times.

As Tigris left us, and Clemmie and I returned to the colorful crowd, I whispered to Clemmie, "What was that just now?"

Clemmie's complexion deepened into an even brighter shade of red than before. As I observed the blush on her cheeks, her embarrassed expression, and the evident disappointment lingering from Tigris's departure, a realization dawned upon me. Suddenly, all her inquiries about Tigris fell into place.

"I'm guessing someone has a crush," I whispered to Clemmie with a light-hearted, cheerful tone, offering her a brief pat on the shoulder.

Clemmie gazed at me with a full expression of dismay, the redness spreading across her face. She seemed on the verge of saying something, hesitated, then resumed only to whisper something incomprehensible to herself. When met with my silence and a shrug, she raised her voice ever so slightly, "I really don't know what you mean."

I merely grinned at her. As she retreated into her own thoughts, I pondered the beauty of being able to discuss positive, intimate, and beautiful subjects with someone. However, this fleeting joy was disrupted by the reappearance of the blinking light, momentarily forgotten during our conversation.

"It... it's not about you, you know?" Clemmie confessed.

I regarded Clemmie with a questioning look.

"It's..."—she sighed—"just generally difficult for me to talk about such things. Promise me you won't tell anyone, okay?"

A gentle smile played on my lips before I responded, "Promise. But consider this, Clemmie, who could I possibly reveal it to?"

With a small revelation, the gap between us seemed to diminish. Suddenly, Clemmie shifted her gaze past me. As I pivoted, anticipating the familiar presence of Lucky Flickerman, I was taken aback to witness Coriolanus rapidly—too rapidly—advancing towards us, his pace so brisk that it appeared almost unnatural. However, what truly captured my attention was the fact that Livia was linked to his arm. I bit my tongue, suppressing any feelings of jealousy. The sight of Coriolanus and Livia should not bother me, should not wound me. I owed myself that much. It shouldn't perturb me to witness them so intimately close to each other here, just as it shouldn't faze me to see them on campus, holding hands, sitting side by side, engaging in conversation, with her resting her arm on his shoulder. Typically, the people in the Capitol appeared sick to me—sick with delusion, hypocrisy, and corruption. Yet now, I felt a sickness within myself. Sick with delusion. Sick with hypocrisy. Sick with corruption. Unlike the denizens of the Capitol, my corruption was not defined by luxury, superiority, and security; no, my corruption took the form of a fair-haired boy in a black suit, heading directly toward Clemmie and me, with Livia in tow.

"I really don't know if…the Snows are a good choice," I heard Clemmie stammer beside me as I turned back to her, hoping that somehow Coriolanus wouldn't notice us, that he would divert his path or pass us by. My heart raced, muscles tensed, and goosebumps formed.

„Lucy—“

I heard his voice just as a deafening explosion echoed through the air, a sound so intense that it left no room for doubt. Deathly panic surged within me, and instinctively, I clutched my head and sank to my knees, fervently praying that the ceiling above wouldn't crumble and crush me beneath its weight. The acrid scent of smoke filled the air, mingling with another odor that eluded my attempts at identification. I looked up, my ears ringing from the initial explosion, only to be met with a cacophony of intense screams that reverberated through the air. The atmosphere was thick with fear and the acrid stench of burning debris. My chest tightened as if an invisible force constricted around me, making it increasingly difficult to draw breath. The world around me seemed to blur, and I found myself immobilized, unable to move my body as terror gripped every fiber of my being.

"Lucy Gray!"

In an instant, the familiar echoes of my name transported me back to the grim reality of the arena, where billowing smoke and anguished cries painted a harrowing backdrop.

"Lucy Gray!"

Panic surged again, and I frantically scanned my surroundings, desperately trying to locate the source of the desperate cries.

"Lucy Gray!"

A vice-like grip seized me, and as I turned, I encountered a haunting Clemmie, her pallor accentuated against the turmoil, her fingers clinging tenaciously to my forearm.

"Lucy Gray!"

The world was set in motion. In a reflexive surge, I rallied my strength, urging my feet to carry me forward. Determination coursed through me as I sought to break free from Clemmie's grasp, who, in turn, remained steadfast. "If you won't let go, then come with me! We have to move!" I implored, seizing Clemmie's arm with my free hand, propelling her upwards. My gaze swept the surroundings, capturing shattered fragments of walls and ceilings, obscured by a yellowish fog that ominously cascaded from above.

"Lucy Gray!"

Once more, I pivoted, and there he was—a figure navigating the chaos, sprinting over the prone and kneeling figures, his voice an unwavering beacon.

Reaching us with intense urgency, he cradled my face in his hands, his voice tinged with desperation. "Are you hurt? Lucy Gray, are you hurt?" I offered a wordless shake of my head. With a firm grip, he clasped my hand, the intensity bordering on pain, leading the charge towards the exit. Clemmie, still anchored to my forearm, was pulled along in our desperate retreat. Amidst the sea of fallen and kneeling figures, we pressed forward, propelled by an urgency to outrun the impending danger.

"The fog... don't breathe it in! Lucy Gray, don't breathe it in!" Coriolanus shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos as the yellowish fog descended, compelling me to hold my breath in unwavering obedience.

In that fleeting moment, my perception failed to catch a subtlety, an oversight that would have given pause—a nuance that might be forgiven, considering the tumultuous circumstances engulfing me. Little did I know, Coriolanus Snow, the very boy who, during the bomb onslaught in the arena, had been entangled in panic much like everyone else, gripping onto me with a desperation akin to Clemmie's current state, was now advancing with a nimbleness that hinted at premeditated mental preparedness.

As we surged past the exit and into the expanse beyond, a few streets away, I granted myself the luxury of breathing again. Overwhelmed by the ruthless mix of exhaustion, fear, and panic, I surrendered to my knees, the struggle for air intensifying; distress played on, with Clemmie's retching on the street beside me providing a dissonant accompaniment.

"Lucy Gray," he knelt beside me, a gentle urgency in his touch as he quickly swept back the strands of hair cascading over my face, "are you really unharmed?"

In the midst of my continued struggle for breath, he positioned his hand at the back of my neck, while mirroring the rhythm of my own labored breaths. Instinctively, I lifted my hand from the ground, guiding it to my neck, intertwining our fingers as if they shared a purpose. In that entwined connection, the warmth of his touch became a refuge, a constant yearning met with the perfect fit.

"Lucy Gray, please say something. Are you injured?"

"No," I whispered, tightening my grip on his fingers.

"How did you know..."—I drew another deep breath—"how did you... how did you know about the attack?"

A veil of concern draped across Coriolanus's features. "What do you mean—"

"The bombing. How did you know about it?"

His expression, once marked by concern, now adopted an air of sobriety, each word delivered with calculated precision. Abruptly, he withdrew his hand from mine, rose from the ground next to me, dusted off his suit, and reiterated, "You're confused, Lucy Gray. Making accusations in such a state is perilous. It's unsafe to utter horrible claims without clarity."

And then, my gaze met his—a gaze that once harbored the intent to shoot me in the woods. As he strolled away, bathed in the soft radiance of the lamplight, a pang of regret crept in for my spoken words. Not because I doubted their truth, but because I bore firsthand knowledge of what he did to those he deemed problematic for himself.

Upon reaching my apartment, Clemmie in tow, who insisted on not going back to her place alone and opted to stay the night, we tuned in to the news. It was announced, "A tragic incident. Our splendid Grand Heavensbees Hall fell prey to a bombing this evening. While the culprits have yet to be officially confirmed, speculations are already circulating, hinting at another possible rebel attack. The last rebel strike on the Capitol occurred just before the 10th Hunger Games—"

Clemmie, previously silent, suddenly grasped my hand, her gaze fixed on the screen. "You shouldn't have come here," she murmured to herself.

"Clemmie—"

Tears streamed down her cheeks. "You shouldn't have come here. I... I'm not a good friend, you know..." A painful sob gripped her. I enveloped her in my arms, and together, we wept throughout the night until the next morning, when she revealed the true meaning behind her words.

The next morning, I cast my eyes down to survey my dress, now a canvas adorned with a gray veil, dust, and remnants from the ravaged Grand Heavensbees Hall. The once-lively motifs lost their vibrancy, whispering a silent requiem. In the recesses of my mind, my mother's voice reverberated, but this time devoid of its former tenderness; instead, it screamed, "Run, Lucy Gray, run!"

Chapter Text

"A truly splendid oration, Mr. Snow," Lucky Flickerman exclaimed, his handshake exuding enthusiasm as he traversed the room with Livia in tow. Livia, who had subtly interlocked her arm with Coriolanus's, a gesture that would typically only elicit mild annoyance regarding proximity, now proved particularly inconvenient. At the outset of the evening, Coriolanus had diplomatically conveyed to Livia his preference for a modicum of freedom, citing the necessity to engage with various attendees and seamlessly navigate the bustling assembly. Yet, Livia, for reasons unbeknownst to him, adamantly resisted persuasion, asserting that it would be peculiar for them, as a couple, to amble independently. Hence, Coriolanus resolved to extricate himself at the earliest opportunity.

"I really don't understand why you dressed like that. People will think you're going to a funeral," Livia murmured beside him.

Ignoring her, Coriolanus continued to bestow smiles upon familiar faces, graciously accepting accolades, all the while enduring Livia's seemingly deliberate proximity—a manifestation of her vexation at his deliberate neglect, subtly veiled by a barb only he comprehended.

After acknowledging and conversing with the university's preeminent sponsors, Coriolanus sought Lucy Gray amidst the crowd. Alas, Livia remained tenaciously tethered, rendering any direct approach to Lucy Gray a logistical impossibility. Not that he hadn't contemplated employing this circumstance to elicit a semblance of jealousy in Lucy Gray, but the prospect of Livia vocalizing a spiteful remark capable of alienating Lucy Gray deterred him. The realization of his negligence towards Livia loomed, momentarily eclipsing her utility, juxtaposed against the urgency of his current preoccupations.

"Oh, your twin," remarked Livia once his exchange with President Ravinstill concluded.

Perplexed by her assertion, he followed her gaze, ultimately fixing upon Caesar Highbottom. Caesar, unabashedly indulging in an array of desserts, leaned casually against a pillar. Coriolanus, recoiling inwardly at the display of manners, scrutinized him with palpable disdain.

"Our resemblance is negligible, I look way better" he retorted to Livia, exploiting the conversational hiatus to surreptitiously scan for Lucy Gray, who had eluded his sight thus far—wasn't she supposed to attend, according to Felix?

"Why do you dress like him, then?" Livia questioned, a palpable skepticism tainting her tone.

His gaze navigating the crowd, Coriolanus remained bereft of Lucy Gray's visual presence. Despite his concerted efforts during the delivery of his speech, the expansive hall accommodated an abundance of individuals, rendering her diminutive figure elusive.

"He's ogling you," Livia hissed into his ear.

"Who?" he inquired.

"The obvious choice—your twin of the evening, Highbottom."

Gradually, Coriolanus pivoted towards the pillar, confirming Livia's assertion. Caesar Highbottom, unabashedly focused on him, met his gaze with a deliberate nod before refocusing on the plate before him.

An inexplicable compulsion seized Coriolanus in that moment. Stepping purposefully towards the pillar, he positioned himself directly in front of Caesar, with Livia casting an expression of bewildered curiosity.

"Do the pastries meet your satisfaction?" Coriolanus inquired, his tone laced with disdain, a provocation concealed beneath an ostensibly friendly smile.

Meeting Coriolanus's gaze once more, Caesar continued his unhurried consumption, each bite an intentional display of slow, almost mocking relish. After a calculated pause, he remarked, "Could be better. Why? Did you bake them?"

Coriolanus burst into laughter, meting out two robust slaps to Caesar's shoulder—possibly a tad too vigorous, yet adeptly cloaked in the guise of camaraderie. Keeping up the facade of friendliness, he quipped, "No, I have to disappoint you. But I'll be sure to let you know if that should ever be the case. In fact, you might be the first one to taste some."

Caesar, his gaze unwavering, swallowed another bite with leisurely precision. "Generous offer. Want some? I could be persuaded to share, even when it involves such exquisite, delightful treats. Speaking of which, your songbird is right over there."

The resonance of that word had long departed from his senses, and he could distinctly recollect the precise moment of its last reverberation. In an instant, tension coiled around him, and instinctively, he trailed Caesar's gaze, catching a fleeting glimpse of her. Swiftly, he turned back to Caesar, noting a subtle ascent at the edges of his lips—subtle enough to elude classification as a smile, yet sufficient to evoke a regretful pang in Coriolanus for diverting his thoughts towards Lucy Gray's pastries during the debate instead of honing in on Caesar's sweet tooth, and imposing upon him the fate deserving of a Highbottom.

"What's…this disgusting smell?" Livia wrinkled her nose, surveying the surroundings until her gaze settled on Caesar's plate. However, Coriolanus, who would typically dismiss her comment, preoccupied with matters of greater consequence than Livia and her discerning nose—perhaps an Avox with perspiration under the arms?—panicked as the scent, faintly tinged with acidity, struck him as too familiar. He turned abruptly without acknowledging Caesar or Livia, who still clung to him, and hastened towards Lucy Gray, who now regarded him. She appeared uneasy, swiftly turning away, but he had no time to linger on it. Forging through the crowd and disregarding Livia, who was now in a state of panic and still unrelenting, he gazed upward and witnessed the descent of the yellowish fog from the ceiling. There was no time. He seized Livia's arm, released her grip, and sprinted towards Lucy Gray.

A resounding noise filled the air, the ceiling collapsing in a few places, but he couldn't allow that to deter him. The falling stones were a minor threat. He ran and ran and ran over the people, now prone on the floor, paying them no mind, viewing them merely as hurdles to overcome. Time was slipping away. And Lucy Gray was slipping away too.

As he caught her, panic surged within him. He looked up again, and the fog drew nearer to the ground, to them.

"Don't breathe it in, Lucy Gray, don't breathe it in!" he shouted to her as he traversed the anxious bodies.

Upon reaching the outdoors, he dragged Lucy Gray—and somehow Clemmie—a few more streets until both collapsed, breathless. Clemmie retched several times, but Coriolanus paid it no mind. He reached for Lucy Gray, scrutinizing her intently, searching for potential injuries, but she seemed unharmed. Relieved, he held onto her fingers even tighter.

"The bombing. How did you know about it?"

He stared at her incredulously. Treacherous, dangerous ground. Also, Clemmie was right there. And so he had no choice but to shield her from herself.

"You're confused, Lucy Gray. Making accusations in such a state is perilous. It's unsafe to utter dire claims without clarity."

Lucy Gray wasn't naive. She was a survivor. She understood the implications of the words. And she wasn't reckless enough to disregard their significance.

Upon arriving home, he descended to the floor of the hallway, permitting himself to breathe properly once more. The evening unfolded far from his envisioned scenario. Yet, Lucy Gray had left the hall early enough, avoiding inhaling the fog. His heart still throbbed from the sprint, but it ached even more at the notion of Lucy Gray in her apartment, unaccompanied and ungrateful for his role in saving her (and Clemmie's) life.

Chapter Text

"You're late, Mr. Snow."

"Apologies. I wasn't aware that we would be meeting... here."

"An exception," she grimaced in disdain, "appalling. Too much sunlight."

Coriolanus found himself on the second-highest floor of the skyscraper. Initially, he anticipated finding Dr. Gaul in her laboratory, perhaps tormenting some creature or berating one of her lab assistants. Instead, he roamed the lab rooms until one of her assistants notified him that Dr. Gaul would be expecting him elsewhere. The floor seemed entirely incongruous for Dr. Gaul. The conference rooms were adorned with furniture crafted from light, warm wood, and the walls were fully glazed, allowing sunlight to inundate the space from every angle. Dr. Gaul, too, appeared visibly uncomfortable—a rarity given her usual knack for making everyone else uneasy.

"Anyway," she declared nonchalantly as she settled into one of the padded leather chairs, "you're not the only one running behind today."

"Expecting someone else?" Coriolanus arched an eyebrow, as their meetings were typically solitary affairs each week. Dr. Gaul would delve into his university life and apprise him of the latest Hunger Games modifications. Since concluding his internship with her, they had convened every Wednesday evening in the lab to dissect the latest developments. Although Dr. Gaul still sent a shiver down his spine, her support was too substantial, too pivotal to balk at a bit of discomfort.

Dr. Gaul reclined, staring at the ceiling. "Yes, Mr. Snow, we are."

After a few minutes, the door swung open, and none other than President Ravinstill strode in.

"You're behind schedule—" Dr. Gaul was cut off by President Ravinstill, who hurriedly said, "It's fine, Volumnia, I'm aware. I apologize, as always." With labored breaths, he took a seat diagonally across from her, and upon spotting Coriolanus in the room, he nodded once before remarking, "For a moment, I thought Crassus had risen from the dead and was sitting there."

"I'm not there yet," Dr. Gaul replied, laughing, and then continued in a matter-of-fact, dry tone, "Let's keep it brief; I know how busy you are"—she rolled her eyes—"The internship. I highly recommend Mr. Coriolanus Snow here."

President Ravinstill raised an eyebrow and then looked back at Coriolanus. "Is that so?" He appeared unimpressed. He then returned his gaze to Dr. Gaul, whose expression betrayed no emotion. "A recommendation, Volumnia, a recommendation," he drawled and tapped his fingers on the wooden table between them.

"Just a recommendation," Dr. Gaul replied coolly.

President Ravinstill chuckled briefly. "But one with emphasis, I assume?"

Now, Dr. Gaul smiled at him and replied, "If my words didn't carry emphasis, I wouldn't bother uttering them."

"You're inquiring about me just for the President's internship?" President Ravinstill now asked in a dry tone as well.

"Of course not. We should be more concerned about your competition," she said cryptically, then turned to Coriolanus. "You may leave now, Mr. Snow. Wait in the lab."

As peculiar and inquisitive as Coriolanus was, he knew better than to dispute Dr. Gaul—especially not in front of President Ravinstill. As he closed the door behind him and walked past the President's private guards, he couldn't help but smile. The President's internship was undeniably the most prestigious one could secure. Only two were selected every two years, and afterward, all doors would be open. With his internship with Dr. Gaul, his stellar grades, his name and status, and of course, the Plinth fortune, nothing would stand in his way.

He obeyed Dr. Gaul's instructions, taking the elevator back down to the laboratory rooms. One might assume that, after all the time spent in these spaces, he'd grow accustomed to the sterile atmosphere, the numerous veterinary creatures in their cages, and the unsettling sounds they produced. Yet, each being in its cage, every aberration, not only repulsed him but also instilled a fear of death. A loose screw, an errant move by one of her assistants, and the lab could devolve into a battlefield. The newly produced bird species, resembling a raven in shape and color but too small to pass as one, with cries that mirrored those of a human baby, were his greatest source of disdain. The last time, he had questioned Dr. Gaul about why she subjected them to the cries of a human infant. Dr. Gaul's response: "It distracts our enemies; when they hear the cries of a baby, they are less inclined to pay attention and shoot immediately. Don't get me wrong, eventually, they do, but those few seconds of hesitation could be crucial, don't you think? Besides, they could be used in the Games to confuse the tributes. Those from the poorer districts often have many siblings, often younger siblings; you could tailor the cries to match their siblings. It would be best if the siblings reached an age where they can speak a bit, making it easier to identify the cries."

Standing in front of the massive cage filled with fluttering black birds, he considered that Lucy Gray would have gone insane hearing Maude Ivory's voice in the arena. She would have emerged from her hiding place, searching for her with terrified eyes and panic, fearing that the Capitol had thrown Maude Ivory into the arena as well.

"Do you like my babies?" he heard Dr. Gaul say behind him.

He turned abruptly and replied kindly, "They're impressive. The cries sound so real."

"Yes, they do... I modeled them after the cries of my own child."

Coriolanus looked at Dr. Gaul, unsure how to respond. Dr. Gaul's humor had always been strange, macabre, and indecipherable. But what was intended as a joke in this statement?

"Oh, don't look at me like that now. Haven't I told you about it yet?"

Coriolanus imagined a mini version of Dr. Gaul and fervently hoped she was joking. He briefly examined her stomach, which showed no rounding, and tried to recall the past few months, but he would have surely noticed.

Dr. Gaul laughed and responded cheerfully, "That was quite a while ago. My son would be a bit younger than you."

Coriolanus swallowed. The thought of having to get along with Dr. Gaul's son disgusted him even more than the screaming birds beside him. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Oh, Mr. Snow, there's no need for you to be sorry, or were you somehow responsible?"

"No... that's not what I meant... I just wanted to say that—"

"I killed him and ate him."

Coriolanus didn't respond; he didn't even look at her, unsure of the meaning of the words.

Dr. Gaul tapped against the cage wall once, making the birds more restless, and more of them started squawking. "You can still remember, can't you? The famines back then?"

Coriolanus still said nothing.

"He was too small and weak to survive. Do you remember what I told you at the beginning? Wasting resources is actually the greatest human sin. I could have waited until the cold and lack of food killed him. But I'm just a human too. And we humans are pragmatic when we need to be, when hunger is so great that you leave all civilization behind and give free rein to your nature, your true self."

Coriolanus remained silent.

"Anyway, I actually called you here for something else. Come with me."

She went to one of the smaller laboratories, and Coriolanus followed her. In the room was a square, transparent box, the contents of which looked somewhat yellowish.

"This here, Mr. Snow," Dr. Gaul announced delightedly, "this here is fresh from the lab. A poisonous substance that can completely fill even the largest rooms within a few minutes. Inhale this smoke..."—she grinned broadly—"it takes a few days to react. First, memory loss, fever, and chills, then hallucinations, followed by paranoia that is supposed to last for years. We haven't been able to record long-term results yet since it's brand new. But that's not really important. What's more important is that it takes effect after a few days, and in the initial phase, not only are you muddled and extremely paranoid, but also... well, how should I say... more receptive to certain things... allows for more... external influence."

"I don't understand," Coriolanus replied dryly, looking at the yellowish mist-like interior of the box.

"You will, Mr. Snow. You'll figure it out; I'm sure of that."

She activated a small lever on the side of the box, and Coriolanus caught a pungent odor. Instinctively, he shielded his nose with his hand and refrained from breathing until Dr. Gaul closed the lever and continued with enthusiasm: "No need to fret, Mr. Snow. You won't poison yourself that swiftly. Inhaling the gas requires a bit more exposure. However, make a mental note of the scent; it shouldn't be too challenging given its acidic intensity. Well then, laridarifari, until next Wednesday."

Chapter Text

Livia Cardew harbored an enduring distaste for Coriolanus Snow. The enigma of his appeal eluded her – why he became the object of admiration for so many, the subject of swoons from girls, and the recipient of unbridled enthusiasm from all teachers, save for the discerning Dean Highbottom. Even Chemmie, once her closest confidante, had defected to his side during their school days. To Livia, Coriolanus Snow held no distinctive allure. He was just an ordinary boy, a blonde-haired, pale, blue-eyed presence that could seamlessly blend into any crowd within the Capitol. There was no magnetic charm that captivated hearts, nor did he possess an intellect that could, should command admiration.

While others saw in him a twinkling and handsome star, Livia perceived... nothing. He lacked definable contours for her; he seemed a peculiar entity, one that effortlessly adjusted its form to mimic those around him. If the occasion called for him to display heart or compassion, this strange creature would promptly conjure a heart within itself, preserving it until the theatrical performance concluded, allowing it to revert to its amorphous state. No, Coriolanus Snow was not a celestial entity; his very name hinted at it. Like snow, he draped himself over the shapes and contours of others, ensnaring them in his frigid embrace. Livia Cardew eagerly anticipated the arrival of spring, poised to transform the once-pristine snow into a slush of mud and dirt. She hoped that spring would hasten its arrival, revealing to all that he possessed no enduring form, destined to morph into a shapeless mass of muck and filth.

Throughout her academic journey, she witnessed his ascent to ever-greater popularity – adored by the foolish and tasteless, acknowledged by classmates with friendly pats on the back, and perennially claiming the title of the top student. As if the accolades within the school's hallowed halls were insufficient, her parents echoed the chorus of commendation at home: "Young Snow is making a mark, don't you agree, Livia?" "Such a striking lad; do you think he's already seeing someone? Perhaps you should extend an invitation to him for the school ball." "Livia, that young man will be successful in life; you should follow his example and think about your future for once."

At the age of sixteen, her elder sister entered into matrimony with a Heavensbee. The grandeur of the nuptials resonated as a lasting refrain, with opulence evident in every facet – from the lavish décor to the resplendent attire, sumptuous cuisine, and an almost limitless cascade of flowers. The wedding exuded a palpable luxury. It was as if invisible signs adorned every corner, proclaiming, "Behold, the wedding of the year! We've spared no expense to flaunt our opulence in your faced, and oh, we are all so fucking happy all the time because one Cardew girl actually mananaged to achieve something."

The newly christened Grand Heavensbees Hall, meticulously renovated for this auspicious occasion, set the stage for its inaugural event. Upon her initial entrance, Livia found herself captivated by the hall's ceiling, a piece of art that beckoned her gaze. "If you continue to stare, envy might just cause your eyes to fall out," her elder sister teased, prompting Livia to avert her gaze hastily.

Subsequently, she spent the day envisioning the ceiling of the Grand Heavensbees Hall collapsing onto her sister—ideally alongside her groom and her incessantly critical parents, who saw in Livia only the problem and in her elder sister, a perennial solution.

Livia was not deemed pretty enough; that distinction belonged to Clemmie, deemed the prettiest in their class. She wasn't considered intelligent enough, as Coriolanus Snow consistently outperformed her academically. Livia lacked the requisite popularity; even here, she fell short of Coriolanus's standing. She possessed no discernible talent; in contrast, her peers excelled in various pursuits. Livia was perennially the problem. Each day and night, the persistent ache gnawed at her—her every ambition and effort to alter her family's perception thwarted by perceived deficiencies in intelligence, beauty, popularity, and talent. Not inadequate in anything, yet never sufficiently remarkable to garner notice, praise, or the coveted title of being the best.

Coriolanus Snow personified everything she aspired to be and, simultaneously, everything she sought to avoid. She yearned for distinct contours, deeming it beneath her dignity to traverse the world in a shapeless, sycophantic manner akin to Coriolanus—all for the sake of flattering words and compliments.

His success felt like her personal failure, a taunting reminder that she fell short in the eyes of everyone. And she exerted herself tirelessly. Striving for affability, adapting to societal norms, aspiring to be an esteemed member of Capitol society – yet what avails such effort if progress eludes? Efforts transmute into feeble endeavors, and feeble endeavors metamorphose into a dull recollection that inevitably fades. In the end, the distinction between earnest endeavor and apathy dissolves: none shall remember, none shall care, and none shall be affected.

As the Dark Days faded into memory and a tentative semblance of normalcy returned to the world, she found herself unable to fully cast off the shadows of those harrowing times. While her sister and parents indulged in the abundance of post-crisis feasting, filling their mouths once more with sustenance, Livia chose a different path. The petite Livia had become acquainted with hunger, even developed a peculiar fondness for it. The sensation of hunger, so intense that it rendered her limbs almost immobile, created an addictive state of mind. In those moments, nothing else held sway. Coriolanus Snow ceased to matter; her own deficiencies and the disapproval of others held no weight. Her parents, her sister, and the constant undertow of social complexities—all faded into insignificance. Only the visceral pangs of hunger held significance. When the hollow ache enveloped her, it seemed as though she found herself in a state that resonated with her very essence: emptiness permeated her being, from the void within her stomach to the overarching sense of vacancy that defined everything around her.

Had she possessed a touch more talent, basked in the beauty akin to Clemmie or her sister, or diligently excelled in scholastic pursuits, perhaps then she might have earned the privilege of a satiated stomach. Yet, as her life seem to dictate, she merited nothing more than an empty one. In those moments of stillness, as she lay ensconced in the quietude of her solitude, contemplation turned towards the denizens of the districts—those compelled, rather than choosing, to endure the agony of hunger. The empty stomach, a universal echo of deprivation, became the sole thread binding their disparate lives together.

As the shadow of orphanhood fell upon Coriolanus with the passing of his father, Livia uttered words that would forever linger in the air: he didn't deserve a fate different from this, and his parents must have despised him so profoundly that they rather chose death over enduring his presence any longer. On that day, Clemmie ceased her playful companionship with Livia, leaving an empty seat beside her, watching how Clemmie chose to sit next to Coriolanus instead.

The reasons behind her words had faded into the recesses of her memory. However, contrary to the narratives spun by Coriolanus and Clemmie, the genesis of her words wasn't necessarily a product of malevolence. He had stirred a reaction in her, the specific details of which had slipped through the sieve of her recollections. What remained vivid, though, was the sting of the hurt those words had wrought upon her. Subsequently, Coriolanus assumed the guise of an innocent boy unjustly besieged, further deepening the animosity within her. From that moment forth, she found herself repelled by him, recognizing the formless, ever-shifting nature that defined his being.

He presented a charming spectacle, offering a delicate rose with a smile adorning his countenance. Yet, unbeknownst to onlookers, concealed behind his back was an unforgiving shard of stone tightly gripped in his fist. It was as if the world only saw him from the front, the veneer of amiability shielding the sharper facets concealed from view—never glimpsed from the side or behind, where the stone lay unnoticed.

Certainly, not all the complexities of her life could be neatly pinned on Coriolanus Snow, in fact, the majority, if not all, owed their origins elsewhere. However, his success, his mannerisms, his unyielding artificiality, stood as an unwelcome intrusion into her world. She could have chosen to dwell on the fact that, as an orphan, he had weathered a harsher storm than she, but the more she contemplated it, the more the notion wavered in her uncertainty.

As the Hunger Games unfurled and their roles as mentors unfolded, several disconcerting elements emerged: her tribute's demise within the arena and the unwarranted reluctance of others to secure a replacement; the conspicuous absence of Reaper, despite Clemmie's incapacitation—an oddity she still found perplexing, especially in light of its scaly skin; and, of course, the triumph of Coriolanus's tribute. Yet, amidst all these vexations, one aspect towered above the rest in its impact: Coriolanus's unscathed escapade. The public spectacle of his unabashed kiss with that entity from District 12 bore no scandal. No whispers of censure circulated. "He's a young heartthrob," echoed the refrain, a sentiment she endured countless times. Even her mother, a seasoned gossipmonger, offered leniency, excusing his behavior when Livia recounted the incident with fervent eyes: "That's just how young men are; one shouldn't take it too seriously."

If Livia had dared to exchange a kiss with a citizen of the districts, her parents would have swiftly disowned her. Such was her certainty.

With the victory in the Hunger Games and the Plinth Sponsorship, he once again underscored his superiority over her. In the wake of his triumph, she felt diminished, a sensation of inadequacy that already festered in secret. His success cast a derisive shadow upon her aspirations. On the day the news broke of his securing the Plinth Sponsorship, she resolved to abstain from eating for as many days as her resilience would permit.

Naturally, her extended fasting did not escape notice, particularly during shared meals. Yet, Livia wasn't naive, contrary to her family's convictions. The presence of an Avox at her side served as the perfect diversion. A quick exchange of trays, a disdainful wrinkle of her nose, and a theatrical display ensued. "This is utterly repulsive; I can't fathom ingesting anything when the aroma of sweat permeates so strongly." The identity of the Avox was inconsequential; people paid no heed to whether the Avox was genuinely perspiring. Livia merely had to perpetuate the charade, persist in demanding the Avox's retribution and expulsion, and suddenly, her intake or lack thereof became a matter of indifference.

As she embarked on her university journey, her parents insisted that it was high time she sought companionship. By "someone," they meant a singular entity—a formless, slimy presence. When she resisted and her monthly stipend faced draconian slashes, the realization dawned that she had never truly wielded a choice. And so, she turned to the individual she least favored at the university, soliciting him for a date. Coriolanus nodded amiably, extended an invitation to a restaurant, and the course was set. In the ensuing week, Livia refrained from nourishment until, on the 6th or 7th day, she descended upon the remnants in her refrigerator with a ravenous fervor, only to succumb to the inevitable purge. Contemplating the prospect of a perpetually bleak existence, she retched once more.

When Coriolanus's erstwhile tribute materialized at the university unexpectedly, one might assume it should have unsettled Livia more than it did. It should have bothered her that this girl was back, that Coriolanus didn't keep their agreement and shamelessly ogled after her like a lunatic, pervert lecher.

But it didn't. Because she was consumed by an entirely different preoccupation.

***

Several moons ago, a new Avox was assigned to her, replacing the ones she had dismissed. The quest for a suitable Avox had become increasingly arduous due to her capricious demands and unfounded accusations. Her dwindling allocation of Avoxes bore witness to the consequences of her actions, prompting her affluent parents to make a substantial donation just before the Plinths. The Avox presented a peculiar visage, a touch older than her, adorned with sharp red-brown hair. On his inaugural day, he orchestrated a grand breakfast, artfully garnished with leaves, and a personally scribed card. The Capitol's extravagant investment in Avox education seemed perplexing, particularly in light of the recent scandal involving Caesar Highbottom's mother, which led to her ousting from office.

She refrained from indulging in the feast before her, leaving it untouched. Prior to her departure, she issued a warning to the Avox, cautioning him against clandestine consumption, lest he regret his actions.

In the ensuing weeks, the Avox continued his culinary theatrics, conjuring up impressive breakfasts and extravagant dinners. The opulence of the fare far exceeded her modest appetite, yet the culinary presentations were nothing short of exquisite. The accompanying cards, adorned with the Avox's peculiar descriptions, had become a source of amusement for her, as if he were the maestro of a fine dining establishment, orchestrating his self-selected gourmet symphony.

One evening, returning from her parental abode, a profound sense of despondency enveloped her. Surrendering to the emotional tempest within, she sought solace in the fridge, surrendering herself to an insatiable appetite. Cake, cheese, sausage, meatballs, rice, bread—the array of delicacies succumbed to her voracity. Seated on the floor before the fridge, each bite propelled her into a realm of indulgence. Abruptly, footsteps disrupted the symphony of her solitude.

Panicked and bathed in the remnants of indulgence, she hastily rose, unleashing a tirade at the kitchen door, demanding an explanation for the intrusion, "What are you doing here, hm?"

A pause ensued, and then, with an air of silent acceptance, the Avox entered. Confronted by the spectacle of a disheveled Livia, he furrowed his brow—a juxtaposition of compassion and bewilderment etched across his countenance.

"How... how dare you just enter here like this, hm?" In an impromptu display of emotional upheaval, she began hurling pieces of bread, cake, cheese, sausage, meatballs, and rice at the impassive Avox. Each projectile met its mark, yet he maintained an unwavering composure. The Avox didn't bother to deflect the bread thrown at him. He let it happen. Livia then threw a piece of cake at him, watching it smear on his clothing, but she didn't stop. Cheese. Sausage. Meatballs. Rice. She threw everything at him. But the Avox remained impassive.

Suddenly, she began to sob, dropping the sausage she had intended to throw. The Avox, who had been motionless until then, took a few steps toward her until he stood directly in front of her and embraced her. And so, they stood there for a while until the Avox released her and cleaned the kitchen—not before drawing her a bath.

Dawn revealed yet another self-penned card, a testament to the Avox's unwavering commitment. She held it delicately, scrutinizing the cryptic handwriting. As she traversed past the Avox, a simple utterance left her lips, "You can eat the porridge, Filly."

The subsequent weeks unfolded in a rhythm familiar yet laden with subtle nuances. He served, he ironed, he cleaned—each action executed with meticulous precision. What transcended the ordinary, confined to the realm between them, was the gratitude she expressed at day's end. Watching him peel potatoes, chop garlic, sear meat, serve with meticulous flair, and dedicate no less than ten minutes to perfecting each card became a routine. Equally unconventional was her parting salutation—no mere "Good night," but a specific "Good night, Filly."

Imperceptibly, the bristly aura surrounding the Avox's presence ceased to perturb her, she was no longer bothered by his prickly hair, and the anticipation of each morning's breakfast, adorned with a personally scribed card, became a welcomed ritual. One day, a visit from her pregnant sister added a discordant note to the otherwise harmonious existence. Their strained relationship cast a shadow over the fleeting conversation, and as her sister departed, an unintended slip marked the transition.

"Are you okay?" Livia asked as she helped her up.

"Yes... that could have been really bad. Why is the floor so wet?"

Livia ran her hand over the floor. It was dry. Completely dry.

But her sister wouldn't be dissuaded. "Do you think I'm lying? It's wet. Really wet. Or do you want to tell me that I tripped on my own? That's the last thing I need during my pregnancy. My own sister mocking me."

"But I'm not. The floor is just—"

"Your Avox wasn't paying attention. I want him punished."

Livia's heart sank. She pleaded with her sister not to blame her Avox, but her sister found it too strange, too peculiar why Livia was so attached to him. He was just an Avox. Her sister told her parents, who, in turn, dismissed the Avox from their household. Livia had to sacrifice her entire monthly budget to ensure that Filly faced no punishment and that he would be assigned to a household not known for mistreating Avoxes (such families were abundant in the Capitol; it was a genuine hobby).

As Filly bid farewell, she found a card on her desk:

"Dearest Livia,

Allow me to convey my profound gratitude for the grace of your kindness, your charm, and the warmth of your companionship. I am fully aware of the impropriety of composing this letter, breaching all established boundaries. Yet, I find myself compelled to inscribe, at least once, only this time, the tumultuous thoughts that have lingered within me for weeks. It's not merely your meals that I've served, but my very heart, now consumed by your essence. A heart I believed lost in the annals of time. A heart I don't entreat to reclaim. A heart I would willingly serve to you again and again. Perhaps you merit more than the heart of a man such as me, almost assuredly so. Yet, it remains the only offering within my grasp. I can only hope that you take great care of it—though I am confident that you already will.

With an abundance of affection,
Filly"

This weird man, whose history remained a mystery to her, had perceived and portrayed Livia in a manner wholly unfamiliar. Yet, as she perused the letter repeatedly, an earnest desire to rewind time gripped her. To merely observe him each morning, each noon, each night—witness his agile fingers in motion, witness his smile upon her entrance, witness the blush that colored his cheeks in response to her own, witness his irrepressible grin at the utterance of his name.

Upon discovering that Coriolanus Snow had acquired Filly as an Avox, she resolved that there existed no one on this earth she abhorred more than him. The notion of visiting Coriolanus, and consequently encountering Filly again, had crossed her mind, yet she faltered. The prospect of Filly serving this amorphous figure, of Filly relegated to a passive observer while she occupied a seat beside Coriolanus—she couldn't fathom it. Thus, she relinquished the idea, convincing herself that Filly had no place in her life.

***

Beneath the cascading debris, where the weight of a fallen ceiling pressed upon her and pain coursed through her, her thoughts converged on a singular desire. In that fleeting moment of struggle, all she could think about was how much she would have liked to visit Coriolanus just one time, if only to see Filly again and tell him that she would take good care of his heart, and, in turn, he would cherish and protect hers.

***

Coriolanus switched on the news once more, and there was Lucky Flickerman, adorned with bandages and theatrically catching his breath, declaring, "Yet another tragic update has just reached us. Livia Cardew has become another casualty of the bombing..."

Coriolanus released a deep sigh. At least one burden had lifted, he mused gloomily, contemplating the looming funeral ahead, all the while, the sound of shattering plates echoed behind him—a result of his Avox, Hedgehog's unfortunate, and unusual, mishap.

Chapter Text

I have few recollections of my mother. I recall her vibrant dresses, the colorful feathers in her hair, the enchanting quality of her singing voice, the texture of her calloused fingers as they glided over my skin, her smile that at times carried a melancholy deeper than any weeping, and at other times, radiance surpassing any sunrise. But there was something else etched in my memory: bruises she concealed beneath those lively dresses and feathered hairpieces, many bruises, a vivid shade of violet, stretching across her arms and neck. I remember the tumultuous arguments, the shouting, and the plaintive cries. However, these episodes were fleeting, and harmony quickly restored itself. My parents would reunite, becoming inseparable once more, lying contentedly arm in arm on the grassy meadow, recounting the tale of their meeting. Unbeknownst to many, my mother did not belong to the Covey; that distinction belonged to my father alone. She was the daughter of a miner and a kitchen aide. Their love blossomed as the Covey traversed the land that would later be known as District 12—this was prior to the rebellion. According to my parents' story, it was a love that ignited instantaneously. Returning home late from work one day, my mother was captivated by a beautiful melody on her journey. Its origin lay in my father, skillfully plucking a melodic refrain on his guitar. Enthralled, she acceded to his matrimonial proposal mere days thereafter.

Regrettably, my grandparents remained estranged entities. They disavowed my mother for electing to wed my father instead of one of her contemporaries among the miners. During my formative years, I diligently scrutinized the faces of the older denizens of District 12, endeavoring to discern familial semblances. On one occasion, I harbored the conviction that the wife of the baker was my grandmother, her smile evoking reminiscences of my mother's face. Alas, my recurrent presence near the bakery invoked grievances about a Covey loitering, compelling the baker's wife to emerge and sternly admonish my departure, coupled with a forbidding caution against subsequent returns. That marked the conclusion of my attempts to discern familiar traits in others.

I remember that sometimes, my mother would impart to me the wisdom of embracing love wholeheartedly, cautioning fervently against half-hearted entanglements—which is why she chose to marry my father, despite the fact that he had nothing else to offer but love. In her view, a tepid dalliance was more pernicious than the absence of love altogether. According to her, such lackluster affairs inflicted a gradual malaise, leading one to accept that love, by its nature, carried no greater expectations. A half-hearted liaison, as she sometimes conveyed, cracked open the door to unending solitude—a solitude so insidious that it threatened to consume every morsel of love in its path. Her admonition was undoubtedly: steer clear of such lukewarm affairs. For only genuine, profound, all-encompassing love had the resilience to withstand the perils of loneliness. It had the power to fill the heart with an effulgence so radiant that darkness could find no foothold. Thus, she urged me to only welcome genuine, wholehearted love. In hindsight, I often wished my mother had also shared with me the realization of how misguided and impractical such advice could be, what fucking bullshit that was.

(I) First piece of evidence: Billy "I may have dabbled in a bit of cheating, multiple times, but make no mistake, you're still my number one girl" Taupe, whose little side romance with Mayfair, the mayor's daughter, threw me headfirst into an arena where the main event was supposed to be my untimely demise.
(II) Second exhibit: Coriolanus "I did it all for you, Lucy Gray, so don't even think about pinning the blame on me for the fucked up mess I've created" Snow, who, masquerading as a hopeless romantic, thought it was a swell idea to use me to win a prize, only to have a deathly forest stroll spontaneously planned for my finale.

Of all the wisdom I could've received, of all the words my mother could have thrown my way, I'd have preferred this gem: "Hey, Lucy Gray, love isn't everyone's cup of poison, especially when it comes with a side of 'Oops, I might have betrayed you, my sweet lover', and especially when it decides to play a cozy game of tag with death. Maybe the first time, it wasn't intentional, the second time... well, let's just say he wasn't coerced into attempted murder… no one had twisted his arm to take not one, not two, not even three or four, but several, yes, several (attempted) shots at you, his great first love." My mother possessed the uncanny knack of romanticizing absolutely everything and everyone. While I might have inherited a few of her traits, I was very sure I would sooner chew off my own leg than stumble into another charming, lovey-dovey snare. At least, that's the mantra I repeated to myself every time a handsome blond Capitol boy with eyes as bright as the sky sauntered my way.

Despite my deep affection for my mother and the perpetual yearning for her, despite the longing for the warmth she once provided, I vehemently refused to emulate her. I had no desire for the disconcerting sight of bruises on my skin, hastily concealing them to shield my child from the grim reality. My mother, with her unwavering devotion to love and to romance, had been blinded by it, and I was determined not to suffer the same fate. The folly of being blind had already ensnared me with Billy Taupe and, regrettably, with Coriolanus Snow—a mistake I should have foreseen.

I had observed Coriolanus Snow closely. I witnessed the insatiable desire in his eyes as he contemplated obtaining his coveted prize through me. I saw his disdain for all and sundry in District 12, an attitude that deemed none and nothing worthy of his regard. I watched his grimace in the woods, surrounded by nature instead of the familiar structures of the Capitol. I witnessed his pleasure at having me at his mercy, I understood that the delight he took in my presence in District 12 betrayed an utter disregard for my feelings; it didn't occur to him how panic gripped me when faced with the Peacekeeper uniform— the very uniform worn by the men who had taken my father's life. I watched as he treated me like a possession.

Although I ardently wished not to mirror my mother, I had found myself inadvertently replicating her actions, closing my eyes as my heart dictated. This would not be a mistake I'd repeat, I vowed upon my return to the Capitol when I raced to Mrs. Plinth and implored her to rescue me.

Love, I learned from experience, failed to satiate hunger. Survival and love, it seemed, were incongruent for someone like me.

"Yet another tragic update has just reached us. Livia Cardew has become another casualty of the bombing..."

"Did you... hear that?" Clemmie began to tremble violently, as though she were being shaken by an unseen force. Her fear was palpable, and it manifested in the unnaturally fast quivering of her entire being. "Please, Lucy... please tell me I just misunderstood that." Her voice carried a desperate plea, hanging on the edge of breaking. Clemmie's eyes remained fixated on the screen. "Please, Lucy... please, I... I didn't just hear that, did I? That... that can't be."

Lucky Flickerman, swathed in bandages that seemed more a theatrical spectacle than a necessity, had somberly declared the names of several victims. Clemmie, who had insisted on spending the night at my place after the Grand Heavensbee Hall attack, had spent the entire night in stillness—except for the tremors, of course—her gaze unwaveringly fixed on the screen. She declined any offers of food or drink and even rejected the comfort of a blanket until I draped one gently over her shoulders. I questioned if she noticed, given her constant fixation on the screen.

"Lucy... Lucy Gray... this can't be, maybe... they received false information..." Her voice teetered on the brink of failure. Seating myself beside her, I reached for her trembling fingers, offering the only solace I could conjure: "I don't think Lucky Flickerman... and his team are mistaken. I'm sorry, Clemmie, I know you both were at the Academy together; it must—"

"We used to be friends, Liv and I. We used to be friends, we might still be if not..." She paused, her gaze still locked onto the screen. "We used to be friends."

This sentence became her mantra for the next half-hour; that night, it was a heartbreaking refrain. Clearly, she was in a state of shock, an understandable response to the devastating news. I couldn't predict whether the events in the arena or the challenges of my own life would toughen me, but that night, I didn't succumb to profound shock, or at least that's what I believed. I remained composed, though a sense of anticipation lingered due to the recent attack.

"We used to be friends."

I observed Clemmie, repeating her mantra with a haunted look, her eyes dry from the relentless screen-staring.

"We used to be friends."

The repetition of this poignant line persisted for the next half-hour; that night, it became her lament. I found it surprising, given the infrequent encounters I witnessed between them, and Clemmie's apparent lack of fondness for Livia. Yet, they obviously shared a history. Livia would receive a grand funeral, accolades for her lovable nature, and lamentations for leaving too soon... sentiments that would never be extended to someone like Sejanus. In the Capitol, there was a stark distinction between those deemed worthy of a grand farewell and those considered unworthy. I knew this well; during the arena bombings, it was evident who received tearful eulogies and hymns and who was castigated by the Capitol as a stern example. For some, there were tears and floral tributes, for others, scorn and the dismissive sentiment, "They should have died in the arena."

"We used to be friends."

The doorbell rang. Clemmie seemed oblivious to the ringing, still fixated on the screen. I walked to the door, uncertain about who on earth would be ringing at this hour. Few were privy to my abode, with the exception of occasional sojourns by Clemmie and Mrs. Plinth; a visitation from an outsider was unprecedented. The small screen adjacent to the door unveiled the identity of the caller, and the inclination to rejoin Clemmie and deliberately disregard the insistent chime wrestled with a latent sense of relief, albeit reluctantly acknowledged. Fingers, still agitated, pressed the intercom button, and with a voice betraying a similar tremor, I inquired, "What do you want?"

"Can you open the door for me?"

I pressed another button, opened the door downstairs, and waited for the elevator door to open.

"Why are you here?" I promptly queried as the elevator's metallic jaws parted.

"No 'Welcome, nice of you to pay me a visit'? No 'Thanks for saving my life'? Truly, your hospitality leaves much to be desired."

"I'm not in the mood for visitors today."

The elevator door closed behind him.

"Why are you here?" I asked with a pounding heart, eyeing him from head to toe. He had changed and was now wearing a dark blue outfit. "I have a question. How is it that Coriolanus Snow sprinted towards me like a madman even before the bombs fell?"

"Had I not sprinted towards you—"

"Did you come here expecting gratitude?"

"Don't you want to invite me in? Your manners leave much to be desired."

"In District 12, we're all just uncouth proletarians. We don't let strangers into our forest huts."

"I am hardly a stranger." A sardonic smile played upon his lips.

"If that is all—" Just as the door threatened closure, a stride forward and the door remained ajar, courtesy of his hand. "What—"

"Just one more question."

"Fine. One question."

"Are you okay? I mean, given the circumstances."

I stared at him, dumbfounded. "Uh... yes, I'm... unharmed."

"Good... good." He cleared his throat and continued in a whisper, "They will hold you culpable for this." He advanced, bringing him in close proximity.

"What do you mean?"

"The students from the districts. Except for you, none of them were present at the ball. They assume... that the others carried out the attack. If I had to guess, I would say they won't have alibis either, not that it matters. They will leak the statement in a few hours. Once it's disseminated, the populace will want to witness your heads on the proverbial chopping block."

"That... that doesn't make sense. No one came here, no one—"

"Do you think it's necessary? Do you think someone is going to come and read you your rights?"

"I don't believe you."

"No. You don't want to believe me. You choose not to believe me. A significant distinction."

"Right, because experience tells me I should. How do you even know—"

"I just do."

"It doesn't make sense."

"No... maybe not. But it's a done deal."

My heart raced, panic taking root as his ominous words pervaded my consciousness. "Ultimately, they will kill me," I mumbled more to myself.

"As of now, you're still among the living." Abruptly, he seemed ensnared in contemplation, transported elsewhere until he regathered himself. "What matters is that you are alive, and the statement remains undisclosed. This affords time, and time begets opportunity."

"I don't understand—"

"Well, as the Capitol's newest darling, you should unleash your charm in full measure. Unless you're keen on a public execution—and I know you well enough to discern that is not the case—you should accompany me. It's fortuitous you haven't changed attire. Retaining that dress will make a more favorable impression... The dirt and dust will be conspicuous. Is Clemmie, by chance, still in your company?"

I regarded him uncertainly, grappling with the implications of his discourse. His directives and the unsettling sense of being guided plunged me into a realm reminiscent of the zoo.

Upon returning to Clemmie, still ensconced in the throes of shock, I resolved to penetrate her numbed state. Surprisingly, it didn't require an extended interval before she sprang to life, and the trio embarked towards the studio. A myriad of questions flooded my mind, yet a paucity of answers persisted. During the transit, I meticulously sifted through the fragments of certainties:

1. I was not responsible for the attack.
2. The likelihood that the others were responsible was pretty low: How did they get the means? How could they plan something like this unnoticed? My gut feeling also told me that they wouldn't risk their lives to bomb a hall. They were always so... intimidated, so full of fear. The way they walked around campus... they were not rebels. Additionally, they had family in the districts. All of them. They wouldn't want to put them in danger. Sure, it wasn't impossible, but it was unlikely.
3. They didn't wait long to blame the students from the districts. Either it was the fastest solution to create a distraction and find a suitable scapegoat, or it was part of the plan from the beginning.
4. If I didn't deliver soon, I would be the next one shot on the Grand University Square… or elsewhere.
5. Coriolanus Snow knew before anyone else that we had to leave that hall.
6. Coriolanus Snow was at my door very quickly, presenting… special knowledge.
7. Coriolanus Snow also presented a possible way out of my predicament.
8. Coriolanus Snow should not be trusted (not that this wasn't already established).

Arriving at the studio, I noticed, as I sat in the chair next to Lucky Flickerman, how my attire, once resplendent, now betrayed the residues of dirt and dust, how much my fingers were shaking, how fast my heart was beating. I took a deep breath.

"3... 2..."

With a fortifying breath, I engaged in that which I ostensibly excelled.

"Esteemed viewers, permit me to reintroduce an individual indelibly etched in memory. I present to you the victor of the 10th Hunger Games, now a distinguished student at Capitol University, and a witness—much like myself—to the abhorrent incident, Lucy Baird." A sympathetic tilt of his head accompanied his gaze. "Miss Baird, what insights can you share regarding the events of last night?"

"I am still ensnared in a state of shock...." A momentary pause. "However, I deemed it imperative for the public to garner further insights into this heinous attack. The realization that it transpired mere hours ago… really eludes belief...." Tears. "I ardently hope that those accountable for this insidious assault are apprehended and met with the retribution they merit. As you astutely remarked, Lucky, I found myself ensconced within the Grand Heavensbee Hall during the assault, my very first ball I... Since childhood, it has been a cherished dream to wear such an exquisite gown, and now..." A rueful glance at Tigris' dusty attire. Tears. The camera's proximity heightened. A delicate trace of fingers over the gown. "Now, my thoughts are consumed by all the poor souls who succumbed to the tragedy. Livia Cardew, you must know, was a cherished friend… one of the very first ones I met at university and we really bonded…I remain dumbfounded, and but for a slender margin"—Hand on Lucky Flickerman's shoulder. An intense gaze exchanged with Lucky Flickerman. "...but for a slender margin, we could have joined the ranks of additional victims."

Lucky Flickerman placed his hand on mine, which rested on his shoulder. "We narrowly escaped death a few hours ago."

As Clemmie, poised for her impending interview, settled into the seat beside me, I permitted a fleeting glance at Coriolanus, whose countenance bore a semblance of relief and of something else—self-satisfaction?—, casting a focused and intensive gaze upon me.

Chapter Text

As chaos continued to swirl around him, Coriolanus Snow felt the weight of the moment pressing upon him. It wasn't the carefully orchestrated plan he had envisioned, but circumstances demanded improvisation. The Capitol was on edge, and in the midst of turmoil, opportunities emerged like rare gems waiting to be seized. He recognized that waiting for the perfect moment was a luxury he couldn't afford. With the Capitol teetering on the edge of tumult, the currents of chaos were capricious and unforgiving. Every passing moment threatened to calm the storm, and with it, the openings he sought to exploit would vanish like ephemeral illusions.

Lucky Flickerman recounted the growing list of casualties, woving a tale of his own narrow escape from the clutches of death. Rather than languishing in the hospital like the rest, Lucky felt compelled to bring the bombing of the Grand Heavensbee Hall to the attention of Panem's populace. Adorned with strategically placed bandages, some wrapped theatrically around the left side of his head and others adorning his arms, Lucky's appearance seemed more like a carefully curated performance than a genuine reflection of injury. A closer inspection of his suit revealed its pristine condition, betraying a recent change from the attire he had sported at the ball. It was apparent that Lucky had orchestrated his appearance, with the bandages serving as props rather than necessities, after all, they were not just functional coverings for wounds but carefully chosen symbols of his bravery and survival. This was Lucky Flickerman—a theatrical journalist to his core. Immersed in the current events, Lucky skillfully presented the truth to his audience in a manner that captivated and propelled him forward. Seated there like a hero, with his bandaged bravado, Lucky willingly risked his well-being for the Capitol and its citizens, all in the name of keeping them informed.

The explosive impact of the bombing had surely left an indelible mark on everyone, and now, the entire Capitol likely fixated on Lucky Flickerman. The viewership ratings were undoubtedly soaring—a fortunate turn of events for someone of Lucky's caliber. Despite Coriolanus's disdain for Lucky's penchant for overly ridiculous drama and choreographed reporting style, he couldn't deny one thing: Lucky knew how to turn an ordinary event into riveting television, proving himself to be a tireless showman. And as much as Coriolanus loathed to admit it, Lucky's love for the limelight and his role as the Capitol's charismatic spokesperson were undeniably effective.

Before grasping the opportunity by the horns, Coriolanus Snow found himself at a crossroads, each potential step demanding meticulous consideration. This opportunity, laden with intricate vulnerabilities, seemed to emit an aura of risk at every turn. The prospect was a perilous venture, and doubts crept within him like stealthy shadows. Yet, echoing in his mind, the mantra persisted: "Nothing ventured, nothing gained." Coriolanus grappled with his occasional impulsivity, a trait that had propelled him to District 12 that one summer. Despite his ongoing efforts to stifle it, he now saw it as a potential catalyst for the decisive moves he needed to make. Instead of a liability, it transformed now into an asset, a spark that could ignite the flame of decisive action.

In the silence of the night, fueled by adrenaline and haunted by the echoes of the Grand Heavensbee Hall attack, he reached for his fourth cup of coffee. The weariness, however, clung to his bones like a persistent chill. Since Lucy Gray's presence had infiltrated the Capitol, restful sleep had eluded him. Despite the surge of adrenaline during the attack, it proved insufficient to combat the relentless pull of fatigue.

The scene was punctuated by the repetitive spillage of coffee, a hapless casualty of his Avox, Hedgehog, whose usual composure seemed fractured by the events of the night. Hedgehog, normally an emblem of silent servitude, appeared unusually preoccupied, his pallor betraying a deeper unease. The bombing had evidently left its mark on him, a silent witness to the tumultuous events. Coriolanus puzzled over the reasons behind Hedgehog's behavior, grappling with the paradox of an Avox harboring fear. It seemed unlikely that anyone would deem an Avox worthy of a bomb—a waste of resources—, yet perhaps Hedgehog's paranoia stemmed from the fear of becoming an unwitting casualty, collateral damage in the tumult of political machinations.

Deciding to steal a moment for himself, Coriolanus briskly moved to cleanse the residue of dirt and dust left in the wake of the bombing. The urge to shed the weight of the somber black garments he wore became almost palpable. While the news continued to play in the background, he delegated the task of compiling a list of additional victims to his Avox. This meticulous record-keeping ensured that Coriolanus remained abreast of those who had succumbed to the assault. Despite his Avox's less-than-impressive penmanship, Coriolanus valued the practicality of the written word in this chaotic time.

On that particular evening, he found himself repeating instructions to Hedgehog, his Avox, not once or twice but three times. If Coriolanus weren't well aware of Hedgehog's condition, he might have been led to believe that not only had Hedgehog lost his ability to speak, but also his sense of hearing. Hedgehog seemed detached, paying only scant attention to his master's words. Coriolanus, with a growing sense of impatience, made a mental note to address Hedgehog's peculiar behavior. However, the urgency of the moment left no room for dealing with the Avox's potential insubordination. While he initially entertained the idea of requesting a swift preparation of a bath, frustration led him to abandon the notion. Repeating his desires and instructions to Hedgehog had become wearisome, and he felt it beneath his dignity to elucidate the specifics of a task to an Avox. Thus, with a tinge of exasperation, he pressed on, ready to cast aside not only the physical remnants of the bombing but also the lingering annoyance brought about by the quirks of his peculiar Avox companion.

As he stepped into the bathroom, an irresistible impulse to liberate himself from the weight of the somber black attire enveloped him. With a fluid motion, he embarked on the ritual of shedding the layers that tethered him to the recent tragedy. The garments cascaded down like shadows, pooling on the serene forest green tiles of the bathroom floor. Standing amidst the aftermath of his self-imposed metamorphosis, he couldn't help but fixate on the pitch-black suit, now a silent witness to his attempt to appeal to Lucy Gray. As he traced the lines of the suit with his eyes, memories unfurled, carrying him back to the haunting echoes of a distant, almost forgotten past. In the quiet solitude of the bathroom, the black suit became a vessel for recollections, transporting him to moments steeped in sorrow. The last time he wore a similar dark suit, he found himself ensnared in the gravity of his father's funeral. The haunting absence of his father's physical presence, his dead body lost to the rotting confines of the Districts during the Dark Days, lingered in the air. The echoes of Gran Ma'am's anguished cries reverberated, accompanied by the haunting memory of Tigris's supportive hand steadying his trembling form.

He consciously expelled thoughts of the tumultuous day from his mind, allowing the frigid water to cascade over him in the sanctuary of the shower. Yet, the day's grip refused to relinquish him. In the canvas of his mind's eye, a vision unfolded—Tigris, a younger version of herself, barely older than he, adorned with deep violet rings beneath her eyes, rendered almost incapable of shedding more tears during the funeral. The absence of Tigris had been a prolonged one, and the abrupt realization seized him with panic. Suddenly, questions flooded his mind like an unrelenting tide. Was Tigris safe? Had she managed to escape the chaos of the ball unscathed? Would she even take the time to reach out to him? The uncertainty coalesced into a looming apprehension—would there be anyone to inform him if she...? No, he admonished himself. Panic would not be allowed to preside. Calmness was the order of the hour. Despite Tigris distancing herself from him recently, the lineage of Snows demanded a certain resilience, making the task of extinguishing a Snow's existence notoriously difficult. Yet, Tigris differed from him in essence; a delicate tenderness and vulnerability clung to her, traits that, despite a certain lack of true beauty, had endeared her to certain circles during their youth.

Coriolanus grappled with uncertainty. Could Tigris elude danger swiftly enough? Even if spared from a concrete blockade's descent, the specter of poison inhalation lingered. Dr. Gaul's cryptic warnings echoed in his mind—paranoia, fever, vomiting, and other unpredictable side effects. Understanding Dr. Gaul was akin to deciphering the irrational. The list of side effects was, in all likelihood, an incomplete narrative. The substance's origin from Dr. Gaul's laboratory only hinted at its potential horrors, possibly surpassing the finality of death.

He forcefully redirected his thoughts from Tigris. The events of her past hours were immutable, residing in a time beyond alteration. Coriolanus refocused on the undetermined future, acknowledging the aspect that remained within his grasp. One certainty emerged—he must regain control, employing any means necessary. Tigris's well-being, though crucial, would be addressed in due course. Furthermore, why should his concern be primarily directed at Tigris? Wasn't it her responsibility to ensure his well-being, to check on him?

A torrent of anger surged within him, coursing through veins tightly constricted by frustration. Tigris's self-absorption and negligence now stood starkly highlighted from this heightened perspective. Immersed in her extravagant fashion pursuits—funded generously by Coriolanus through the Plinth sponsorship—it seemed as if she had forsaken her sole living relative, the very architect of her assured future. Whatever transformation Tigris was undergoing, it undeniably inclined towards the unfavorable.

Fundamentally, it amounted to a profound impertinence on Tigris's part, this deliberate distancing of hers. Had he not dedicated his entire existence to safeguarding her future? Countless days of unwavering effort and nights bereft of sleep were spent in the tireless pursuit of restoring their family's standing. Every current triumph Tigris celebrated was, at its core, a testament to the enabling hand of her cousin, Coriolanus Snow. Without him, she would be a mere specter, yearning to weave her creative collections while ensnared in the clutches of some old pervert patrons. Yet, despite the countless endeavors and opportunities Coriolanus had presented to her, she dared to cast him aside as if he were an affliction, a contagion unworthy of her association. Tigris's ingratitude painted a portrait of insensitivity, a trait unbecoming of her circumstances.

Under the intensifying cold water, eliciting shivers in the shower, his thoughts veered from Tigris back to the memory of his departed father. An intentional effort to quell those recollections followed suit; after all, he had just emerged from the crucible of a bombing—a perilous dance with death narrowly thwarted by swift action. The luxury of indulging in poignant memories eluded him, for the energy required for such musings was a commodity too precious to squander. Contemplation could claim its moment later, but not within the urgency of this night. Yet, as he stood naked beneath the cold water, and his trembling wasn't solely attributed to the icy cascade, panic slowly but surely set in. The proximity of death lingered; he had narrowly escaped its clutches. He had forcibly distanced Livia from himself before sprinting to Lucy Gray, leaving her helpless in the hall, and now she was gone. While he wasn't to blame for the planted bombs, how could he have known about the impending attack? No, Livia's death wasn't his fault. They weren't truly together; they weren't a genuine couple. Not even friends. As he rinsed the shampoo from his hair, he suddenly saw Livia, panic-stricken, clinging to him when she sensed something awry. No, neither Tigris nor Livia nor anyone else had a place in his mind. He couldn't succumb to panic like the others. The bombing was over; he had survived unscathed—that was all that truly mattered. Coriolanus Snow had endured, and now he needed to contemplate how best to leverage the information he possessed.

He reiterated to himself that, although Livia had leaned on him in that moment, Coriolanus should harbor no sense of obligation towards her. Her perpetual disdain for him, treating him as something slimy and repulsive, had been a constant. Could she genuinely have expected him to be there for her in such a crucial moment? While he hadn't exactly wished for Livia's demise, perhaps there was a silver lining: her attitude and his involvement with Lucy Gray had already slightly overwhelmed him. In the long run, he might have needed to terminate the relationship, a decision laden with the potential to mar his carefully curated reputation. After all, societal norms often favored the one being dumped, casting a shadow on the one initiating the breakup. Although he didn't desire Livia's death, it did relieve him of one less predicament. And in truth, who would sincerely mourn Livia? Even her supposed friends couldn't tolerate her, and her relationships with her parents, especially her sister, were cold and peculiar. In this world, there was hardly anyone who would genuinely feel the absence of Livia Cardew.

Exiting the shower and patting himself dry with a towel, he couldn't ignore the persistent tremors that hinted at the lasting impact of the recent attack. Again, his attention drifted towards the heap of black garments scattered on the floor. The turnout at his father's funeral had been minimal. During the Dark Days, the frequency of funerals had desensitized people, causing them to reserve their attendance for obligatory family ceremonies. Initially, Coriolanus and Tigris participated in others' funerals, but eventually, they too withdrew. Invitations were often omitted, as the assumption prevailed that no one would bother showing up. Scarce and dwindling food supplies made the prospect of attending funerals even less appealing. The constant threat of bombings further discouraged venturing outdoors; most opted to stay in the presumed safety of their homes. His father's funeral, held in the living room, lacked a traditional coffin due to the absence of a body. Instead, Gran Ma'am had placed a makeshift bouquet of roses beside a portrait of his father. This portrait, a customary practice among wealthier Capitol families, depicted his father at the age of 25, the moment of inheriting the family estate. Back then, the portrait had seemed imposingly large, but now, hanging in the study, it appeared almost diminutive. Just the day before, Coriolanus had found himself gazing at the painting, almost mistaking it for his own reflection out of the corner of his eye.

As he smoothed cream over his face, recognizing his father's features mirrored in his own, thoughts once again drifted to Tigris. During the funeral, she had tightly held his hand until sensation slipped away, leaving his fingers numb with a tingling sensation that had extended through his entire body. The funeral for his mother and sister drew many attendees, and Coriolanus had wept uncontrollably, unable to bear the gaze of their portraits. Yet, at his father's funeral, he stood frozen, no tear tracing down his cheeks. Gran Ma'am uttered words he couldn't recall, and only Casca Highbottom lingered in silence, departing without a word. In retrospect, Coriolanus should have found this peculiar, but at the time, he didn't know Highbottom as Dean Highbottom. Reluctant to revisit that period, he pushed the memory aside. When he encountered Highbottom again at the academy, the cold gaze he received never hinted at the possibility that this man, glaring with anger and hatred, had once been a friend of his father. Moreover, Highbottom hadn't spoken at the funeral. No one else had attended.

He had few memories of his childhood before the Dark Days. One vivid recollection was of the hunting trips, where his father took him to the outskirts of the Capitol to a forest that no longer existed due to bombings. Rebels had hidden there, and the Capitol had retaliated with bombs. But before the destruction, Coriolanus accompanied his father on hunting expeditions, each ending in tears. He despised the trips, the weight of the rifle, and his father's shouts to shoot without hesitation. The mark was always missed; the recoil too harsh. Once, he accidentally hit a small deer, and when his father insisted on a second shot, Coriolanus cried again, and his father eventually finished the task. On the way home, shouts followed. His father expressed disgust, shook him, and declared that a weakling could not be a Snow. Yet, just before reaching home, reassurance came, promising that it would be easier next time.

Dressing in new clothes, opting for a blue suit, Coriolanus smiled crookedly. As a child, he believed his father sought to comfort him out of concern or remorse for shouting, but now he realized it was to spare his mother from witnessing his tearful state at home.

He meticulously combed his hair back, taking deliberate breaths, and pressed his thumb against the inside of his forearm, searching for his pulse. Bitterly acknowledging that it still raced, and his persistent trembling showed no signs of abating, he resolved not to betray any of these anxieties when facing Dr. Gaul soon. While reacting with agitation and panic would be entirely justified, Dr. Gaul was not one to overlook a weak response. Resilience was paramount if he wished to extract the answers he sought. The events of a few hours ago—the appearance of the yellowish substance and Dr. Gaul's cryptic words in the lab mere weeks ago—were intricately connected. There might be additional layers to the mystery, but levying substantial accusations without the necessary information from Dr. Gaul was too precarious. A crucial puzzle piece was still missing, and he wouldn't risk formulating significant charges until he held it. Perhaps this was also a test from Dr. Gaul, assessing his ability to piece together the clues she had provided so far and, if successful, predicting his subsequent actions. The chaos unfolding around him presented an opportunity that he intended to exploit, much like Dr. Gaul herself.

Turning his attention to the living room, he briefly scrutinized Hedgehog's list. In the interim, Hedgehog appeared even paler, a stark contrast that rendered him akin to a lifeless figure. Coriolanus shook his head disdainfully. Regardless of Hedgehog's culinary and domestic prowess, he also served as decor in the Snow household and had to uphold a corresponding appearance.

"Is this everyone?" he inquired stiffly, perusing the list.

Hedgehog remained motionless, his gaze seemingly lost—or perhaps intentionally indifferent.

"Is this everyone?" Coriolanus's tone hardened. His Avox had no business looking so pallid. This wasn't the Grand Heavensbees Hall where his life hung in the balance.

A single nod from the Avox followed.

Sighing, Coriolanus returned the list to its place on the table. "Continue while I'm away."

Although Lucky Flickerman had emphasized the curfew on multiple occasions, Coriolanus couldn't afford to wait. Dr. Gaul was undoubtedly anticipating his arrival, and he craved answers. Why was his life recklessly endangered, and why wasn't he given explicit warnings beforehand? There had been a fleeting thought about whether Dr. Gaul might have considered him as collateral damage, but she had invested too much in him. He knew, albeit not much, about the child cannibal: she abhorred waste. She wouldn't invest in something or someone—if she even made a distinction between those two— without expecting substantial returns. This should instill fear, as whatever Dr. Gaul had in store for him boded ill, but she was a ladder—a pathway to more power, a presidential internship, and enhanced connections with the Capitol's elite. She was a ladder with deadly spikes, requiring careful navigation to avoid being sliced open. However, climbing the ladder was imperative—Dr. Gaul had provided valuable information by divulging details about the yellowish poison, involving him, albeit minimally. She had afforded him the chance to escape alive, and she could surmise that he would seek answers from her. Chaos prevailed, and for him, it presented a potentially significant opportunity should his accusations prove accurate.

Choosing the slightly lengthier path to the lab, he acknowledged that it was the middle of the night. Yet, he was confident that Dr. Gaul would be there, an unwavering workhorse, dedicating most of her nocturnal hours to the lab. During his internship, he had discovered that Dr. Gaul even had a small bedroom set up in one of the lab rooms, spending more time there than anywhere else. As he exhaled, a nebulous plume of breath materialized in the moonlit ambiance, a transient dance of warmth against the cool embrace of the night, and as his gaze ascended to the sky, he marveled at the abundance of stars. It was a rare spectacle, especially considering that a bomb had descended just hours ago. Yet, as if orchestrated by cosmic hands, the sky had swiftly reclaimed its splendor.

Suddenly, he came to a halt, compelling his eyes back onto the dark road before him. He couldn't afford to entertain such thoughts, especially not now, on his way to the lab. Cosmic hands? What a joke. Who was he to harbor such thoughts? Sure, the night sky with its twinkling stars was a pleasant sight, but nothing about it was captivating enough to divert his focus from what lay ahead— the lab, Dr. Gaul, more information, evaluation of said information, possible involvement, leverage, access. Yes, all of that was on the agenda, deeply and boldly underlined, and those stars had no place there. Especially not because they reminded him of something that had no place on his agenda.

"It's written in the stars."

Ugh. He had always despised Lucy Gray's cryptic, nonsensical statements. Why couldn't she communicate like a normal person? What was the point of her strange songs and verses, thrown to the audience like little puzzle pieces, only to never form a complete picture? It wasn't just tiresome; it wasn't worth the effort. A proper puzzle could be solved gradually, eventually revealing a coherent image. But with Lucy Gray, there were never enough puzzle pieces, leaving everyone forever in the dark. He wondered if she relished the fact that only she knew what she meant with her cryptic statements. Perhaps it was a sense of power, an information asymmetry that she secretly savored.

"It's written in the stars."

Resuming his path to the lab, he sternly resolved not to dwell on Lucy Gray and her foolish words. He had to focus on his next steps, and Lucy Gray, though not entirely unimportant, had no place in his mind at the moment. He had to ensure that no hunt was organized for her, but he could deal with that later. First, it was the lab and Dr. Gaul's turn.

"It's written in the stars."

Dr. Gaul knew she could trust him; their relationship allowed for a certain level of trust. Only she knew about his time in District 12, aside from Tigris, of course, and Sejanus, who didn't count because he was dead, and Lucy Gray, who was better off keeping silent about it, unless…maybe Clemmie, too. Only Dr. Gaul knew about Sejanus's recording. Dr. Gaul had invested in him and had told him about the poison. She wanted him involved, whether it leaned toward positivity or negativity, eluded Coriolanus at the moment. Yet, a suspicion lingered, and should it materialize, the rewards awaiting him extended far beyond the confines of a Presidential Internship.

"It's written in the stars."

He had saved Lucy Gray a few hours ago. Currently, he could do nothing more for her. Essentially, he could only assist her if he had enough power and knowledge and leverage, and that required careful planning of his next moves.

"It's written in the stars."

In the aftermath of today's events, whatever objectives Dr. Gaul had set with the attack, whatever foreknowledge she possessed, and whatever intricate role she played, a fervent desire for security would undoubtedly consume the populace. This craving would intensify, especially if the poison's side effects triggered profound paranoia. Even those who had acclimated to the burgeoning affluence within the Capitol, those whose memories of the Dark Days had somewhat faded, found themselves thrust back into the throes of rebellion. The assault had effectively plunged the Capitol's denizens into a redux of their most harrowing epoch. Fear, coupled with paranoia, would persist until a designated scapegoat emerged, one who, post-Capitol retribution, no longer posed a menace, thereby restoring a semblance of security. This narrative, orchestrated to assuage the populace, would serve as the pivotal mechanism for reinstating tranquility. Should Coriolanus's accusation prove valid, the forthcoming election demanded the meticulous presentation of a sacrificial figure on a gilded platter. Only an individual possessing the sagacity to discern that the rebellion persisted, and the capability to reinstate security, stood poised to garner the majority of votes. Even the wavering and the indifferent would be sufficiently daunted to participate in the electoral process.

"It's written in the stars."

He had to capitalize on the unfolding circumstances, leveraging the bit of information at his disposal. Imminently, the clarifications awaited would usher him one stride closer to the realization of his aspirations.

"It's written in the stars."

Now, he stood right in front of the laboratory building.

"It's written in the stars."

Fortuitously, the odds were in his favor. A mere pair of sentinels were posted at the rear entrance—an access point traditionally designated for personnel, a privilege extended to him since the commencement of his internship. Familiar with these two guards, he anticipated their willingness to grant him entry. Coriolanus was accustomed to nocturnal visits to Dr. Gaul; hence, his presence wouldn't raise any conspicuous eyebrows.

"It's written in the stars."

In the very moment he was poised to approach the door, he came to an abrupt halt. A new prospect flashed into his mind—a fleeting chance that demanded prompt action before it slipped away. Its expiration, crucially timed with the revelation of the attack's perpetrator by Lucky or another individual, loomed ominously.

"It's written in the stars."

No. First, Dr. Gaul, the internship, leverage, access to...

"It's written in the stars."

However, the heightened pursuit of Lucy Gray was a valid concern. Initially, suspicion would fall on the District residents already present in the Capitol. Certainly, these three students couldn't orchestrate such an event. Two of them displayed overt fear as they wandered the campus, and none had the means to plant a bomb in the Capitol. What motive would they have…despite them being District trash, of course? Perhaps they did not need one, given their nature and background. But with a rare and nearly impossible chance to improve their lives, why squander it on a bomb? Furthermore, this didn't explain the use of poison from Dr. Gaul's lab. There was no conceivable way any of them, or all together, could plant a bomb and access the poison. Absolutely implausible. Yet, this didn't negate the fact that they would face scrutiny. People tended to be simplistic, and now, amidst chaos and paranoia, they wouldn't hesitate...

No, Coriolanus thought, not now. Dr. Gaul took precedence. How would it appear if he skipped the lab visit? It would not only tarnish his image but might also jeopardize Dr. Gaul's trust along with the valuable contacts and opportunities she offered. He must refrain from impulsive actions. Not now, not...

"It's written in the stars."

Fuck.

Coriolanus turned around, and his feet carried him toward Lucy Gray.

Standing before her door, after discreetly persuading a few guards on his way there using the money he had brought in anticipation of potential curfew-related obstacles, it took little effort to convince Lucy Gray—though he hadn't expected much resistance. Lucy Gray harbored a deep-seated desire to survive, a yearning he could deftly exploit. While he hadn't conveyed the complete truth to her, the possibility that the District students would be held accountable for the incident was not improbable. Whether this was a calculated move or not shouldn't concern him in this moment; the immediate priority was to shield Lucy Gray from potential harm, just in case. She needed to distinguish herself from the others, demonstrating to the Capitol that she was one of them, visibly shaken by the recent attack. Everyone had to witness her in her disheveled dress, everyone had to see her weeping beside Clemmie, and everyone had to recognize that she, too, had narrowly escaped death. What Lucky Flickerman could achieve with bandages and presumably reapplied dark circles under his eyes, his girl could replicate. After all, she was a performer. A great fucking performer.

Upon arriving at the studio, urgency dictated his actions. He promptly sought out Lucky Flickerman and his agent, who required minimal persuasion to grant Lucy Gray and Clemmie additional airtime—especially considering Lucy Gray's existing popularity on campus, now poised to surge even higher after surviving the attack.

In Lucy Gray's case, his foresight proved accurate. As she unleashed her charm, he keenly observed the studio crew, noting the subtle shifts in their expressions, the sympathy, the shock induced by Lucy Gray's narrative—affirming the impact she could have.

Simultaneously, he resisted contemplating Dr. Gaul's potential reaction. Were she to discover his role in orchestrating Lucy Gray's unscheduled interview, displeasure would undoubtedly ensue. Yet, concerns about Dr. Gaul could be addressed later; temporal nuances held little significance in the broader context. As he continued to watch Lucy Gray, a genuine smile adorned his face. It echoed a sentiment from the past…he had assisted her, saved her—now, a twofold salvation. Despite a slight manipulation in his statement to her, it wasn't an outright lie but rather a highly probable interpretation of future events.

He had, indeed, saved her—not merely during the hall attack. Ensuring she evaded the spotlight, the pursuit of Lucy Gray was momentarily halted unless unforeseen circumstances arose. In these brief hours, he underscored her reliance on him, her continued association with him, and the benefits derived therefrom. Lucy Gray, with her enigmatic songs and statements, paled in comparison to Coriolanus. He was different—relying on actions, not cryptic sentences. Fuck cosmic hands or stars or whatever bullshit she used to come up with. Coriolanus was presently offering her life itself. A sense of absurdity dawned on him regarding previous concerns for Felix or Caesar. What were they compared to him? He ushered her through the Hunger Games, guided her out of the hall, orchestrated this swift interview, sparing her from becoming a target—all his doing. Lucy Gray, not lacking discernment, was, above all, a survivor. And Coriolanus Snow, ensured her survival.

The young woman situated between Lucky Flickerman and Clemmie wasn't merely Lucy Gray—oh sorry, "Lucy."

Amidst them sat his girl. His Lucy Gray.

Snow lands on top, right?

Chapter Text

The studio, a place redolent with echoes of the past, cast a nostalgic shadow upon his consciousness. Specifically, the backdrop was set on his concluding day of internship with Dr. Gaul, a day marked by a televised interview conducted by Lucky Flickerman. The focus of this particular interview had been the recent modifications introduced into the paradigm of the 12th Hunger Games—a discourse initiated by the conceptualization of what were then termed "Prep Academies." This innovative pedagogical framework, a brainchild nurtured during his tenure under Dr. Gaul's mentorship, had aimed to be selectively instituted in certain districts, predominantly 1 and 2, with a financial pilot phase envisaged. The intricacies of the curriculum had been unveiled during the interview, a curriculum that had emphasized weaponry proficiency, endurance cultivation, and strategic acumen. Yet, the crux of the dialogue had extended beyond the pedagogical nuances to the financial sustenance of these institutions. As Dr. Gaul's vision had charted a course for a more opulent, more grandiloquent rendition of the Hunger Games, it had inadvertently stirred dissent among those who had harbored reservations about diverting funds towards arena expansion and the research of further modifications within Dr. Gaul's scientific crucible.

The interview had unfolded seamlessly, meticulously choreographed by Coriolanus himself. Armed with a precognitive insight into the questions, he had woven his responses with a finesse that had bespoke practiced spontaneity. His articulation had borne the hallmark of sophistication, a symphony of clarity and authenticity. Despite the contentious nature of the financial discourse, he had adeptly assuaged Capitol anxieties with a persuasiveness that had transcended mere rhetoric.

In the aftermath of the interview, Dr. Gaul had proffered accolades, an endorsement of Coriolanus's adroit performance. However, commendations, in their eloquence, couldn't silence the persistent echoes of a disconcerting detail that had eclipsed the grandeur of the occasion. The disquieting detail had lingered in the sartorial realm—Coriolanus had worn a resplendent cream-hued suit, beneath which had laid a luminescent yellow shirt, adorned with delicate embroideries. However, a piece of resistance had revealed itself on the left breast—a diminutive yet conspicuous coffee stain, a testament to a coffee-fueled endeavor to combat the rigors of sleep deprivation incurred during his rigorous internship.

This seemingly inconspicuous stain, etching an indelible mark upon his interview attire, had metamorphosed into a silent protagonist, diverting his attention with a cruel persistence. The stain, in its impertinence, had become an uninvited guest at the interview, stealing the limelight in a clandestine coup against the meticulously rehearsed dialogue. Each replay of the interview had served as a poignant reminder—every word of praise, every accolade, marred by the intrusion of the stain. Each commendation, however genuine, had become inextricably linked to this inconspicuous blemish.

Weeks had unfurled in a rhythm of relentless introspection, a ritualistic viewing of the interview interspersed with an unwarranted fixation on the stain. What had begun as a blemish on fabric had evolved into a symbolic affront, an affront that had seemingly reveled in mocking Coriolanus's constructed persona—the more he tried to dismiss it, the more it seemed to mock him, a silent accuser casting doubt on his polished image. The disparaging connotation embedded in the stain had transformed even the most laudatory remarks into a dissonant melody, a melody that had resounded with the haunting specter of a coffee-induced mishap. Only after the passage of several weeks had Coriolanus managed to reconcile with the notion of sipping coffee anew, the inky depths of the beverage no longer carrying the accusatory weight of that stupid stain.

"Congratulations." He assumed a nonchalant stance beside Lucy Gray as she concluded her interview.

She deliberately averted her gaze, fixing her attention upon Clemmie, who engaged in an ongoing conversation with Lucky Flickerman. "Congratulations for what?" she inquired with a measured skepticism. Her voice exuded an air of composure, seemingly disinterested, as if her cogitations resided in a realm beyond the present. Yet, the deliberate elongation of her words, an ostensible hyper-awareness of each syllable, the concealment of her hands behind her back, the meticulous avoidance of eye contact—all suggested a performance, a charade, a calculated effort to maintain a discernible distance, almost daring him to test boundaries. But Coriolanus, retaining his focus on her countenance, harbored no intention of diverting his gaze. In his estimation, there existed no reason to avert his eyes; she was his to scrutinize, savor and appreciate in entirety, for as long as his inclination desired.

"Your performance was commendable; the interview unfolded seamlessly, as anticipated, of course." A subtle flush graced her cheeks, accompanied by a perceptible acceleration in her breath, allowing for the discernment of the articulate movement of bones in her neck with each inhalation. His gaze, unfettered, continued its perusal—traversing her collarbone, exploring the hollows above, lingering upon the exposed shoulder.

"You likely imply self-congratulation. The triumph, after all, is more aptly yours, is it not?" The skepticism that pervaded her initial inquiry dissipated, replaced by a nuanced undercurrent of vexation, of smoldering indignation, of simmering ire. This sudden tonal shift invoked a recollection of a past incident at the zoo. After she had saved his life following the arena bombing, his sincere gratitude was met with a query about whether he had disclosed the incident to others. The question, posed in a manner akin to the present, was not a genuine inquiry but a cruel rhetorical device, for she already knew the answer.

They occupied a secluded, discreet alcove of the studio, the stage for the live broadcast featuring her and Clemmie moments earlier. Clemmie, attuned to the awareness of myriad spectators, gradually assumed composure throughout the interview. Coriolanus had observed her metamorphosis—her gradual straightening, her escalation in verbosity, and her heightened effort to match the pace set by Lucky Flickerman. Post-interview, a respite was undoubtedly in order for all three participants, yet, Clemmie wasted no time in spiritedly engaging Lucky at the opposite end of the room. While their discourse seemingly monopolized Lucy Gray's attention, Coriolanus's gaze, having lingered significantly upon his girl, pierced beyond the surface and facade. It was as if his eyes had been intensively calibrated to her being, ceaselessly and relentlessly questing for intimations of her genuine sentiments, eagerly probing the last vestiges of the unknown within her, persistently exploring the final enigma of her being, ever intent on delineating her domain, all the while haunted by the lingering fear that, if inattentive, another pair of eyes might audaciously stake a claim upon her, causing a potential usurpation.

"Why can't it be our joint triumph?" As he uttered the words, Coriolanus found himself surprised by the honesty imbued in his statement. Why indeed couldn't it be so? Similar to the dynamics during the Hunger Games, her success need not negate his own, and vice versa. On the contrary, under different circumstances— were it not for the incident with the snakes and the poison—her victory could have harmonized with his own. Lucy Gray, with her penchant for cosmic musings on destiny, appeared oblivious to the possibility that success might signify an intimate connection between them. Yet, her eyes chose to focus on Clemmie and Lucky.

"Because you're not predisposed to share equitably," she responded with a bitter, yet knowing, laugh. "You find it unbearable. A shared triumph is acceptable to you only if it ensures that your portion of advantage and acclaim is disproportionately greater, weightier. Sharing is not inherently within your nature, Coriolanus."

His gaze, akin to an artist's brush, ravenously persisted in hungrily outlining the nuances of her face and neck, crafting an evolving masterpiece of fascination. A sudden apprehension, fearing the oversight of the minutest detail, seized him, plunging him into a sublime madness of unwavering vigilance. The world beyond their shared sphere blurred into insignificance, overshadowed by an insatiable desire to possess every nuance. The notion of her averted gaze, the absence of the lock on her gaze, and the withholding of her complete attention became unbearable. Perhaps she was correct; perhaps he was ill-suited for the art of sharing. The notion of her averted gaze, the absence of the lock on her gaze, and the withholding of her complete attention became all unbearable. Perhaps she was correct; perhaps he was ill-suited for the art of sharing.

With a swift and purposeful movement, he orchestrated the closure of the physical space that separated them, seamlessly navigating the distance until he stood in immediate proximity. His eyes, now directed purposefully downward, meticulously surveyed every bit of her. A gentle yet assertive hand cradled the delicate curvature of her chin, the touch deliberate and perhaps a bit too forceful, as though sculpting art from the raw material of her features. With relentless determination, he drew her face incrementally closer to his own, each measured inch an intentional progression, accentuated by the tilt of his posture. The calculated proximity sought not only physical closeness but a convergence of shared breaths. In the midst of this unfolding intimacy, her breath responded with a subtle acceleration, a rhythm echoing the palpable tension between them. Undeterred by the quickening pace, Coriolanus remained steadfast in his pursuit, navigating the delicate boundary between anticipation and restraint. Yet, despite the shared proximity, an unspoken resistance emanated from her, a silent declaration manifested in her steadfast avoidance of his gaze, an intentional evasion that directed her eyes elsewhere.

"Who enjoys sharing, anyway?" he whispered to her, reshaping her face with his entire hand, drawing her face perilously close to his own, with lips nearly grazing. In their shared intimacy, her scent, a fragrance long absent from his senses, wafted tantalizingly.

"People are staring," she replied slowly, still with a gaze into the distance.

"Let them—" And there it was. A palpable longing surfaced—an undeniable yearning etched into the very fiber of his being. Beyond any other desire, his eyes hungered for the union with hers, eyes possessing a dark brown hue that echoed the velvety richness of coffee. Her pupils, like twin orbs of obsidian, were imbued with an intoxicating intensity that mirrored his own.

"I think we all need some sleep to... come back to ourselves." With a swift, forceful motion, she deftly extricated his hand from her face, and navigated to the opposite recess of the room, leaving him in solitary contemplation. Observing her departure, he discerned her trajectory towards Clemmie, whose interaction with Lucky Flickerman had ceased, now replaced by a gaze towards him that harbored anything but amicability. Evidently, Clemmie had momentarily forsaken the debt she owed Coriolanus—forgetting that he not only preserved her life (even if indirectly and not exactly on purpose) but orchestrated the opportunity for her to share the live broadcast limelight with Lucy Gray, basking in the Capitol's ubiquitous gaze. Clemmie's audacity in casting such a disdainful glance was unwarranted, a reality not escaping Coriolanus. Amid his embittered reflections, he entertained the notion that she might consider joining Tigris, sharing in her audacious demeanor.

He would have preferred to shadow Lucy Gray, to gently halt her retreat, and to extricate her from Clemmie's company. However, his intentions were reluctantly diverted by the approach of Lucky Flickerman, whose sudden arrival was marked by an excessively buoyant tone—somewhat incongruous given the recent bomb incident—expressing gratitude for Coriolanus's rapid and astute response. "Mr. Snow, your quick thinking was truly a stroke of brilliance. I extend my sincere thanks for keeping us promptly informed. The populace will undoubtedly appreciate not only my initial report but also the contributions of the two captivating ladies over there." Coriolanus, having recently survived a bombing, endured weeks of sleep deprivation, and harboring little enthusiasm for protracted interactions with Lucky Flickerman, particularly with Lucy Gray in close proximity, glanced back at her mid-conversation with Clemmie. Yet, the precise nature of their discourse eluded him from his vantage point. Would Clemmie uphold their agreement? An imperative dictated by her indebtedness for the preservation of her life. Would Clemmie assertively convey to Lucy Gray that, for today at least, Coriolanus was her indisputable savior? And would Lucy Gray...?

"Mr. Snow, you seem to be grappling with the aftermath, and understandably so. The entire incident is genuinely tragic, and the shock resonates with us all." Suddenly in close quarters, Lucky Flickerman observed Coriolanus's line of sight, veering to the other corner of the room, before redirecting his gaze back with a grin that edged on the impertinent. "Your girl did a fantastic job. It seems you two are still a good team today. I noticed that during the Hunger Games back then as well. It's very, oh so very, very rare for a mentor and tribute to be so... intimate."

Coriolanus harbored a distinct distaste for the implications embedded within Lucky Flickerman's remarks, deeming them not only inappropriate but also socially incongruous. Was Lucky Flickerman fishing for validation? An anecdote for Capitol gossip? Swiftly, Coriolanus assumed a poised demeanor, shoulders erect, asserting a subtle height advantage over Lucky Flickerman. His response, delivered with friendly calculation, carried a composed and measured tone. "The things we do for our audience…but I don't need to tell you that, do I?" With a controlled yet slightly more emphatic gesture, Coriolanus placed his hand on Lucky's shoulder, offering a congenial shake, while maintaining a bright countenance. "Speaking of success, your son is flourishing. You must be very proud of him. He may not be a darling of the audience like Lucy, that will surely come when he follows in your footsteps, but all the more a favorite among the professoriate."

Lucky Flickerman's grin expanded, its amplitude nearly bordering on the realm of discomfort. "Very kind of you to mention that, Mr. Snow."

With a measured disengagement, Coriolanus withdrew his hand from Lucky Flickerman's shoulder, directing his gaze once more to the distant corner of the room. To his dismay, both Lucy Gray and Clemmie had vanished. He swiftly surveyed the surroundings; both appeared to have vacated the space. "See you, Lucky," he uttered briskly before hastening towards the exit.

Upon unlatching the door to the external expanse, the initial tendrils of sunlight graciously embraced him. A meticulous scan of his surroundings unveiled no trace of Lucy Gray.

"A true hero, aren't you?" He pivoted abruptly, discovering Lucy Gray in a nonchalant lean against the outer wall. Her strategic placement beside the door had eluded his initial notice. "How about you paint me a more detailed picture of your heroic feat? I would love to express my gratitude, Coriolanus, only I'm not quite sure for what exactly and how you ended up being so heroic today... or rather, yesterday." Her eyes locked onto his.

"Oh, what was it again? We all need some sleep to...come back to ourselves? But speaking of gratitude, I would love to explore the myriad ways you might wish to convey your appreciation." He advanced a few paces towards her, standing in direct confrontation. With a scrutinous gaze, he absorbed the subtle shifts in hues on her skin beneath the caress of sunlight, observed her brownish eyes now akin to rich chocolate, and traced the contours of her slightly parted lips, as if offering an unspoken invitation.

"I don't know how you... A bomb almost hit us a few hours ago." Her tone held an unmistakable firmness, and for the first time, the deep shadows beneath her eyes did not escape his attention.

"Almost, yes. But you and I, we are survivors. Not easily—"

"How did you know we had to get out?" She crossed her arms, a gesture signaling unease, a harbinger of a potential barrier being erected—not that her delicate limbs posed an insurmountable impediment.

"How—?" She initiated another inquiry, yet Coriolanus ceased to lend his ear. It was as if he were under the influence. Intoxicated by the realization that, once again, she had relied on him, her survival an outcome of his maneuvers, and now she stood before him, indebted. A debt he was eager to appropriate. A debt that demanded resolution.

How could he have entertained the notion of orchestrating her demise through poisoning within the precincts of the Capitol and then casually discarding her? She, devoid of any semblance of menace, was solely his possession. The dominion he exerted over her had commenced since the exigencies of the Hunger Games, and this dominion afforded him the latitude to wield authority as he saw fit. Fortuitously, his actions refrained from impetuousness; providentially, the immediate dispersion of rat poison onto her confectionery did not ensue. Propitiously, a cognizance ever-present in his cogitation thwarted the necessity of such drastic measures. Serendipitously, the prospect of actualizing such machinations had never truly manifested.

Sure, her presence in the Capitol carried a modicum of risk, for she alone retained the capacity to divulge the occurrences in District 12 on the campus. Yet, conversely, what substantiation could she proffer? The implements of conflict were no longer within the purview of accessibility for any, and the verbal recollections of a girl from the districts could scarcely wield gravitas surpassing his own. Her endeavor to expose him would have invariably culminated in farcical repercussions.

In the event that she harbored intentions of disclosing the incident with Sejanus, a dearth of corroborative evidence marred her efforts. Furthermore, Sejanus had already been relegated to the recesses of oblivion, never garnering genuine reverence or acceptance. Ergo, her potential as a genuine threat to him was, in essence, negligible. Hadn't she articulated the circumstances of her solitary sojourn into the woods, an action spurred by trepidation concerning the viability of the escape plan? Hadn't she said herself that she had gone into the woods alone back then because she was uncertain about the escape plan? Perhaps her statements bore veracity. It was conceivable, if not probable, that she grappled with pangs of guilt for abandoning him like that. The loss of the scarf, it could be reasoned, was an unfortunate occurrence, and the presence of a snake in a forest was hardly implausible.

The prospect remained that she might rue her conduct of yore. After all, he had relinquished everything for her, harboring aspirations of a shared escape. And now, having granted her a reprieve, those vestiges of remorse threatened to metamorphose into leverage, cementing her dependence upon him. Where else could she go? Who else would watch out for her? To whom could she go, if not to him? Hadn't she just experienced exactly that?

Felix, Caesar, Clemmie—where were they? Only Lucy Gray's tenacity had ensured Clemmie's survival as she clung to her during those dire circumstances. No one else cared about her. She needed him. She was beholden to him. While her status may have transcended that of a mere tribute, the contours of their relationship seemed poised to regress to the bygone era of captivity, reminiscent of the zoo days when he invariably knew her whereabouts and undertakings. It was hardly surprising that he had regarded her with frigidity upon her return to the Capitol: She traversed the campus with ostensible nonchalance, inattentive to his very presence. Her unrestrained perambulation and social gatherings, all transpiring devoid of his involvement, evoked a disquieting dissonance—an audacious presumption, indeed. Had she sought his immediate counsel, beseeched him for support and guidance instead of assuming a detached demeanor and navigating the campus without his companionship, perchance the notion of resorting to poison might never have permeated his cogitation. Essentially, it was Lucy Gray's comportment that precipitated this notion.

Nevertheless, the current picture presented an altered narrative. He continued to scrutinize her, extracting vicarious pleasure from every nuance his discerning gaze could capture. The dress, albeit besmirched and begrimed, retained an ethereal allure that transcended its sullied state. It adhered to her form, accentuating the contours of her silhouette. Yet, as resplendent as the gown may have been—clearly an acknowledgment owed to Tigris, whose safe exodus remained speculative—the juxtaposition of the dress against the backdrop of the floor would confer an even more advantageous aesthetic to Lucy Gray. She was his chattel, and the prerogative to dispose of property as one deemed fit was an implicit entitlement—one he harbored no qualms about exercising.

This revelation surged through every sinew, every fiber, akin to the gradual manifestation of a potent drug's effects. In saving her, he had not only ensured her survival but had reestablished her as his possession. She required him; the Capitol's harsh landscape demanded his presence as the linchpin to her endurance. The notion of a life devoid of him became an implausible, utterly inconceivable concept. Once again, the girl standing in his immediate presence belonged unequivocally to him. The theatrics of the Hunger Games, the veneer of a Peacekeeper's authority—such theatricalities were rendered superfluous. His need for control, for dominance, crystallized in the form of her mere presence in the Capitol, a potential target amid the Capitol's sprawling corridors. This tantalizing realization resonated so deeply within him, coursing through his bones, igniting a crescendo in his chest as his heart quickened. She was, without a doubt, at last, finally his. The prohibitions and constraints that confined his fantasies could now be lifted, allowing him to indulge in the unabashed scrutiny of his possession. The scenarios, once relegated to the recesses of his imagination, could now be enacted with impunity. The hunger that had long gnawed at him, a relentless craving for her…

Abruptly, someone clutched his arm. "Coryo, are you deaf?"

Standing beside him was Clemmie.

"What..."

She sighed, resuming in a husky timbre, "I too am curious about your…haste, even preceding the bomb's descent."

The intoxication had dissipated. A shiver traversed his body.

Fuck.

He had completely forgotten about Dr. Gaul.

Chapter Text

Marcia Plinth, in her deliberative processes, consistently invoked the metaphor of a scale. In the tableau of her cognition, this scale featured two delicately poised pans, each receiving the weight of a potential decision. With a profound commitment to pragmatism, she meticulously considered the merits and demerits, contended with the echoes of conscience, and pondered the myriad ramifications inherent in each option. Thus, she assumed the role of an observer, an audience of sorts, before this conceptual scale, recognizing that ultimately, the scale would arbitrate which facet carried greater significance—deciding the trajectory of the pans. The cadence of this evaluative ritual varied; at times, it unfolded swiftly, a matter of mere seconds, with one pan unequivocally asserting its dominance, leaving no ambiguity as to the preference of the scale. Conversely, the process could extend over days, weeks, or even span the entirety of Marcia's lifetime, as some decisions persisted until the denouement of her journey. The scale, in its deliberation, occasionally rendered a verdict with a subtle nuance, the distinction so marginal that Marcia contemplated the need for reassessment. Irrespective of the temporal nuances, each decision bore the imprint of her reliance on this metaphorical scale, akin to the unambiguous whisper of fate, an emblem of discernment that underscored the sophistication inherent in her approach to navigating the complexities of choice.

Marcia Plinth, overwhelmed by a sense of apprehension, struggled to envision herself as an exemplary mother. Throughout her pregnancy, she grappled with uncertainties—questions about the wisdom of bringing a new life into a world filled with ambiguities, fears that this venture might be a grave mistake, and an internal dialogue questioning her possession of inherent maternal virtues that seemed absent. In the midst of her existential unease, Marcia found support in her sister, who diligently worked to navigate through Marcia's doubts. Amid the labyrinth of self-doubt, assurances were given, emphasizing the sanctity of the upcoming maternal role. Marcia's sister, displaying fraternal concern, praised the inevitability that motherhood would reveal its latent grace over time and that the child, enveloped in her affection, would lack no essential support. Her sister tried to alleviate her distress, assuring her that everything would unfold seamlessly, that maternal instinct would inevitably find its place within her. Yet, an emotional disconnect lingered for Marcia, as she struggled to comprehend how to bestow love upon an unborn entity. Sensations of movement and life within her womb failed to forge the emotional connection she sought. This internal dilemma became a nightly torment, overshadowing rest with persistent questions of purpose and inclination.

Strabo Plinth, the initiator of the marital union and a fervent advocate for parenthood, played a crucial role in pushing Marcia into the embrace of impending motherhood. For Marcia, who secretly wished for infertility or enlightenment on her spouse's part regarding the disparities in their familial aspirations, the onset of pregnancy was an unwelcome realization. Her aversion to the anticipated maternal responsibilities stemmed from a deep-seated avowal, etched in her innermost recesses. The idea of taking on the role of nurturer, responsible for every aspect of a new life, induced overwhelming trepidation. Maternal duties, including nourishment, guidance, and the cultivation of patience, seemed insurmountable, too much of a burden, too heavy for her delicate shoulders.

As Sejanus entered the world, Marcia found herself navigating the delicate balance of motherhood with an ever-deepening struggle. Though her heart held a tender regard for her newborn, a profound connection remained elusive, leaving Marcia to grapple with the intangible essence of her emotions. It was as if this precious life existed in a realm just beyond her grasp, a realm where the threads of maternal affinity resisted her gentlest touch. In the quiet progression from days to weeks, the hues of Marcia's melancholy deepened, casting a more pronounced shadow over her maternal journey. The act of nurturing her newborn, once expected to be a natural flow of tenderness, felt burdensome. The delicate lullabies of motherhood that once whispered promises of serenity now echoed with the weight of an unspoken turmoil.

Strabo Plinth, during this period, was conspicuously absent from home, leaving behind an atmosphere fraught with tension. Despite the well-meaning counsel from her sister falling on deaf ears, the household reverberated with the fervor of heated disputes between her sister and her husband. From her bed, Marcia could not escape the acrimony, accusations hurled between the two—her sister reproaching him for purportedly abandoning their family, while Strabo cast blame upon her sibling for not adequately tending to Marcia. His rationale rested on the imperative of providing sustenance for the family, a responsibility that demanded his absence, after all, who else could put food on their table? Despite Marcia's desire to distance herself from these familial clashes, an awareness lingered within her that she alone bore the burden of culpability.

Her sister appeared increasingly frail and pallid, and she was more or less solely responsible for little Sejanus—her fault. Her husband, confronted with a once-in-a-lifetime prospect, was constantly overtired, casting a shadow over the potential fruition of this extraordinary opportunity—her fault, a consequence she shouldered as her own, rightfully so. As she gazed upon her newborn, an undeniable epiphany unfurled within her: her son deserved a mother who was authentic, nurturing, genuine, and naturally maternal—a stark contrast to the mere semblance of motherhood she felt she embodied, a skeletal replica devoid of a true maternal heart. This realization deepened the well of inadequacy within her, and the sight of her son became a poignant reflection of her perceived unnaturalness and the profound misstep that this maternal journey appeared to embody. She couldn't help but question the wisdom of bringing a child into the world when one was ill-equipped to provide the care it deserved.

During Strabo Plinth's frequent visits to the Capitol, a temporary respite descended upon the household, allowing Marcia a momentary reprieve from the familial discord. Inquiries into her husband's activities yielded terse responses, often centered around potential opportunities for financial gain. Marcia, grateful for the absence of hunger, acknowledged that Strabo's efforts ensured Sejanus's sustenance, absolving her of any responsibility in that regard.

As weeks turned into months, Marcia gradually acclimated to the demands of motherhood. Despite the unforgiving challenges that punctuated her journey, a gradual enchantment took hold, compelling her to become increasingly captivated by the endearing features and gestures of Sejanus. From the allure of his drool-kissed lips to the tender grasp of his diminutive, chubby fingers entwined with her own, each moment forged a deeper connection. A peculiar and sweet fragrance enveloped Sejanus, forging an indelible olfactory signature that marked the essence of their shared moments. Remarkably, the mantle of security seemed to undergo a subtle shift, and within the radiance of her son's smiles and tranquil slumbers, Marcia discovered an unexpected sanctuary. The persistent specter of inadequacy, which once lingered, gradually waned, paving the way for a profound and intimate connection with her son. While the enduring weight of responsibility intermittently cast shadows on her tranquility, the overall narrative of her maternal journey acquired a nuanced beauty, where tranquility coexisted with all these cruel challenges.

As Sejanus matured and the ostensibly magnificent opportunity unraveled into a nefarious stratagem against their own kin, Marcia Plinth's nights ceased to be mere crucibles of self-doubt regarding her maternal capabilities. Rather, they transformed into contemplative arenas where she grappled with a weightier dilemma—a profound consideration between the security of her progeny, a life she had ushered into existence, and the intricate balance of propriety, loyalty, and basic humanity. The safety of her child, a living embodiment of her choices, stood juxtaposed against the moral imperatives that defined her character. The once-clear path of maternal responsibility now converged with the nebulous terrain of societal conscience, forcing Marcia to negotiate a delicate equilibrium between the desire to protect her offspring and the nuanced obligations owed to the broader human community.

In the recurrent theatre of moral deliberation, Marcia Plinth once again found herself in the presence of her metaphorical scales. With deliberative precision, she placed in one pan the security of her son—his future entwined with the Capitol's promise of prosperity and limitless opportunities. Contrasting this, in the opposing pan, she delicately balanced the weight of loyalty, humanity, her conscience as a human, as a friend, as a sister…to a sister, who would inevitably bear witness to the impending act of betrayal.

Time unfolded languorously, as days transitioned into weeks and weeks metamorphosed into months before the pendulum of the scale exhibited any inclination to move. Gradually, however, the pan bearing Sejanus descended with an unmistakable deliberation, resolving the moral quandary before her. As a silent observer before the scale, she discerned the unequivocal pronouncement: the safety of her son held precedence. The die was cast. Marcia would traverse the treacherous terrain of betrayal, relinquishing her humanity, loyalty, and the fragile thread connecting her to her sister. A formidable sacrifice, yet one overshadowed by the gravity of safeguarding her son's existence.

In her bouts of self-reflection, Marcia pondered if the scale's oscillation was merely the echo chamber of her own guilty conscience: Did the glaring lack of a maternal intuition, the belated revelation that motherhood was an acquired skill requiring copious amounts of patience and time, tip the scales of decision-making? The inquiry persisted, leading her to amusingly question whether, had she debuted as a motherhood virtuoso from day one, the scales might have twirled to a different tune.

When her husband, in an evening fraught with desperation, beseeched, "What should we do? Marcia, what…what…?" she issued forth the response ordained by the delicate equipoise of her internal scales: "Send the weapons to the Capitol. For Sejanus." Her husband, inherently indecisive, habitually seeking her counsel in matters of profound import, regarded her with a face of profound shock and pallor. In the aftermath of her seemingly casual and expeditious articulation, Marcia herself recoiled, grappling with the weightiness that her words had assumed.

Even though her husband grappled with uncertainty regarding the optimal course of action, the judicious scales had unequivocally determined Marcia Plinth's path: it was to be undertaken for Sejanus. She acknowledged the dissonance between the idealized motherhood she aspired to and the unintended role of motherhood thrust upon her. Nonetheless, she embraced the mantle of maternity, compelling her to make the decision that bespoke a mother's unique prerogative.

In the course of one of her husband's sojourns to the Capitol, he had divulged a disconcerting revelation—that the Capitol harbored intentions to institute a perverse competition following their presumed triumph, a measure to penalize the children of rebels. He had further intimated that Sejanus could never be assured of safety, as the specter of uncertainty loomed over the children since the inception of the rebellion. The Capitol, he had asserted, would undoubtedly prevail; such was the unyielding reality. Much could be articulated about Strabo Plinth, but unequivocally, he was no dreamer. He was, and remained, a pragmatist—a steadfast realist.

Hence, it came as no astonishment to either of them when the Capitol triumphed. Up to that juncture, they had diligently delivered an abundance of weaponry, judiciously accumulated reserves, and artfully cultivated connections with the Capitol, thereby securing an ascent to the very heart of the Capitol. Marcia, in her anticipation, had prepared for encountering resistance. However, what her symbolic scales had not illuminated was the magnitude of the resistance that awaited them.

In the crucible of conscience, whenever the echoes of moral discord sought ingress, reminding Marcia of the complicity she and her husband had woven with the Capitol—of the arsenal of weapons clandestinely supplied, a pervasive sentiment of disquiet—she sought solace in the enfolding embrace of her son, Sejanus. As if the fervency of the maternal embrace could serve as an expiation for the ethereal specter of moral ambiguity. There were days when the haunting cadence of conscience would yield, dissipating into the shadows, yet on others, it clung tenaciously, an unrelenting reminder of choices irrevocably made. Yet, the die was cast; the Plinths had ascended to the heart of the Capitol, forsaking the land that was now District 2.

The coin of their betrayal, earned through the covert trade in arms, was expended to purchase a semblance of security and a new existence. However, the semblance of prosperity that had eluded them in District 2 now presented itself with a veneer of disillusionment. In the Capitol, they became pariahs—subjected to disdainful glances, their presence ridiculed through clandestine murmurs that were not subtle enough to escape their keen ears. The acceptance of the blood-stained wealth acquired during the rebellion did little to mitigate the palpable ostracization. Money, an ostensible panacea, proved impotent in procuring the intangible essence of a home.

Thus, Marcia, Strabo, and Sejanus Plinth found themselves in the disquieting landscape of homelessness within the Capitol.

To Marcia, the desolate embrace of emptiness and solitude seemed like the bespoke penance for one who had tiptoed into the treacherous realms of betrayal. A traitor, she ruminated, hardly deserved the privileges of life's abundant rewards. Every scathing glance, every malevolent murmur, and each disapproving stare became, in her eyes, a rightful due. Marcia Plinth, in her grim acceptance, viewed the disdainful repertoire as dividends of her chosen path—an unwritten contract that her scale had once signed, and the toll she paid now, a non-negotiable consequence.

Yet, amidst the tribulations, Marcia Plinth harbored an unwavering conviction that the price exacted for their decision should be borne solely by her and her husband. Her son, still a little boy, was blameless and deserving of protection and love. Damnation would be her fate if she failed to afford him that sanctuary. However, no matter how fervently she showered him with affection, his surroundings conspired to diminish it. Too often, he returned home bearing physical wounds, retreated to his room in tears, and their presence at the school summoned only negative tidings. One source of anguish eclipsed all others: while gossip could swirl about her and Strabo with relative indifference, maligning Sejanus? Criticizing her little, cherubic boy with a heart of gold? When his teacher summoned them to the school and declared Sejanus "beyond help unless he changed his behaviour," Marcia's inclination was to land a punch on the said teacher—so robust that his vocal cords would consider early retirement. But Strabo's wisdom prevailed—they had to project an image of flawless "Capitol citizens" for the sake of safety. So, with clenched fists itching for a knockout, she summoned a smile, dipped into her wallet, and crooned with a tone as gracious as a venomous snake's hiss, "Oh, thank you for your unwarranted concern; I'll be sure to have a heart-to-heart with Sejanus." This morbidly polite melody played on repeat, not merely once or twice, but with the rhythmic regularity of a macabre lullaby.

Upon the tragic news of her son's demise, Volumnia, an infrequent guest at their penthouse, emerged as the bearer of sorrow. When Volumnia unexpectedly appeared at their doorstep, Marcia sensed ominous tidings. Her immediate inquiry focused on a singular, crucial word: "Sejanus?" Volumnia relayed the unfortunate tale of Sejanus's imprudent involvement with violent rebels in District 12, an unsurprising turn of events given his conduct during the Hunger Games. A meeting with these rebels culminated in a shootout, claiming the life of an innocent girl. Sejanus, branded a murderer and traitor, met a swift demise, unbeknownst to anyone in the Capitol beforehand. Coriolanus Snow, his only friend, had attempted to protect him, but Sejanus had secretly collaborated with the rebels. Marcia, engulfed in grief, scarcely paid attention. Why bother? What was the point?

The metaphorical scale resurfaced in Marcia's mind. On one side, the weight of Plinth's wealth, properties, the illusionary safety within the Capitol, her elegant abode, and myriad fashionable garments. On the opposing pan, the life, potential, and future of her son. Swiftly, the imbalance became apparent. The scale, now a reminder that she had miscalculated before, wrongly weighed her priorities. And suddenly, she realized the prior imbalance, the flawed considerations that led to the wrong decision. But, the verdict was in, and her son paid the price.

Finally, a sudden epiphany struck Marcia: motherhood truly wasn't her calling; she was ill-suited for it, a failure.

The subsequent years did little to alter her perspective. Her existence revolved around the sporadic visits from Coriolanus Snow. As a mother, she had faltered, but as a friend to Coriolanus, she had not. The boy, reminiscent of his father, Crassus Snow, failed to evoke much genuine favor from her. However, he represented all that remained—a solitary figure alongside Strabo who occasionally uttered her son's name. Despite the uncanny resemblance to Crassus Snow, whom she had encountered during the Rebellion, a figure associated with Capitol contacts during her husband's weapon deliveries, she opted to suppress those memories. Instead, she focused on the semblance to Coriolanus's mother, a figure far more agreeable than Crassus Snow. Yet, the dearth of maternal traits in Coriolanus eventually led her to relinquish any hope of resemblance.

As time unfolded, Coriolanus's visits dwindled, a fact that bothered Marcia little. She desired few visitors, detested much conversation, yearning only for a slow fade into oblivion—an apt conclusion for a mother like her and a traitor. Besides, Coriolanus always sought more money, a request she acceded to without much ado. His loyalty to her son warranted him every bit of financial support he sought.

Strabo remained conspicuously absent during that period, unsurprisingly. Marcia was aware of his numerous affairs, but it no longer bothered her. She had grown weary of Strabo's features, reminiscent of her deceased son, and welcomed the solace of solitude. Having failed as a mother, she saw no reason to strive for success as a wife. Let Strabo seek companionship elsewhere—she couldn't be bothered.

One evening, following Coriolanus's request for yet another financial contribution (was it for an Avox? She couldn't recall, and frankly, she didn't care), she received a letter from Volumnia. The letter requested her presence at the laboratory the next day, a surprising and unprecedented request. Volumnia had always shown an interest in conversing with her husband, being one of the contacts during the Rebellion. Volumnia had amassed significant wealth through weapon resale, eventually becoming a middleperson. Curiously, nobody seemed to discuss Volumnia's affluence in the Capitol, with Strabo assuming it was likely allocated for research purposes.

Initially, Marcia had no intention of going. She hadn't ventured outside since Sejanus's death and had no plans to do so until her own demise. That evening, she resolved to disregard the letter. However, the next day found her in the laboratory. She wasn't sure why she had chosen to go, but a part of her speculated that Volumnia might possess something related to Sejanus from District 12 and wished to share it. After all, Volumnia was the one who had informed her about Sejanus's death; there had to be a connection.

The laboratory should have been a disconcerting sight for her, with its cages, animals….or whatever that was, and Avoxes. Yet, Marcia Plinth ignored every aspect of it. She had internalized enough pain and suffering, leaving no room for compassion. Her son was gone, and from her perspective, any other fragment of life might as well cease to exist.

"Marcia, how delightful it is that you managed to attend. I understand how occupied you must be," Volumnia exclaimed cheerfully, displaying an unusual sense of liveliness. She was hunched over what looked like a stork. A dead one. "I couldn't help but associate you with this specimen when it arrived at the lab yesterday."

"Why on earth would you think of me?" Marcia's voice had a raspy edge, no surprise considering she hadn't engaged in conversation with anyone for three... or four... or five weeks, at least.

"Well, it's rather obvious... storks selectively eliminate a portion of their offspring as a strategic measure. The prevailing theory suggests that animal parents, providing elaborate care for their offspring, cull the weakest when it seems there won't be enough sustenance for all. By removing the weakest link, whose survival prospects would be minimal anyway, the chances of survival for the remaining offspring increase."

Marcia peered down at the stork. "I fail to comprehend your point."

Volumnia offered a friendly smile, gently and tenderly running her hand over the stork's feathers. She continued cheerfully, "Your boy wasn't cut out for the Capitol. He resisted, lacked viability, adaptability... and thus was deemed too weak. You knew that, you and Strabo, and yet you retained him here... Perhaps the comparison isn't entirely fitting, as it was more the opposite here: a deficiency of strategic foresight. Keeping him here, not compelling him to adapt, was... somehow his death sentence, wasn't it?"

Suddenly, Marcia was wide awake. After years of half-slumber, it seemed like she was opening her eyes fully for the first time, feeling her heart race. "Repeat that," she hissed. "Repeat that."

"Are you contradicting me?"

Every teacher who spoke ill of Sejanus, she had smiled back, secretly clenched her fist, responded kindly... but all that... what had it brought her? Her son was dead. And Marcia died with him.

"Say it again, and I—"

"And what then? Will you beat me? Strike me?" Volumnia pointed her finger at Marcia's clenched fists while her mouth curled up even more. "Have you never wondered about that?" She sighed, turning her gaze back to the stork. "Of course, you have. I know you have. I know it very well."

"You—"

"Save your insults, Marcia. They fall on deaf ears with me. Do you not want to know why I invited you here, or do you want to beat me first?"

Marcia remained silent for a while before she could bring herself to say, "Why am I here, Volumnia?"

"Because I hate to waste resources. Look at yourself, Marcia; I can hardly recognize you."

Marcia didn't reply. Volumnia also didn't look up, focusing on the stork, which she now precisely cut open with a knife. "This one ate its young. It often happens in nature—"

"Stop your nonsense. I don't care about your stupid bird."

"Very unfortunate. We can learn a lot from—"

"Why am I here?"

"—nature—"

"If you don't want to answer me, fine. But I won't listen to your fucking babble any longer."

Just as Marcia was about to turn away, Volumnia replied, somewhat softer, "I would like to ask you for a favor, Marcia. And I believe the favor would do you good."

"A favor?"

"A favor."

"I don't understand—"

"I am planning a kind of experiment." Now she looked at Volumnia again, appearing somewhat more serious than before. "I would like to bring five children or teenagers from the districts here."

"What is this? Hunger Games with five children this time?"

"No, they won't be locked in an arena. They will be free to roam in the Capitol, as free as possible at least. I want them to be as well integrated into our society as possible."

"Integrated? If they come from the districts, then—"

"Oh, a sore point, isn't it? Nevertheless, I want, or rather, it is necessary that they are integrated. They can go to the Academy, earn a diploma there."

"That has nothing to do with me."

"These five children should be sponsored by you. They'll get money and opportunities; you can offer them anything. You have the money. Provide them with the opportunities Sejanus had—"

"No."

"Think about it, Marcia. What's the worst that could happen?"

"Five dead children."

"Five children who would have died in the districts anyway."

"Five dead children whose parents will mourn them. I won't do that to anyone. It's sick."

"Grief seems to have loosened your tongue."

Marcia smirked. "I am already dead, Volumnia. Nothing more can be taken from me."

Now Volumnia sighed and smiled a little. "You have a flair for theatrics."

"If that's all—"

"Your husband has already agreed."

"What?"

"Strabo agreed."

"No... that... he wouldn't do that."

"But he did. It's already signed. Five children, your choice, your sponsorship."

"That... no..."

"Marcia, I would have preferred if you had agreed instead of Strabo. I want you to take care of them, you as a mother—"

"Shut up! Shut your damn mouth!"

"No need to shout, Marcia. We are all civilized, aren't we?"

"I won't take care of them."

"Then Strabo will. How was he as a father? Often at home?"

"I won't participate."

"Marcia, the children will come to the Capitol anyway. But if I leave it to someone else... someone from the Capitol... well, who actually comes from the Capitol... what do you think, how well will they take care of the five children?"

"I am not suited for this."

"Oh yes, Marcia. You are perfectly suited. You know why?"

Marcia didn't answer.

"I think you will do well." Volumnia smiled at her even more. "And Strabo has already signed anyway, so either you take care of them with him or not, but remember how frightened they will be when they come here... and whether Strabo will find the right words for them? Did he find them back then with Sejanus?"

Marcia would have liked to grab the bird and forcefully shove it into Volumnia Gaul's throat until she slowly choked on it.

"As I said," Volumnia continued joyfully, "the children will come one way or another. It's your choice whether—"

"No children."

"What?"

"No children."

"I'm afraid they have to be children—"

"No children."

"Marcia, they have to be young—"

"No children."

Volumnia sighed. "Teenagers?"

"No children."

She sighed again. "How about young... adults? Then the university instead of the academy. But no older than 18. And if it's the university, they must be suitably gifted... young adults, which will complicate the search. But if you participate, I'm fine with that."

"Why? Why should they come here?"

"A kind of experiment."

"For what?" Marcia began to tremble all over her body. It felt as if a sudden cold had taken over the lab.

Volumnia redirected her focus to the bird, continuing the dissection of its center. "I don't want them to die immediately or turn against each other, Marcia. I want them to thrive here in the Capitol. I want them to integrate as seamlessly as possible. Become genuine Capitol citizens."

Marcia chuckled. It had been ages since she last laughed, especially after Sejanus's death. The laughter felt muffled and heavy, as if her vocal cords were crumbling under this unfamiliar motion. "They won't. They can't."

"With your support, emotional, mental, financial... call it what you will... it might be possible. Just because you failed once doesn't mean you have to fail forever, Marcia."

Suddenly, Marcia ceased laughing. "Even if they survive here... that wouldn't be a life. Eventually, they will wish they could go back in time and stay in the district." Her voice now felt very weak, reduced to a mere whisper.

Upon returning from the lab, Marcia awaited her husband. She wasn't sure if he would spend the night at the penthouse; he often stayed elsewhere. However, when she heard footsteps in the hallway, she rushed to him immediately. "How could you?" It burst out of her. She hadn't spoken to Strabo in a long time, and he seemed as surprised by her suddenly regained voice as she was.

Strabo clarified that he was essentially coerced into compliance. It seemed Volumnia Gaul, post-rebellion, had become the reigning champion of influence, holding a favor from Strabo that he couldn't dodge. So, it was settled—Strabo Plinth, against his will, so he claimed, was assigned the role of the benefactor for these five budding adults. As for Marcia Plinth, she had no outstanding favors, no dread of Volumnia, or anyone else. With nothing left to lose, she shrugged off the whole situation, figuring Dr. Volumnia Gaul could take her sponsorship plan and shove it up her ass.

Yet Strabo persisted. He practically implored her to, at the very least, pretend to have some influence in the selection process, to feign involvement. Marcia staunchly repeated, over and over again, that she had no intention of participating and would not move an inch from the door—never again. However, what eluded her was that, in Strabo's desperate and sorrowful gaze, he resembled someone whose memory was intertwined with so much anguish and suffering that she wanted to inflict punishment upon herself. And what punishment would be fitting for a mother like her? If she had to choose these five children, would she be escorting them to hell, watching them endure it, as Sejanus did? Would she witness her mistake repeated five more times? Was that the punishment meant for her? Would she agree to partake because of this, or was it because Strabo bore too much resemblance to her Sejanus, the only thing she still clung to?

When the "search for the five gifted young adults" commenced in District 12, Marcia Plinth regretted yielding to her husband. What was she doing here? Would she find a child—yes, a child, still children in her eyes—here? And take this child with her just to make them utterly miserable? She didn't want to entertain the thought that Sejanus was here, that he would turn in his grave if he saw her like this. Sejanus would detest this undertaking, just as he loathed everything about the Capitol. And now Marcia Plinth was doing exactly what her dead son would despise. Why? Why did she agree? What was she thinking?

As she wandered through District 12, wondering if her son had once crossed this street, tears streamed down her face, so many that she collapsed on the ground. The truth, the only truth that now became clear to her, was that her son was alone here without her and died alone without her. She should have protected him. They should have listened to him. She should never have gone to the Capitol. She should never have betrayed her own people. And for this betrayal, her son paid with his life. And now she was about to inflict the same on someone else. Why did she come to District 12?

Strabo grabbed her arm and pulled her back up. "Marcia... please... you have to pull yourself together..."

Marcia didn't listen. Suddenly, something occurred to her. Suddenly, she realized why she had agreed.

She had agreed because Strabo had told her that they would take care of the search in the districts themselves and would start in District 12. When she heard the latter, when she heard that she could go to District 12, she didn't need her scale anymore. Not anymore. To hell with her scale! She would never rely on her scale again. The decision was crystal clear before her. She had to go to District 12.

Marcia straightened up, wiped away the tears, cleared her throat, and knew exactly what to do.

While Strabo was talking to one of the Peacekeepers, seeming a bit distracted, she asked another Peacekeeper who accompanied her in District 12, "Where do you usually execute people here?"

The Peacekeeper, looking somewhat surprised, replied slowly, "Usually at the Hanging Tree."

"Could I see the place, please?" Marcia slipped some money into the Peacekeeper's pocket. People were the same everywhere, she thought. Her lips formed a slight smile as they made their way to this Hanging Tree. It all made sense. She had made the decision long before, but something was missing. The place was missing. The right place. She had insisted on a small weapon upon her arrival in District 12—for her safety. She felt the small, handy weapon in her jacket pocket.

"We're almost there," said the Peacekeeper.

Marcia continued to feel the small weapon in her pocket. It would be perfect. Not much longer, and she would be in the same place where her son died, alone, without her. Even though the time was not right, even though the time was wrong, even though it was too late, she would follow him. Like a real mother. To hell with Volumnia and her stupid bird. She was a mother. Yes, a failed one, but still a mother. And as a mother, she would rather die than devour her offspring. After all, she was not an animal. She was a human. And like every human, she had a choice.

And Marcia Plinth chose to follow her sweet, innocent boy.

They passed through a large square when Marcia suddenly turned around because she heard something that was supposed to thwart her plan.

"I knew Sejanus!"

Chapter Text

It was a strange experience to observe those who had once reveled in the demise of tributes, their laughter and exuberance echoing in jubilation, now reduced to mere whimpering, mourning, and self-pity. The passing of a figure like Livia was lamented as a tragedy, while the demise of someone like Jessup was callously dismissed, even deemed as entertainment rather than a consequential loss.

Seeking to dispel these ruminations, I found myself acknowledging the imperative of aligning with this same crowd on this particular day more than ever. It dawned on me that as the public turned against me upon the release of the impending statement, it was paramount not to attract undue attention. My mind wandered during the lecture, contemplating the fate of fellow district students who lacked the life-saving rope, those not seated alongside Lucky Flickerman reporting on the tragedy, and those absent from the ball with no alibi—though, as Coriolanus rightly noted, it would likely alter nothing.

The professor delved into a discourse on biology, but the subject might as well have been presented in a foreign language for all the comprehension I gleaned. Typically, my lack of understanding perturbed me less unless it underscored my inadequacies. Today, however, I wished for a comprehension of the lecture merely to divert my thoughts—thoughts that lingered on other tributes, reflections on my unbridled lies during the interview, and musings on Coriolanus Snow, who owed me a multitude of answers, whose expression during the interview… No, I staunchly resolved not to delve into that train of thought. Nevertheless, suspicion festered within me that I had inadvertently stepped into a trap, though the nature of it eluded me.

Clemmie chose to forgo university today, and the campus exuded an eerie emptiness, likely due to the recent rebel attack on a public building. Despite the circumstances, my attendance seemed imperative. Witnesses were indispensable—individuals capable of observing both my sorrow over the tragic events and my profound concern for bringing the culprits to justice.

As the professor scrawled indecipherable diagrams on the board, a wave of nausea engulfed me. Despite my nearly empty stomach, an overwhelming sickness permeated my being. I anticipated the imminent release of the statement, understanding that if Coriolanus's plan succeeded and spared me from public censure, I had done nothing to shield my fellow district students. Despite their reluctance, they should have been my confidants, people, friends even, with whom I felt a connection. Yet, it appeared that the denizens of District 12 had effectively ostracized me. I felt a stranger everywhere, and solace seemed elusive—save, perhaps, from a peculiar blonde boy who interpreted "offering solace" as fastening a chain around my neck.

Amidst the sparse attendees in the lecture, I stood, sensing their eyes upon me, and hastily retreated to the restrooms. Inside, I succumbed to a bout of vomiting, though there was little substance to expel. Subsequently, I splashed my face with cold water, allowing it to swirl in my mouth as I contemplated the duration until the statement's release. The wait was excruciating, reminiscent of my time at the zoo—anticipating the potential onset of death. The weight bore down relentlessly, intensifying with each passing moment. Coriolanus had mentioned a few hours of waiting before leaking the statement. But how many hours remained? Did the early morning interview with Lucky suffice to divert attention? Did enough viewers witness it? Was my credibility intact, or had my myriad lies left room for doubt that would now prove to be my undoing? Had I ventured to the Capitol only to meet my end here instead of in District 12? I slapped my face repeatedly with cold water.

Around midday, I made my solitary way to the cafeteria, an unsurprising prospect given the absence of Clemmie and the prevailing caution following yesterday's assault. Even if my interview had managed to accrue me some modicum of sympathy, the reluctance of anyone to share a table with me was palpable. Curiously, the cafeteria, typically abuzz with activity, bore an unusual stillness as I surveyed the expansive hall in search of other district students, to no avail. Had they, perhaps, opted for seclusion, fearing the designation of scapegoats? One couldn't help but wonder if their calculated absence was a strategic maneuver or a manifestation of resignation.

However, my scrutiny extended beyond the ranks of district students. The conspicuous absence of Coriolanus from the scene intensified my concern. My subsequent gaze shifted to the screens adorning the cafeteria walls, yet the statement remained conspicuously absent. How protracted was this deliberate delay, I pondered. Was it a tactical move to create a temporal distance between my televised exchange with Lucky and the impending statement, affording them the latitude to ascribe blame without the tether of emotional attachment lingering from my televised appearance? A disconcerting shiver traversed my spine, an unsettling awareness that something awry pervaded the atmosphere. Yet, frustratingly, I just couldn't put my finger on what it was.

As the day at the university drew to a close, around four o'clock in the afternoon, I made my way back to the apartment, stealing a final glance at the university monitors. There still remained an unsettling absence of information regarding the anticipated statement. The collective speculation persisted, yet official channels yielded no affirmation, not even a hint or articulation beyond acknowledging the tragic nature of the incident. A conspicuous void lingered. When, I pondered, would the pronouncement be articulated?

To my chagrin, the day elapsed surreptitiously, leaving me in a state of prolonged anticipation. The subsequent day unfolded similarly, shrouded in the same sick silence. A disconcerting stillness persisted into the day thereafter. Curiously absent from the campus landscape was also Coriolanus Snow. Typically ubiquitous when his presence was least desirable, he managed to elude my scrutiny precisely when I sought his presence.

Upon the fifth day subsequent to the assault on Heavensbees Hall, the prevailing disquiet reached an apex that became increasingly insufferable. The elusive Coriolanus persisted in his absence, while the ambient temperament surrounding me grew evermore charged, bordering on a palpable aggression. Corridors, the cafeteria, and even lecture halls bore witness to individuals not merely engaging in discreet discourse but openly embroiled in quarrels that verged on vehement. Professors responded with heightened irritability to student inquiries, and the students, in turn, exhibited scant regard for the academic proceedings. The prevailing tension hinted at a collective threshold on the verge of breach. While the internal discord amongst Capitol residents elicited minimal concern, my disquiet stemmed from the realization that I teetered perilously close to becoming a conduit for such pent-up pressures.

"Lucy! Lucy!" My attempt to enter the lecture hall, already belated due to the labyrinthine nature of the campus, was interrupted by Clemmie's hastened approach. Her countenance bore a flush, and she seemed visibly breathless.

"Clemmie, I am already..."" I commenced, but my tardiness seemed to elude her awareness. She seized my hand, pulling me away from the entrance and several paces into the corridor. Her trembling hand betrayed a profound agitation.

"Do you remember the boy from District 5?"

I acknowledged her inquiry with a nod. Indeed, I retained recollections of the boy from District 5. Witness to his humiliation at Clemmie's party, and mindful of the subsequent public shooting on campus, I momentarily contorted my countenance, realizing that Clemmie's query emanated from an apparent lack of resonance with the noteworthy events. Apparently, she did not find the execution (or the boy) particularly memorable. Swiftly, I recomposed myself, softening my features. "Yes, I remember," I responded in subdued tones.

"Two... two campus guards ambushed him... and... he's dead now, Lucy."

"Clemmie... he is dead, yes, but he was executed on the Grand University Square..." I pondered whether recent events had blurred her recollection, mirroring the disorientation evident in others.

Clemmie hastily shook her head. "No, no, no... I am referring to the other boy. Maybe not from District 5, but from... oh, whatever, does it matter? In any case, the other boy from the other District is now dead, too."

"District 3," I interjected almost reflexively.

"Yes, 3, right... Lucy... have you heard what people are saying lately? People are saying that... well..."

She refrained from completing her sentence. "That we, the District-students bear culpability," I supplied with stoic precision. I hadn't informed Clemmie about an impending statement, neither had Coriolanus, who had kept her in the dark, suggesting that it would be prudent to publicly question other individuals alongside Lucky to keep people informed. I hadn't corrected him in that regard.

"Lucy, I think it would be better if you went home," she urged with a note of concern, her fingers tracing a reassuring path along my upper arm. "You really should go home."

Cognizant of the inadvertent weightiness of her counsel, I involuntarily grimaced for the second time during our discourse. Return home? Pray, where might such a haven be found? I harbored no domicile, no sanctuary, no locale of assured security.

"Lucy? You're not saying anything."

I marshaled my composure once more. Bestowing upon her a gentle smile, I responded, "Thank you, Clemmie, for being so concerned about me. But if people think I might be responsible for this, it wouldn't make much sense for me to hide as if I have something to conceal, don't you think?"

Clemmie maintained a contemplative silence. Her gaze extended into the distance, while her hand descended from my upper arm. Meanwhile, I observed her attire—an incongruity within the context of Clemmie's usual sartorial choices. Clad in a dark yellow hue, a color seldom embraced by her, she stood as a testament to the dissonance between her current disposition and her aversion to the color, an aversion previously explained as rooted in a desire to expunge recollections. Yet, paradoxically, she presented herself entirely enveloped in the very shade she purportedly sought to evade.

After a contemplative pause, she punctuated the stillness. "You have a valid point. The sudden absence of your presence on the campus would undoubtedly draw attention, particularly now when—"

"All eyes are fixated on me."

"Exactly." She lowered her gaze to her feet, maintaining an air of introspection, and continued somewhat ambiguously, "By the way, have you seen Coryo since... you know?"

I affirmed with a nod.

"I don't like any of this, Lucy. Not at all. Something is amiss, and I don't know if I want to know, or if it's better to tread in the dark."

Her words caught me off guard. For the first time since our acquaintance, it seemed she was baring her soul, as if, in this fleeting moment, the barriers between us had momentarily fractured, allowing us to stand face to face unencumbered by the usual burdens we each carried.

Being tardy to the lecture hall led to the unwelcome consequence of the already irritable and disgruntled professor publicly shaming me. I scarcely paid heed to his admonitions, catching only fragments such as "characteristic of individuals like you" and "what were they thinking, sending people from the districts here," as I took my seat. In the midst of this, I pondered how I could maintain such composure. I stood on the precipice of following the other deceased district student into the afterlife, so why did a calm demeanor persist? There were only two of us left. Not many to blame.

As this day, too, eventually wound to a close, on my way to the apartment, I traversed a group of six or seven students deeply immersed in an exceedingly heated discussion, reminiscent of the others. Attempting to circumvent them, I achieved little success, for suddenly, one of them stood directly in my path.

"Where are you headed? To Flickerman, to cry as if you're one of us?" The girl, not much older than myself, sported a rainbow-colored blouse.

"Oh, I see," I began, feigning a dramatic sigh. "Need a recommendation from me? I could put in a good word with Lucky, you know."

Before I could articulate another utterance, a dull ache reverberated across my right cheek, ushering in an unceremonious descent to the ground. It appeared that the reservoirs of both her patience and mine were dwindling. The girl exhibited no restraint, extending her assault beyond a solitary strike. A forceful kick to my shin compelled an involuntary yelp to escape my lips. "Care to repeat your words, you District derogation?" she bellowed, punctuating her inquiry with another calculated blow. Nonetheless, the agony failed to attain a magnitude substantial enough to quell the surging tide of indignation provoked by this physical affront. The preceding days had been emotionally taxing, and my capacity for judicious decision-making in moments of anger had never been a strength of mine.

I tightened my fists, poised for a response, when an unseen force seized me from behind, dragging me backward as if I were a mere sack of flour, devoid of any human weight.

"Really, Aradne, do we get this little girl on girl action for free? Honestly?" echoed Caesar's voice above me. Surveying my surroundings, I discerned a growing assembly of onlookers.

The girl, too, absorbed the unfolding scene, her face now suffused with a deep crimson hue. She hastily smoothed her tousled locks and regained composure. "I... I..." she faltered, casting furtive glances in every direction.

"I wouldn't object, but for a Crane, isn't this display a tad inappropriate, Aradne?" Caesar continued, seizing my arm and elevating me. My footing felt precarious, and the pain on my face began to assert itself.

"Come on, there's nothing more to see here," he continued.

The girl made a hasty exit, a retreat by any other description. Swiftly, the others followed suit, leaving only Caesar and me amidst the fading commotion. Caesar still maintained his grip on my arm, assertive enough to avert an impending stumble. A metallic taste lingered in my mouth as I detected the flavor of blood upon my lips.

"Not an expert, but I'd say that shade of red doesn't suit you," Caesar remarked.

I met his gaze once more, wrenching my arm free, a maneuver that nearly compromised my balance. Taking a few measured steps backward, I regained a semblance of poise. As I stood with newfound steadiness, Caesar approached, and an immediate tension enveloped me.

"I—"

My sentence remained unfinished as he simply passed by.

"If I were you, I wouldn't roam around alone anymore," he said, his voice trailing off as he turned a corner and vanished.

Thus, I found myself in solitude, countenancing a swollen face and a blood-stained lip.

On the morrow, marking the sixth day since the assault on the Grand Heavensbees Hall, I disclosed the state of my appearance to Clemmie when our paths crossed on the campus in the morning. "Crane? Crane?… Well, I'm not surprised," she responded, presenting me with a steaming cup of hot chocolate. A peculiar gesture, I mused, though the warmth of the beverage was a welcome comfort. The days were embracing a cold that permeated, and despite my long-standing friend's loyalty, one of my true companions, I could presently forgo his allegiance.

"Why is it not surprising?" I queried, prompted more by the need to sustain conversation than genuine curiosity. The fact that a fellow student here wished for my demise did not shock me in the least; it struck me as somewhat paradoxical that Clemmie expressed surprise, considering the information she had shared with me the previous day. Sipping the chocolate, I shivered briefly as the warmth danced on my lips. Yet, acutely acquainted with hunger and thirst, I dismissed the minor discomfort and the taste of blood; the indulgence in chocolate outweighed the tribulations.

"She's her little sister," Clemmie confided in hushed tones as we traversed toward the main edifice.

"Whose little sister?" The fiery sensation on my lips prompted me to ponder whether the warm drink had been truly a good idea.

"Arachne Crane's little sister."

"Who is that?" I ran my tongue over the crimson spot, intensifying the burning sensation.

Clemmie abruptly halted, her gaze fixated on me with incredulity. "Arachne Crane... she... you don't remember her?" A face filled with horror greeted me as I gazed at Clemmie.

I gave a slight shake of my head. "I haven't been here for an extended duration; memorizing names doesn't come instantly—"

"She was a mentor. During the Hunger Games, during your Hunger Games," Clemmie continued, her astonishment lingering. "She... she died back then."

"During the attack on the arena?"

"No. Preceding that. In... the Zoo," she uttered in a hushed tone, her gaze now redirected forward. An unexpected tinge of anger seemed to emanate from her.

A vague recollection stirred within me—the girl who perished in the Zoo. Brandy, from District 10, fell victim to a gunshot as her mentor subjected her to cruel taunts, alternately offering and retracting sustenance until Brandy resorted to ending her life. Now, the lack of surprise on Clemmie's part began to crystallize. The sister viewed me with a disdain surpassing that of others; to her, I was likely akin to Brandy—an unwelcome intrusion in the Capitol and a reminder of what had transpired with her sister. Anyway, I chose not to disclose to Clemmie that Caesar had more or less helped me.

In front of the main edifice, a semblance of public mourning was scheduled for the fallen students, friends, sponsors, and others. Despite the allure of various food stalls, my initial inclination to approach them was subordinated to the prudence of staying by Clemmie's side. It wouldn't do to risk accusations of insensitivity. The principal, in the midst of delivering his oration, commanded our attention as we melded into the somber gathering. The discovery of my presence elicited disapproving glances from some in the crowd, prompting a momentary reflection on the wisdom of my attendance. Nonetheless, adherence to the plan took precedence; visibility and a facade of grief were imperative before the assembled multitude. A resolve to survive had been made, even if it entailed staging a cruel spectacle. Reminding myself of the debt I owed these people—none, after all, they didn't even accept me as a living human being—I forged tears and directed a mournful gaze toward the principal as he recited the roster of the departed. They didn't deserve my pity or compassion—they didn't extend any to me, the other tributes, or anyone else from the districts. Yet, I couldn't help but feel disgusted with myself as I forced out a few tears.

A fleeting glance at Clemmie revealed a piercing stare. She hastily averted her eyes, yet the subtle manifestation of repulsion was not lost on me.

"And now, I extend greetings to President Ravinstill," proclaimed the principal, ushering in a cacophony of applause that reverberated from every corner. The enthusiasm displayed transcended mere exuberance; it verged on unbridled euphoria. The fervent applause resonated as if this venerable figure before them bestowed the essence of life itself.

The sustained applause, a melodic crescendo that reverberated everywhere, stretched across several minutes, creating an atmosphere of adoration and reverence. The figure standing regally on the elevated dais appeared to bask in the prolonged ovation, savoring every moment as if it were a sweet nectar. In the midst of this applause, an uncanny resonance struck a chord within me, a subtle connection to another time and place. Suddenly, in the canvas of my mind, the vivid image of Coriolanus Snow materialized, commanding a podium amid the fervent cheers of Capitol citizens. His platform, a macabre tapestry of crimson colors, rested upon the bodies of those from the districts and other adversaries, a haunting reminder of his ruthless ascent. Recollections of Coriolanus's presence during the Opening Ball speech flooded my consciousness, his silhouette draped in unconventional black attire, a stark contrast to the opulence surrounding him. A sense of revelation, akin to a sudden burst of enlightenment, enveloped me.

In this moment of clarity, the fantasy of Coriolanus assuming the role of President Ravinstill transcended mere conjecture; it solidified into an unshakable certainty. In that fleeting moment, an ephemeral fusion of mental realms occurred, an invisible tether granting me a transient glimpse into the labyrinth of Coriolanus Snow's subconscious. It was as if a veil had been lifted, offering a fleeting glimpse into the machinations of a mind driven by ambition and hunger for power. Belatedly, I recognized the undeniable truth that had eluded me for so long: His articulated visions in District 12, where he once stood as a Peacekeeper, suddenly coalesced into a coherent narrative of calculated ambition. The cadence of his speech, a mixture of manipulation and persuasion, echoed in my mind. His unabashed relish for the limelight and an insatiable thirst for power—all the disparate pieces of the puzzle fell into place, forming a chilling portrait of a man consumed by his ambitions. How could I have remained oblivious for so long? The revelation of Coriolanus Snow's true desire, his seamless transition from enigmatic figure to the embodiment of political authority, left me grappling with the weight of my delayed understanding. In the aftermath of this realization, the applause in the present seemed both an ode to his cunning and a harbinger of the ominous future he sought to shape.

He craved this. Standing on the podium was his desire. Becoming president was his aspiration. Hence, his focus on his future, on the future of Panem… Naturally, what else could this power-hungry, cruel, cunning boy possibly yearn for? Only the highest position could satiate his hunger.

Amidst the enduring applause, I felt a profound sense of foolishness. Following the tumultuous events of the attack, he gently seized my hand, guiding me out of the hall. Later, standing before the apartment, he fixed his gaze upon me with an intensity that bespoke hunger and relentlessness, as if his eyes alone could devour me. In that moment, I succumbed. I made the mistake of believing that I alone was the object of desire, that I alone could fill the void. How could I have entertained such illusions? Despite the disquieting aftermath of the recent bombing, a small enclave within me remained unaffected by the unease his gaze should have stirred. This diminutive part of me, perhaps swayed by the chaos that had unfolded, misinterpreted his possessive yearning for something else—as if narrowly escaping death at the hands of Coriolanus Snow weren't sufficient motivation for me to extinguish this little part of me on my own.

"I can distinctly reminisce about the time when I stood in this very place, a youthful presence enraptured by the halls of academia at Capitol University. I truly, truly wish for the opportunity to address you on an altogether divergent occasion. The ineffable nature of the sentiments that surround this moment defies articulation, for it is beyond the grasp of language to encapsulate the depth of..."

I could never have satisfied his hunger, for I was not truly what Coriolanus Snow desired.

"….in the aftermath of the egregious bombing that befell the Grand Heavensbees Hall, the gravity of the situation necessitates a discourse that transcends mere words. This solemn assembly calls for a reflection on the resilience of our collective spirit and an exploration of the indomitable human capacity to find solace and unity amidst the darkest of hours. Let us delve into the intricacies of hope and fortitude as we navigate through the echoes of tragedy, seeking a path forward marked by solidarity and renewal…."

Of course not. Who would contemplate ending the life of someone they deeply desired? He did not venture into District 12 for my sake. Nor did he resort to deception during the Hunger Games on my behalf. His actions were driven by a vision of his own future, one where he stood as president.

"….bear witness to the struggles and sacrifices that paved the way for our present prosperity. The rebellion, though quelled, should serve as a constant reminder—a testament etched in the chronicles of time, cautioning us against the perils of forgetting. The Dark Days may have receded into the past, but their shadows continue to shape our present and cast a discerning gaze on the path that lies ahead. Let us not falter in our commitment to preserving the legacy of Capitol. Our unity, our strength, and our unyielding resolve have propelled us to triumph over the adversities that sought to unravel the fabric of our society. It is this very strength that must stand as a bulwark against any whispers of dissent, any murmurings that question the authority of Capitol."

I was precluded from harboring such contemplations. Coriolanus was not inclined to shield me. Possessing his own intricate agenda, my inclusion within it hinged solely on the prospect of offering him assistance. Coriolanus would repeatedly betray and relentlessly pursue me, persistently and tirelessly, if it signified advancing even a single step closer to the authentic desire that fueled his aspirations.

"….may our shared history be the star that guides us, and may our unity be the impervious shield that guards against any resurgence of dissent. Let us march into the future with heads held high, fortified by the knowledge that the strength of Capitol remains our greatest asset…"

Yet every desire could also be a vulnerability. And his, I knew all too well.

Upon the conclusion of the address, an eruption of fervent applause echoed throughout the venue. My attention had waned during the discourse, yet, aside from the customary proclamation of "We shall identify the culprits and exact retribution," President Ravinstill uttered not a single syllable concerning the students from the districts. Where on earth was the anticipated statement?

"And now, I am privileged to yield the floor to a student who, much like the majority of you, bore witness to the attack."

My premonition was on the verge of realization. There he stood, resplendent in a rich wine-red ensemble. His hair meticulously swept back, a feat only Coriolanus Snow could execute with such precision. The coat adorning his suit—immaculately smoothed, tailored with exactitude to complement his form. I pondered whether, in the process of dressing, he contemplated the presidential semblance he projected. How he scrutinized himself in the mirror—a characteristic I had discerned earlier—and reveled in the spectacle of his own reflection. President Snow, what an abomination.

"In the face of this unspeakable tragedy that has befallen us, I too find myself struggling to articulate the depth of our collective grief. The Grand Heavensbees Hall has been marred by an act of violence that transcends comprehension. I stand before you not just as a speaker but as a grieving man who, like so many of you, has lost cherished friends and loved ones in this heinous attack. The echoes of their laughter, the warmth of their camaraderie, now replaced by an eerie silence that permeates the very essence of this once-vibrant hall.

As we grapple with the aftermath of this devastating event, let us first honor the memory of those we have lost. They were not just students, but pillars of our community, bearers of dreams and aspirations cut short by an act of senseless brutality. Their absence leaves a void that cannot be measured, a void that serves as a stark reminder of the fragility of life.

Let us not be consumed by despair. In this moment of darkness, let us find solace in each other, offering support and compassion to those who mourn. Together, we can hopefully soon rise above the shadows cast by this tragedy and, in unity, illuminate the path towards healing. As we embark on the journey of recovery, let our collective determination be a beacon of hope. The Grand Heavensbees Hall may bear the scars of this senseless act, but it will not be defined by it. With unwavering resolve, we shall rebuild not only the physical structure but also the spirit of community that binds us.

May the memories of those we have lost inspire us to create a future where such senseless acts have no place. Together, let us stand against the forces that seek to shatter our unity and forge a path towards a stronger tomorrow."

What. Fucking. Bullshit.

Had the terms "resilience," "strength," "testament," "reminder," or "Grand Heavensbees Hall" dared to rear their heads again, my facade would have crumbled, and I would have graced Coriolanus's fine coat—happily—with the contents of my stomach. Talk about redecorating the Capitol fashion.

If only someone had scrutinized more closely, they would have found it impossible to ignore that countenance brimming with unabashed pride. It absorbed every morsel of attention, every round of applause, and every lingering gaze as if his very existence hinged on these fleeting affirmations. This exhibition of self-aggrandizement, a spectacle demanding attention, betrayed the depths of a relentless craving for validation, an insatiable hunger for adulation that echoed louder than any carefully crafted facade.

"As a concluding note, allow me to gently draw your attention to the forthcoming event scheduled for Sunday at 6 p.m., upon the closure of the polling stations. A memorial service, held within the venerable confines of our university's main edifice, extends a gracious invitation to each and every one of you. In commemoration of those who departed prematurely from our midst, familial figures and cherished associates will articulate poignant reflections for each departed student.

Additionally, our esteemed student, Lucy Baird, shall lend her melodious voice to provide solace during our collective mourning, complemented by a carefully curated program of musical offerings. It is with gratitude that we acknowledge the sponsorship of this event by President Ravinstill—naturally, my personal perspective expresses the hope that he will graciously assume the mantle of our new president on the approaching Sunday. I extend my sincere appreciation to each of you."

I gazed forward, fixating on the podium, Coriolanus in my line of sight. A lingering doubt crept in—had the aftermath of the bombing finally caught up with me, casting uncertainty upon the reliability of my senses? Clemmie, venting her frustration, delivered a forceful jab to my chest before whispering, "I thought you hadn't crossed paths with him since then."

"I haven't."

"Hmm, so how is it that you've spontaneously secured a slot for Sunday?"

"I don't."

"Lucy, I—"

"I genuinely had no prior knowledge of it."

Clemmie persisted until finally conceding, "Alright, I believe you. Truly. It's just so like him to orchestrate something without consulting or informing you beforehand. Nonetheless, it's not that terrible, is it? I mean, if you're officially part of the event, if your involvement has been formally announced, and the entire thing is sponsored by President Ravinstill... it doesn't reflect poorly on you. By then, however, those facial bruises should have faded. It might be wise to consult with Tigris regarding your attire... I could accompany you if you'd like."

Isn't it delightful to be surrounded by individuals perpetually absorbed in their own needs? Well, I don't have the right to complain. After all, I did nothing different.

"Yes, you're right. Let's attend together."

And just like that, Clemmie's earlier vexation seemed to dissipate.

I found immense relief as this elaborate spectacle gradually approached its conclusion. Though I remained uncertain about how to assimilate this newfound information and discern Coriolanus's motives—presumably extending beyond my personal security—I yearned to distance myself from the throngs of people. Despite having a midday lecture, the subject eluding me—Physics? Mathematics? Literature?—I found myself indisposed to venture towards the lecture hall. The lingering absence of the anticipated statement, the dwindling (life) presence of District students, and Coriolanus's prolonged absence from campus during those past days all burdened my thoughts. Compounded by the increasingly peculiar behavior of the populace—heightened tension, an aggressive undercurrent, even in the aftermath of a recent bombing—they seemed unusually…restless. Yet, perhaps, I projected these perceptions, grounded in my accustomed sense of perpetual threat, onto a populace unaccustomed to such a reality.

Swiftly bidding farewell to Clemmie, who retreated to her journalism club, I savored the remnants of hot chocolate while standing by the staircase leading to the main university building. Intent on avoiding a repetition of yesterday's incident, I resolved to traverse the space swiftly, maintaining a prudent distance from any passing figures.

"A performance by Lucy Baird, what an honor for us Capitol fuckers," he jestingly exclaimed. There was no need to pivot; I had already committed his bored, sardonic voice to memory.

"Do you comprehend the term 'stalking'?" I retorted. One encounter with an insistent pretty Capitol boy had been more than enough; I had no appetite for a repeat performance.

Caesar now stood beside me, adorned in a long, black, robust coat. "Ouch, what a heartbreaking greeting, flattering me with such titles, especially considering that I had to save my supposed stalking victim's sweet little ass once again."

"I didn't ask for your help."

"Hm, you didn't ask for help before the bombing either—or did you?—and yet Coriolanus Snow came running towards you like a madman….even before the actual attack, I might add," he intoned with continued disinterest, almost amusement, yet an underlying nuance lingered.

"I don't know what you mean." Although I comprehended his implications, it struck me as imprudent to divulge my perspective on the incident to this enigmatic stranger.

Caesar, hitherto indifferent to my presence, now gazed directly at me. His eyes met mine, the unmistakable forest green impossible to overlook. Taking a deliberate step closer, his broad shoulders suggested an imposing presence. "Ah, the innocent little singing bird from District 12. Always fluttering in the dark, aren't you?"

"Don't you have anything better to do than—"

Suddenly, I sensed his thumb gliding over my lips, his fingers briefly cradling my chin before abruptly releasing their hold.

"What...?"

"You had something there," he casually remarked, placing his thumb on his lips, momentarily licking it. "Chocolate and... blood, I suppose. Hm, seems fitting. I do have a sweet tooth."

"How does the saying here go? District folks supposedly lack any manners….of course, in comparison to—"

A fleeting, crooked smile played on his lips. "Oh, I've never claimed to possess any. Essentially, the word on the Capitol street is that I'm thoroughly lacking in manners." His voice, now darker, deeper, almost whispered, carried a hint of playful mischief. As he allowed his hand to descend, sighing, his gaze shifted away from me. "Perhaps consider a congratulatory melody for Sunday."

"Yes, that will undoubtedly resonate well—someone like me singing about the majestic Grand Heavensbees Hall succumbing to a bombing—"

"For fuck's sake, not congratulations for the bombing."

"Then—"

"Our esteemed lovely President Ravinstill, just in the improbable event he retains his position." His demeanor remained composed, the familiar boredom still evident, yet he subtly grimaced. Familiar in my Capitol interactions, it resonated as a nuanced expression.

"You don't like him."

"Who?"

"President Ravinstill."

"Of course, I like him. He's the President."

"That does not necessarily, automatically imply—"

"Cupcake, you reside in the Capitol now. Here, automatons define the norm. Best acclimate yourself accordingly."

With that, he departed, an exit devoid of any parting niceties. Evidently, manners eluded him entirely. Observing his departure, I pondered whether he anticipated gratitude for his actions yesterday or during the elevator incident at Clemmie's party. Yet, I reminded myself that manners, or the lack thereof, were a mutual affair.

Chapter Text

It was Sunday, and the statement still hadn't surfaced, holding District students accountable for the bombing. The suspicion lingered—either Coriolanus Snow was handed misleading information, the statement deliberately ignored due to the dwindling number of District students, or Coriolanus had merely played me for a fool. All three possibilities seemed plausible, and none sat well with me.

Tigris had provided a black dress, simple and unobtrusive, fitting for a sort of funeral. I styled my hair up, adorned with a white ribbon. Stepping into the main university building, a sea of black-clad individuals greeted me, Caesar Highbottom likely lost in the crowd.

"There you are." Clemmie seized my hand, pulling me through the hall to a newly built stage. Portraits of the fallen students and others adorned the vast space. The portraits, lifeless yet seemingly watching, added an eerie touch. "You're late," scolded Clemmie as we traversed the hall. "You missed the family speeches."

I nodded hastily. "Where's the guitar?"

"It's already on stage. Look." Clemmie pointed to the guitar placed next to a chair and a microphone. "Now go, get up there."

I sighed, ascended the few steps to the stage, and took a seat. "Dear..." I glanced at the seemingly inactive microphone. A questioning look toward Clemmie, and she rushed over to the tech team nestled in the corner next to the stage. Then, she hurried back to the front of the stage, nodding eagerly at me.

Clearing my throat, I began, "Dear fellow students, dear friends, and dear Capitol University alumni, I want to extend my condolences to everyone. However, as a singer, I prefer not to express them with spoken words. I have always felt that my true emotions can be better conveyed through a song."

Grabbing the guitar, I started to sing:

"In the silence of the night, a city weeps,
Hearts shattered, dreams buried deep.
A symphony of sorrow, echoes in the air,
Tears falling like rain, a heavy despair.

But in the shadows, a flicker of light,
A melody of hope, breaking through the night.
For every soul we lost, let our voices rise,
In unity we stand, wiping tears from our eyes.

Oh, let the healing begin,
In the echoes of the pain, a love to mend.
United we'll rise, hand in hand,
A song for the fallen, across the land.

Candles flicker, casting shadows on the wall,
Memories linger, as we answer the call.
Through the darkness, we'll find our way,
In the arms of compassion, we'll sway.

In the ruins of despair, a seed of grace,
A melody of love, in this sacred space.
For every heart that aches, let our spirits soar,
A song for the wounded, forevermore.

Oh, let the healing begin,
In the echoes of the pain, a love to mend.
United we'll rise, hand in hand,
A song for the fallen, across the land.

Though the night is long, and the road is steep,
Together we'll climb, from the depths so deep.
Through the echoes of grief, let our anthem play,
A song of resilience, guiding us each day.

As we mourn, let the music rise,
A balm for the soul, reaching towards the skies.
In the face of tragedy, we find our strength,
A symphony of unity, going to great lengths.

Oh, let the healing begin,
In the echoes of the pain, a love to mend.
United we'll rise, hand in hand,
A song for the fallen, across the land.

May the notes of solace fill the air,
A melody of comfort, a collective prayer.
For every heart that's broken, every soul in despair,
In this song of healing, we declare:
Love will triumph, love will repair."

I surveyed the crowd, each pair of eyes fixed on me, and the audible sobs resonated from all corners. After a prolonged pause, the applause ensued. With poise, I rose, executed several bows, and gracefully exited the stage, maintaining a dignified silence. Sensitivity and tact were paramount on this solemn occasion.

Clemmie greeted me as I descended, offering her feedback. "I think it resonated with the audience."

I nodded.

"Tigris exhibited remarkable skill with the makeup," Clemmie continued, scrutinizing my face. "It conceals everything seamlessly. Not that anyone expected anything less from her….she really possesses an innate talent for all endeavors." Despite her attempt to remain composed, a subtle smile and a hint of blush betrayed her emotions.

I responded with a restrained smile.

"Have you seen Coriolanus, in the meantime?" Clemmie inquired.

I simply shook my head. No, the enigmatic golden boy hadn't graced me with his presence since his admiring display in front of Lucky, unless one counted his recent oration a few days prior.

"Hmm," she mused absentmindedly.

The ceremony continued with the President of the Alumni Club of Capitol University delivering another address. I remained disengaged, skeptical that the speaker would unveil the culprits behind the attack. Meanwhile, Clemmie and I proceeded to a petite dessert stand adorned solely with sweet confections. I delicately selected two small cookies, one of them a butter cookie. Yet, the buttery delight triggered unwelcome memories of the Covey, a chapter I was eager to consign to oblivion. I refused to dwell on those recollections; distractions were to be avoided, and any exhibition of weakness or remorse was unacceptable today. Consequently, I returned the cookie.

"One might think you'd appreciate the subtleties of rebellion in all its forms." Caesar's voice emanated from my left. "Ah, but rebellion should be strategic. Returning a cookie is hardly a strategic move."

Without turning, I responded succinctly, "You have no idea. It's a whole culinary rebellion happening right under your Capitol refined nose." What. The. Hell. Was. I. Doing.

"Me? Refined?" Caesar chuckled briefly. "Don't flatter me too much, or I might be tempted to join your rebellion. Maybe people are right. Perhaps even the sweetest things in life deserve a second thought. Still, one does not return a touched cookie, you see."

I watched as his hand grabbed the butter cookie I had just put back, and as I followed the movement with my eyes, I saw Caesar Highbottom put the cookie straight into his mouth and nibble on it. His audacious act of reclaiming the butter cookie obviously did not go unnoticed. I fixed him with a stern gaze, opting to leave the interaction without a word. I turned away, joining Clemmie at a small, elegantly arranged standing table where she engaged in conversation with two quite familiar faces.

Engaged in fervent discourse, the trio dissected the intricacies of the impending presidential election. Evidently, a prevailing majority seemed to lean towards endorsing President Ravinstill, notwithstanding his recent lackluster performance in the polls a mere few weeks prior. It was only a short while back when his contender, Concordia Sertorius, espousing the mantra of "A bright future for Panem," held sway over the affections of the electorate. A palpable weariness towards President Ravinstill, a figure evocative of trying times, pervaded the sentiments of the majority. In stark contrast, Concordia Sertorius had emerged as the emblem of a nascent governance paradigm—one inclined towards prioritizing the ethos of reconstruction over nostalgic preoccupations.

The realm of politics failed to engage my interest. The Covey, relegated to a disenfranchised status in District 12, held no sway in the electoral process—although our meager votes, in any case, would have been inconsequential given the pervasive specter of corruption that had firmly permeated the district. My disinterest extended even to the political machinations unfolding in the Capitol. The notion of supplanting a tyrant of cruel disposition, characterized by violence and an insatiable thirst for power, with a potentially younger yet equally ruthless counterpart failed to arouse any semblance of concern within me. The alteration of faces at the helm promised no substantive change for individuals such as myself within the districts. In essence, a slave master—irrespective of the guise donned—remains a slave master, and the baton of oppression merely passes hands, the whip's brutality persisting unabated.

I observed their deliberations amid the throng, yet Coriolanus remained conspicuously absent. Clemmie's discernment held validity; his absence from campus demanded scrutiny, particularly in light of his continued silence regarding his foreknowledge of the attack. Might Clemmie's conjectures extend to a broader veracity? Could the wisdom lie in maintaining a deliberate ignorance? My involvement in the matter was negligible, and as long as accountability eluded me, I could afford indifference to the prospective upheaval of the Grand Heavensbee Hall. My affiliation with this enclave warranted neither kinship nor commitment. Let the Grand Heavensbee Hall be bombed. I had no friends here, no family. I cared neither for the politics nor the people. How many lives were on the conscience of these people? I owed them nothing. They meant nothing to me. Still, the question persisted: where on earth was Coriolanus?

Turning my gaze towards Clemmie, deeply ensconced in her dialogue, she exuded an air of profound engagement, tinged with a subtle blush. Fleetingly, the realization dawned that traversing these recent days without Clemmie by my side would have proven a more formidable endeavor. A volatile entity myself, the revelation of the statement, had it surfaced, would have implicated Clemmie, a constant companion. Astutely cognizant of the stakes, she aligned herself with me, assisting in the composition of the song's lyrics and accompanying me to Tigris's, where the dress fitting and discussions on optimal self-presentation unfolded—motivations perhaps not entirely devoid of self-interest, considering her subsequent elation upon Tigris commending her on possessing captivating eyes. Nevertheless, Clemmie was the one who had informed me that, for some, I was already deemed responsible for the attack. Clemmie knew I was a liability, yet she allowed herself to be seen with me.

Time elapsed, and still, no sight of Coriolanus. Eventually, my patience wore thin, prompting me to inform Clemmie of my intention to walk a bit around. As I moved through the crowd, I couldn't escape the penetrating gazes that trailed my every step. But, it was imperative to be seen, to demonstrate that I harbored no secrets and, like everyone else, was deeply affected by the bombing. Passing by Livia's portrait, an exquisite depiction positioned prominently on a wooden mount in the hall, I couldn't help but ponder if Coriolanus had chosen her for her undeniable beauty. She exuded an air of immaculateness and perfection. Quickly averting my gaze, I chided myself internally. What was this, Lucy Gray? Envious of a girl no longer among the living? One could hardly descend any lower.

Then, thoughts of Clemmie surfaced. Her visible displeasure at my inability to recall Arachne Crane lingered in my mind. But why should I? Arachne was not my mentor, and her cruelty towards Brandy was undeniable. Yet, she held significance to Clemmie, a friend or, at the very least, a close acquaintance. I bit my lip, causing it to bleed once again. On the flip side, Clemmie likely couldn't recall Brandy at all; to her, Brandy was merely the catalyst for Arachne Crane's demise, a nameless and faceless entity.

Unable to endure the persistent scrutiny from the surrounding gazes any longer, I retreated to Clemmie, who remained deeply immersed in discussions. Upon catching sight of me, she conveyed that the announcement of the election results was imminent. Casting another glance through the crowd, I pondered whether the palpable tension emanated from the forthcoming revelation. In District 12, my involvement in electoral processes had been nonexistent, leaving me to question whether such emotional reactions were commonplace.

Overhearing the conversation at the adjacent stand, I noted the remarks of a petite blonde with light brown eyes. "The hospitals are totally overcrowded," she lamented. "My mother says they can't possibly take in more patients at the moment."

A tall brunette in a striking gray dress, part of the trio, concurred, "Yes, there's something going around. My whole family has been feverish for days,"

Clemmie chimed in, "Likewise for my family. They've been in a state of distress since the bombing."

"The campus is quite empty too. Many are sick and too afraid to go out," contributed the girl in the gray dress.

"Do you think they will even go to the elections?" Clemmie retorted.

The blonde girl nodded vigorously. "I think so, I know some who will still force themselves. They don't want Concordia to win. They feel deceived because she tried to convince people that everything was over. She even spoke against a larger arsenal, preferring to invest the money in rebuilding buildings."

"Pah. What's the point of rebuilding a building if it ultimately gets bombed like the Grand Heavensbees Hall?" the girl in the gray dress replied angrily. "Concordia has lost her mind if you ask me."

"I swear, if she becomes the next president, I…" declared the blonde girl, theatrically sticking out her tongue.

I had to muster all my self-control not to roll my eyes. Because it really makes such a colossal difference. If only they'd divert half of that energy and emotional distress towards contemplating the lives they're about to extinguish in the next Hunger Games—now that's a showstopper worth the hype.

After a brief pause during which the trio continued their discussion about presidential candidates, the screens flickered to life, presenting Lucky Flickerman on every display. Lucky had gone all in, donning a suit adorned with the flag as a subtle motif across his tie, shirt, and jacket. His slicked-back hair held in place by a headband from which two small flags dangled, jiggling with every movement. A true beacon of patriotism, that Lucky Flickerman.

He droned on for a while about the two presidential candidates. According to him, President Ravinstill was a household name: a top student at the Academy, adorned with honors and multiple awards. Later, a shining star at Capitol University with dual degrees in political science and law, both with the highest distinction. A stint in several significant companies, including the weapons industry, preceded his entry into politics, culminating in his ascent to the presidency. During the Dark Days, his father, then the president, adopted an iron-fisted approach against the rebellion—Lucky noted that a Ravinstill was essential for envisioning the Capitol's triumph. Ravinstill—the son and potential repeat president—was also involved in the inception of the Hunger Games.

Concordia Sertorius, the younger of the two, also boasted an impressive life story, though Lucky highlighted the relative obscurity of her narrative. He briefly touched on Concordia's academic journey, studying genetics and collaborating with Dr. Volumnia Gaul for several years before venturing into politics. Despite once enjoying popularity among the younger generations, her allure had waned since the bombing, as indicated by the dwindling numbers.

Tension hung in the air, even the Avoxes, stationed at the hall's periphery, holding small tablets with glasses, cast their eyes up at the screens. I couldn't help but ponder why it mattered to them. Regardless of who assumed the presidency, it wouldn't restore their dignity or alter their status.

Then the moment arrived. Lucky Flickerman announced the new President of Panem. From what I gathered, it wasn't particularly astonishing. "President Ravinstill," Lucky exclaimed with euphoria, while the small flags on his headband danced wildly.

The crowd in the university's main building seemed to echo Lucky's excitement. I heard cheers, loud exclamations, followed by intense applause. The room resounded with joy, which felt somewhat unsettling when considering that next to them hung portraits of deceased students. But what was sorrow when served something supposedly celebratory on a silver platter? I knew my song wouldn't truly touch them, at least not those who hadn't lost a loved one. No, love didn't triumph here; love didn't repair. It was the shimmering illusion of something glittering, a tapestry woven from the threads of false promises, the dazzling mirage of safety and vindication, the seductive illusion that whispered tales of a Capitol poised to reclaim its invincibility, rising once more beyond the reach of mortal hands—a Capitol which stood above all and would once again become untouchable. The mourning ceremony swiftly evolved into a triumph celebration. The portraits were promptly set aside, carried away by Avoxes, and flags adorned the walls. A variety of dishes were ushered in as the crowd continued their exuberant cheers. It was as though the entire atmosphere of sorrow had transmuted into a form of enlightenment—no more anxieties, no more lives lost.

I stuck with Clemmie; amid all the euphoria, I found a brief respite from the constant, sometimes accusatory stares. A few hours later, the protagonist himself, the newly elected President Ravinstill, made his way over. As he stepped onto the stage, I observed him more closely for the first time. His hair, a medium brown with hints of gray at the sides, and he had a slightly tall and slender build. Dressed in an emerald green suit that seemed a bit stiff, he possessed a distinctive chin and high cheekbones. Undoubtedly, a handsome figure—a valuable asset in the world of politics with such a face to present. He delivered lofty words, once again touching on themes of "triumph," "future," "strength," and "Capitol"—the same familiar refrain. However, it appeared that I was the sole individual growing weary of the recurring use of the same words.

Yet, within the confines of his oration, a novel facet emerged: "As much as we revel in today's jubilations, and as I eagerly anticipate continuing to serve each of you, regrettably, I must impart somber tidings. A mere few hours past, our esteemed Dr. Volumnia Gaul succumbed to the embrace of natural demise, an age-worn departure without delving into specifics; she had grappled with infirmity for an extended duration. Those acquainted with Dr. Gaul recognize the extraordinary tenacity that defined her. Aligned with this tenacity was an inherent pursuit of overall fortitude. Alas, the inexorable clasp of mortality reaches each of us prematurely. Dr. Gaul has departed from our midst too soon. A genuine embodiment of the Capitol spirit, she rendered remarkable contributions to both the Capitol and the entirety of Panem. Yet, above all, she served as my mentor in times bygone and subsequently evolved into a steadfast confidante. I beseech you to observe a moment of reverent silence for Volumnia."

Barely had he spoken the words when I finally spotted him. Like most others, he was dressed in a black suit, though it didn't seem to be the same one from the opening ball; the cut had a subtle difference. He approached directly. As he came to a halt beside me, he said, "Lucy Gray."

I truly wished he hadn't uttered my real name. He smiled at me, eventually exuding an air of calm.

"It's a pity I missed your song. I would have liked to hear it." His gaze lingered on me.

"Where were you all these days?" It burst out of me, a tad sharper than intended.

His smile widened; he appeared generally pleased. "Why? Did you miss me?"

I shook my head and averted my gaze from him. "You didn't answer my questions, where—"

"It's been… a really challenging week for me, Lucy Gray. Could you do me a small favor and—"

"Do you a favor? What the hell—"

"Just today."

"What kind of favor—"

Coriolanus took my hand, raised it to his lips, and... inhaled the scent from the back of my hand. I was too astonished to say anything.

"I... missed the scent."

What a strange boy, I thought. And a deadly one, at that.

Chapter Text

"President Ravinstill extends an invitation for an audience with you," Coriolanus whispered.

Lucy Gray regarded him with evident perplexity. "What?"

Coriolanus relinquished his grip on her hand, observing its descent. "He wishes to engage in discourse with you imminently. It would be prudent for you to accompany me." Despite his fatigue, he underscored the imperative nature of the situation.

"I have no intention of following you anywhere," she retorted, now imbued with heightened ire and resoluteness. Lucy Gray turned her full attention toward him, crossing her arms as if to forestall any attempt to reclaim her hand. A strategic move, Coriolanus conceded bitterly.

"Regrettably, compliance is not discretionary," he responded with measured gentility, inclining his head toward the presidential guards stationed nearby. "They are prepared to effect your removal, if necessary. Such an eventuality would undoubtedly precipitate rumors and conjecture, particularly in light of recent events. It is a luxury you currently cannot afford, Lucy Gray." He pondered whether his weariness and profound fatigue were discernible or if Lucy Gray, absorbed in her indignation, remained oblivious.

Lucy Gray followed his gesture, scrutinizing the guards before redirecting her gaze to him. Adorned in a modest black dress—a departure from Capitol flamboyance, devoid of colors, frills, or ostentatious embellishments—she presented an uncommon sight. Yet, Coriolanus could not help but sense a lacuna in her appearance, an absence that evoked Lucy Gray and not the stylized mourning of a Capitol girl. The irony did not escape him. Days spent disdaining her whimsical, rainbow-hued attire now culminated in a reluctant acknowledgment that he preferred Lucy Gray adorned in vivacity. It was a realization that discomfited him yet proved inexorable. Perhaps it was the manifestation of his fatigue prompting such reflections.

"What does he want from me?" Lucy Gray interjected, disrupting Coriolanus' ruminations. "What could he possibly want from me?"

Coriolanus sighed, adopting a straight posture, rolling his shoulders back before responding with a subdued inflection, "You will be apprised presently. Now, the question remains: will you accompany me willingly, or must I apprise those two ahead to escort you out?"

Lucy Gray's intense scrutiny added an additional layer of discomfort to his already precarious predicament. The circumstances were sufficiently dismal without her pointed reminders of his diminished control and vulnerability, factors that extended beyond himself to encompass her as well.

"It sounds as if I have hardly any choice, doesn't it?" she countered with a bitter undertone.

Coriolanus ventured another gaze in Lucy Gray's direction before receiving an almost assertive nudge from Clemmie on the upper arm. "Where on earth were you?" As he directed his attention to Clemmie, it became evident that not only one furious young woman stood beside him, but now two. Clemmie had eluded his notice until now; had she, by any chance, remained in proximity to Lucy Gray throughout?

"I'm sorry, Clemmie. I know you probably have many questions, but they'll have to wait. Lucy Gray needs to—"

"Absolutely not," Clemmie retorted sharply, her gaze conveying a resolve commensurate with her statement.

Coriolanus offered a sardonic smile, sighed once more, and then responded with affability, "President Ravinstill wishes to converse exclusively with Lucy Gray. I fear your inquiries must wait. Or would you contend that your curiosity holds greater weight than the word of the President?"

The shot found its mark. Clemmie cast a perplexed glance between Lucy Gray, Coriolanus, and back to Lucy Gray. "If you are lying to me, Coriolanus—"

"I assure you, I am not," Coriolanus replied with the same pointed tone as Clemmie, pivoting to head toward the exit. Casting a brief glance behind, he observed Lucy Gray trailing uncertainly, visibly distressed and pallid, shadowed closely by the two guards of the President. He could not fault her for her reservations, her circumspection; she possessed every justification for them. Yet, in this particular circumstance, he found himself unable to offer her succor. Not as yet, at least.

As they traversed the exit, he veered off, casting a final glance over his shoulder, and halted in the corridor, noting that Lucy Gray struggled to maintain pace with him—whether by design or circumstance remained uncertain. As the proximity closed, he gently placed a hand on her back, guiding her a few steps forward, and whispered to her, cautiously ensuring the words were beyond the auditory reach of the trailing guards, "Agree to it, Lucy Gray."

Once again, he felt the weight of her gaze upon him, but he couldn't afford to be overly diverted. Reminding himself of the meticulous contemplation that had led to a recurrent and resolute conclusion, he left his hand resting on her back, perceiving her warmth and tracing the contours of her spine—Had Ma Plinth not endowed her with adequate funds? Or was her diminished sustenance a reflection of the stress endured in this environment? These considerations permeated his thoughts, and he marveled at how such a minor touch could divert his immediate mental trajectory. Though he would be better served by retracting his hand, he found himself disinclined to do so. Simultaneously, he observed that Lucy Gray did not rebuff his gesture but rather permitted it. The allowance alone held sufficient value to dissuade any instinct to withdraw.

They continued down the corridor until he guided her to the door of the dean's office. Lucy Gray came to an abrupt halt in front of it, even before he could open the door. He sensed the tremor in her back, and upon scrutinizing her, he discerned that her physical state mirrored the quiver of her spine. Her breaths were labored. Intriguingly, beyond her immediate reaction, he pondered the fact that she had not yet solicited his assistance. While she had acquiesced to his word with minimal resistance—likely influenced by the presence of the guards—she had refrained from seeking aid throughout the entire journey. Had she developed a sense of pride transcending her survival instincts? No, such a disposition was incongruent with Lucy Gray's character. She was a survivor who recognized that pride was a luxury she could ill-afford. If she were to arrogate such pride, it would swiftly approximate a death sentence. Could anger be the root cause of her reticence? He had extended his assistance, provided a buffer against external pressures... or had she, perhaps, ascertained the inaccuracy of the information pertaining to the statement? Was her silence an expression of indignation?

"Will I come out of there alive?" he heard her whisper in a quivering tone. "Don't lie to me, Coriolanus. I know you do that quite often, but don't lie to me, not now. Will I come out of there alive?"

"Yes, you will."

Lucy Gray emitted a brief, bitter laugh. "Much like I emerged from the woods alive back then?"

A pang of discomfort resonated within him. Of course, she had to bring that up now—the narrative of her voluntary departure, uncertainty about whether she wished to flee, her purported obliviousness to the gunshots, the prospect of their friendship, reminiscent of their past. Despite having discerned her deceit during their initial encounter in the Capitol, the stark confirmation of it now induced a palpable sense of pain. The ache persisted, for she evidently perceived him through a distorted lens. True, he should not have reacted in such a manner, yet she had absconded without affording him an opportunity to elucidate, firing his weapon only after abandoning him, risking exposure that she could directly betray him. For all he had sacrificed on her behalf, the hazards he had embraced, even now when there was nothing for him to gain, Lucy Gray seemed compelled to dwell on this misconception, to remind him of how she perceived him, what she held against him. Was he not her rescuer? Her ally? Her solitary source of support in this place? No one else extended concern toward Lucy Gray besides him. How could she remain oblivious to that?

"We have to go inside," Coriolanus retorted sharply, knocking twice on the door and swinging it open. As anticipated, only President Ravinstill occupied the room, leaning casually against the windowsill, legs extended, and arms once again folded. No trace of the earlier stiffness persisted. The dean's office was dimly illuminated, with drawn curtains. The guards had caught up, positioning themselves on either side of the door in the corridor.

"There you are. Great. Snow, you can fuck off, please," President Ravinstill instructed, sounding jovial, animated, content. He briefly appraised Coriolanus when the latter hesitated, still maintaining contact with Lucy Gray's back. "Do I have to repeat myself?" he added, with a slightly firmer tone this time.

Coriolanus merely nodded, released Lucy Gray, and exited the room. One of the guards closed the door behind him. Stationed opposite the door along the corridor wall, he leaned back, briefly directing his gaze at the two guards beside the door. Their attention, however, remained steadfastly fixed straight ahead, beyond him. His limbs registered a sense of weariness and heaviness, with fatigue gradually asserting dominance. As he stood against the cold wall, he inclined his head backward until the back of his head made contact with the unyielding surface, and he closed his eyes.

A mere few months earlier, his concentration had been devoted to internships, academic grades, and the promising trajectory of his future, with everything radiating an unmistakable brilliance. However, ever since Lucy Gray's arrival in the Capitol, the trajectory had taken a distinct nosedive.

***

 (A few days prior…)

Coriolanus cast his gaze downward, a sight revealing his drenched state. The shirt adhered tenaciously to his upper body, rendering it almost entirely translucent. The chill permeated each thread, penetrating to his very core. His chest heaved in an increasingly frantic rhythm, a desperate endeavor to draw more air into his beleaguered lungs. The garment, originally pristine in a snowy colour, now bore witness to a transformation, its fabric saturated with the ominous hue of red. Rivulets cascaded from his saturated form. The air crackled with tension.

He shed the clingy shirt, then the wet and weighty trousers marked with the same crimson stains. Following suit were the completely drenched underwear, and subsequently, the socks and his black patent leather shoes, their soles worn to a mere remnant. With meticulous care, he arranged each item into a neat pile, even taking a moment to fold them. Naked, he reclined on the cold, unyielding floor of his bathroom, crafted from a dreary gray stone. Despite the harshness of the surface, his thoughts remained elsewhere. His breath continued its frenzied pace, the pulse resonating in his head like an unyielding drumbeat. Amidst this tempest of emotions, a singular thought dominated, sparking a palpable sense of panic.

Tears should have welled up, fury should have consumed him, and desperate sobs or enraged screams should have escaped him. However, against the expected tide of emotions, he found himself laughing. Laughter, manic and unchecked, erupted from him. It wasn't a laughter of joy or amusement; instead, it echoed the surreal absurdity of his predicament. There he was, sprawled on the cold tiles of his bathroom floor, the echo of his own laughter reverberating through the stark space.

His laughter, in its unrestrained madness, mocked the sheer ridiculousness that had led him to this point. It was a reaction to the ludicrous twists of fate, the cruel play orchestrated by the stars or cosmic whims whatever nonsensical shit Lucy Gray had espoused that had driven him to the edge.

"Coryo? Coryo, are you inside?" Tigris's voice, accompanied by a brisk knocking on the door, echoed through the bathroom.

"Coryo? Coryo, open up, please." Her voice carried a tone of concern, striking a chord he hadn't heard in ages—too long, for in that moment, he felt a thawing sensation at the sound of that familiar tone.

"Probably best not, unless you've developed a sudden taste for men and have an incest fetish for the last remaining Snow family member," he called out to the door, laughter irrepressible.

Silence ensued, and the knocking subsided. Coriolanus pondered if Tigris now assumed he had completely lost his mind—not entirely implausible, given his circumstances.

After a while, her concerned voice echoed behind the door again: "Coryo... could you put on something and—"

"Absolutely not," he retorted.

"Coryo—"

"I have no intention of getting dressed anytime soon."

"Don't be childish—"

"Ah, am I? Who didn't talk to me for months, ignored me, and—oh, I forgot, released another damn collection with LGB as the damn name and designed damn colorful clothes that looked like a parrot had crapped on frills. And you—you still call yourself a fashion designer?! And do not forget, my dear cousin, that I made this possible with money meant for me, so who is acting like an ungrateful brat now, hm?"

Silence. Coriolanus was quite satisfied with himself; he should have told her this a long time ago.

"If you don't unlock the door and put something on right now, I'll just barge in, as you wish." The concerned tone shifted to irritation. Coriolanus rolled his eyes, contemplating the theatrical flair in Tigris's threats.

He waited and waited and waited. Just when he thought she wouldn't enter, the door swung open, and Tigris threw a sheet at him. It landed on his stomach but was far too small to conceal what she probably intended.

"Could you please...?"

He looked up at her; she covered her eyes with her right palm, closed the door blindly behind her, and leaned back against it, creating the maximum possible distance from him.

Coriolanus had no intention of covering up; if she was so eager to witness the spectacle, she could enjoy the show.

"Coryo... this isn't like you. You're acting—" She still kept her eyes closed, which, for some reason, infuriated Coriolanus but also amused him, considering what she had done in the past. He certainly wasn't the first man she had seen naked, given what she had done to keep them afloat.

"How? How am I behaving, Tigris?"

"Like... like..."

"Oh, please, don't hold back. Tell me, like what? Like who?"

"What happened?"

"You happened. And you know who happened. And….happened. All of you happened—"

"Look, it's not—"

"I don't care. You're a traitor, you know that?"

"That makes two of us," she whispered back.

Silence settled between them, the words hanging in the air like the unspoken truth neither was willing to acknowledge. The room felt colder, the distance between them wider than the space of a single conversation could bridge.

"I didn't come here for a fight, Coryo," Tigris finally admitted, her voice softer.

Chapter Text

The Dean's office emanated an undeniable air of authority, a sanctuary adorned with opulent dark mahogany furniture and towering bookshelves that stood like sentinels, their spines adorned with glistening leather-bound tomes. Each book seemed to whisper tales of knowledge and tradition, contributing to the weighty atmosphere that surrounded the room. A massive desk, a monument to academia, claimed the central stage, adorned with a labyrinth of paperwork and official documents. The surface, though polished, bore the scars of countless deliberations and important decisions. The scent of aged wood and the faint whiff of parchment lingered in the air.

In this setting, President Ravinstill leaned with unassuming contentment against the windowsill. The windows, which usually offered a panoramic view of the Capitol's bustling streets below, were veiled in heavy curtains, shrouding the room in a muted, mysterious ambiance. Only a sliver of light managed to pierce through, casting a soft glow on select surfaces. As he stood there, the President's feet swung playfully in the air, crossing at the ankles, adding a touch of levity to the otherwise serious proceedings. His relaxed posture belied the weight of this office, and a broad smile adorned his face, lending a deceptive charm to his countenance. The glint in his eyes betrayed a shrewd intelligence, hinting at the complexities that lay beneath the surface. The President's crossed arms further contributed to the casual yet authoritative stance, creating an unsettling contrast with the gravity of the matters at hand. The tension in the room, masked by the veneer of elegance, hinted at the secrets and decisions that reverberated within these walls. Each detail, from the polished wood to the muted light, played a part in the theater of power unfolding in the Dean's office.

"Miss Baird, what a captivating sight you make," he remarked with a hint of amusement. His tone, in stark contrast to his public speeches, took on an intimate and trusting quality, sounding husky. Given the number of speeches he likely delivered that day, it wasn't surprising.

Choosing to remain silent, I couldn't shake off the uncomfortable feeling as he appraised me from head to toe. I felt like a small hare facing a hungry wolf, my legs too weary to carry me any farther.

"I have quite a bit on my agenda today. My people are probably curious about my whereabouts... not that it's uncommon for a man of my stature to find himself in a private room with a young woman after a significant victory," he continued cheerfully, swinging his feet. His smile almost appeared friendly, with crow's feet forming around his eyes, but there was an underlying chill beneath the facade.

Was my presence here merely a consequence of my gender and appearance? I pondered whether the Capitol was any different from District 12. Whether facing a Peacekeeper with a penchant for young girls or a corrupt president, the distinction seemed negligible. While being reduced to my gender and appearance had its advantages, it also posed dangers, and I sensed a looming disadvantage.

"No, Miss Baird. I have no interest in District girls, contrary to my colleagues' preferences," he continued, still swinging his feet. "I actually prefer ladies, real women. Experience has a certain charm for me. But you are certainly not here to discuss my preferences. I just want to assure you that I have no interest in that regard." Once again, he smiled at me.

"Why am I here then?" I replied, my voice equally hoarse. The tension on the way to the Dean's office seemed to have affected my vocal cords.

"Because you owe me something."

"I don't understand."

"I saved your life."

I remained silent, staring at the man leaning against the windowsill. "How? How did you save my life?"

"Have you never wondered why they wanted to bring five District students here?" he inquired, hinting at a hidden agenda.

Realizing he was playing a game, leveraging the information asymmetry, I decided to play along. "Mrs. Plinth—"

"Ehhh, wrong!" he interrupted, clapping his hands enthusiastically. "Another try, Miss Baird. I expect more from a former Hunger Games victor. Don't disappoint me."

Knowing how to handle those who enjoyed playing games, I continued, "Hm..." taking a step towards him, clasping my hands behind my back to conceal any trembling. "I'm not well-versed in intrigue and politics, if there's a difference."

He smiled even more. I smiled back.

"You would have to give me a hint," I said friendly, tilting my head slightly—almost automatically as I met his gaze.

"Yes, you're right, Miss Baird. Alright," he nodded several times. "I'll be kind and give you a hint, no, even two. Ready?"

I nodded twice.

"You're here because they wanted to send you somewhere. You're here because someone hoped that the Districts would not forget, that they will never find security. Not even those among them who... navigate well in the Capitol. So, Miss Baird, what does that tell you?"

I didn't answer for a while, then slowly and deliberately replied, "Returning to District 12 is out of the question. The same goes for any other District. It doesn't make sense to bring someone from the District only to send them back. 'Send somewhere' means... somewhere other than the Capitol itself."

"Exactly."

"The Districts are supposed to be reminded that they will never be safe... even... those who make a good impression in the Capitol."

He kept smiling.

I remained silent for a while before responding, "The Hunger Games. They want to send us... to the Hunger Games?"

President Ravinstill rose, clapping his hands several times, continuing to smile, and exclaimed, "Ah, Miss Baird, very, very good! Go on, just go on!"

"Why... why us five... I mean, there are only two of us left..."

"Yes, a very interesting question, isn't it?" I looked at President Ravinstill as he almost jumped for joy. Something was off about this guy.

"Yes, an interesting question indeed. Would you answer it for me?"

"Why not settle for monotony? Why this rather…unique iteration of the Hunger Games, introducing an additional student? Why not keep it simple with all the tributes? Allow me to offer another clue. What purpose would it serve to send someone to the Hunger Games who seamlessly blends into the Capitol, akin to a true Capitol citizen? What's the rationale behind subjecting such an individual to the Games?"

"I don't know." As I came to realize that Mrs. Plinth, my rescuer and seemingly dear, kind soul, had ultimately betrayed me, my sympathy for her evaporated. She had shared with me the narrative of how she and Mr. Plinth arrived in the Capitol with Sejanus. In those moments, my overwhelming compassion for her and her sorrow prevented me from considering the truth about her—an act of betrayal. However, now that I understood Mrs. Plinth didn't extend her help out of genuine kindness or an inability to cope with her son's grief in District 12, that compassion vanished instantly, replaced by a bitter taste in my mouth.

"A bit more imagination, Miss Baird, please."

"I really don't know—"

"Miss Baird!" His voice gained volume, became more forceful and unfriendly. His gaze intensified, almost turning angry. Indeed, it was the expression of a man dissatisfied, someone who hadn't obtained what he desired. He sought to engage in a game, but my inclination to participate had completely waned.

"I don't understand," I retorted sharply. How many individuals aimed to betray me? How many were inclined to deceive me? Would this pattern persist indefinitely, leading to a continual cycle of betrayal and deceit until my demise?

"Alright," he responded more softly now, reclining against the windowsill. He sighed and proceeded even more gently, "Because people need a reminder of who you, your community, and everyone in the other districts truly are. It leaves a lasting impact, doesn't it? A young adult, halfway between being a child and an adult, displaying grandeur at the university, building friendships, gaining popularity, seamlessly fitting in, being intelligent and inquisitive—creating an overall positive impression... only to rebel against the Capitol and set off a bomb at the opening ball. Of course, Mrs. Plinth will be made responsible for it, too, after all, all of that seemed to be her idea, right? No surprise, coming from someone like her, given her…background."

My heart raced until it seemed to halt amid the chaos. Mrs. Plinth's words echoed in my mind, her counsel about the importance of assimilating well into the Capitol. I reflected on Clemmie, the one who conducted the interview with me. Tigris, who adorned me with elegant dresses, flashed across my thoughts. My interview with Lucky and the constant reminder to leave a favorable impression played in my mind. It was inevitable—they would accuse me. In the end, I would be manipulated.

"Then one could claim—," he began.

"—that we are traitors, rebels, no matter how nice and kind you are to us, no matter what opportunities you all give us, we... we cannot and will not change, we will always be..."

"Consistently rebellious, precisely. Assaulting the Capitol at every chance. Oh, behold, esteemed citizens of the Capitol, we have an intelligent, smart student from the district here. We provided this student with food, drink, money, clothes, and all the privileges reserved for someone from the upper class of the Capitol... and look, what has this student done. Sabotaged all our efforts in a cunning manner, bombed our newly constructed Grand Heavensbee's Hall... But who is surprised? It was evident that these individuals would engage in such actions. Trusting them is futile. They must face consequences. That's the sole means to preserve peace."

I swallowed and then cleared my throat. "So you'll execute me for something I didn't do, just to maintain this... narrative. This construct of lies."

"Brave, Miss Baird, brave choice of words."

"Why bother lying when I'm destined to die anyway?" I replied bitterly. "But you're aware, deceit is not a privilege solely reserved for the Capitol."

He smiled again.

"And... the fact that people... after the bombing... insisted on voting for you again, what is that? A fortunate coincidence?"

He maintained his smile but remained silent.

"Yes, exactly," I continued bitterly. "I actually wanted to know nothing about politics, but it was impossible not to notice what your campaign was about. You could only win against the other one because..."

"Because the bombing and its consequences, its associations, go hand in hand with my campaign," he answered softly.

I looked at him. He seemed unimpressed, almost indifferent. "You don't even deny it?" I asked cautiously.

"Let me put it this way. It doesn't matter who bombed the hall. In the end, people don't really care, as long as... Well, I could announce a name, any name, and people would forget the name if it's someone from the district. Think about it, do people remember the names of the district children who died? Do they remember their faces, their stories? No, of course not."

Brandy. She faded into obscurity. The victor of the last Hunger Games, the one subjected to humiliation at Clemmie's party and executed the following day, Fabius. Not a single mention of his name. The rest of the district students. No effort was made to learn anything about them. They were disregarded, mere nobodies.

"I could say any name... it wouldn't matter, as long as it's someone from the districts," he continued amiably. "This information would be sufficient."

"And yet, you want my name instead. What do you want from me? To set an example? To show people that your accusations were right from the beginning? That I am ultimately just a wild animal that—" Tears streamed down my face as the implications of Mrs. Plinth's betrayal became increasingly apparent, the weight of it settling in.

"What did I tell you at the very beginning of our conversation?" he asked in a gentle, loving tone, making him look even more dangerous.

My tears increased.

"Miss Baird, I told you that you owe me something because I saved your life."

"I... I still can't comprehend," I responded with a hoarse voice, wiping away my tears. How could I be so naïve? I should have stuck with the only two faithful allies remaining: Dirt and Cold. In this moment, I longed for them intensely. The woods. Liberation beneath the trees. The life that had awaited me there.

"No one will hold you responsible for the bombing."

I stared at him intensely. "But—"

"No one will hold you responsible for the bombing," he repeated gently as his feet swung again.

"I thought—"

"The woman who planned it is now dead, Miss Baird. And with her, her plan to make you the scapegoat died. So, for now, you're in the clear. No charges. No accusations. Later, it will be announced that two men from District 9 planned the attack, and they've already been hanged for it. No one will officially mention their names. You're in the clear, Miss Baird." He seemed cheerful again.

"I don't understand why—"

"Yes, that's beyond your league. It has more to do with me. But you don't have to worry about that. That's not the reason I brought you here. You owe me something, Miss Baird."

I laughed. What absurdity. How fucking ludicrous. As if the man in front of me required a debt to exert influence, as if I genuinely owed him anything.

"Well, it seems you won't turn unfriendly now, Miss Baird."

"What do you want?" I burst out when I found my voice again.

"Yes, you're right. We've wasted enough time. What I want from you is quite simple: I want you to date my son."

I stared at him.

"Yes, it's the situation. My son is... let's call it a disappointment, to put it mildly. I love him, in my unique way, but... he's a stain on the Ravinstill legacy. I have aspirations to run again and then once more... and my son, I'm afraid, poses a certain vulnerability. With you, there might be a chance to change that. So, why squander you on some scapegoat scenario? To be brutally honest—and I trust this stays between us—I was never truly fond of the Hunger Games. In fact, I detest having to watch them. Occasionally, I let my people catch the highlights and brief me on the essential points, just in case someone brings it up. I fail to see why I should expend you on such affairs. Nevertheless, a certain character seemed hell-bent on the notion of tossing you back into the arena, finding sheer amusement in the macabre theater of it all. It's almost like she's got a front-row seat for the dark comedy of our lives, relishing the chaos with a wicked grin. You know, the kind of spectator who finds joy in the absurdity, even when the joke's on you… But, I emerged victorious even without implicating you in something you, as you aptly put it, didn't commit."

I remained silent.

"You're gaining popularity, and it's on the rise, I've heard. It would be a tremendous waste to turn you into a scapegoat. My campaign... went smoothly today, but next time, in the next election... It would be odd if a building were to be blown up again just before the polls, wouldn't it?" He chuckled. "No, I must adapt to the times; that's what the wise, brilliant, talented Concordia taught me. And this means I have to endure, tend to wounds of all my people, and allow them to heal. It's something only a capable president can manage. This is how I best serve my people. If they wish to anticipate a future filled with glitter, then they should have it."

I still said nothing.

"Miss Baird, my son is currently only known for being a good-for-nothing and a dimwit. I need to change that, shift his image. If he has you as a girlfriend like you, people would only focus on that. The pretty, talented Miss Lucy Baird overcame her terrible background and never really belonged to District 12, right? She conquered her past and even snagged the President's son. And together... together, you could become a real... what do the young people call it?... oh, right, a genuine power couple. Isn't that beautiful? Your safety would be guaranteed with that. People would associate my son as part of such a power couple, not as an idiot who can't get anything done unless Daddy gets him another internship. And the future with glitter... I'll give that to the people at my next campaign. I can't possibly expect another random bombing. No, people would get tired of it eventually. Ah, the joys of politics, where a well-timed relationship can overshadow even the grandest failures. It's almost poetic, isn't it?"

"You want me to..."

"You're already acquainted with Felix, Miss Baird. He's your mentor. That would perfectly elucidate how the two lovebirds found each other. An interview with Lucky, a few joint appearances with you... and it's a wrap. Certainly, some disapproving murmurs might circulate, claiming it's distasteful because you're not from the Capitol. But they would frame you as the culprit, and my son, worst-case scenario, as just the victim. Not the most favorable narrative, I admit, but we can muzzle those voices. Miss Tigris Snow enjoys tailoring for you; what you wear, what you sing... that will be the focus. You and I are not…very different in one regard. We both like to win. And…you'll lend your voice to something for me, won't you? Perhaps a catchy little jingle? For your beloved new President?"

I was about to vomit.

"Good," he rose from his seat and strolled past me, "we'll keep in touch, Miss Baird. I thought it best to inform you in person. I'm old-fashioned; I prefer to manage such matters, especially when it concerns my family, personally. And Miss Baird," he paused briefly by the door, "I don't suppose I need to emphasize that this remains strictly between us, right? Solely for the sake of your little…Maude Ivory."

I heard the door open and then close, leaving me alone in the room.

Chapter Text

(Chapter 26)

The intoxication had dissipated. A shiver traversed his body.

Fuck.

He had completely forgotten about Dr. Gaul.

Coriolanus hastened towards Dr. Gaul with a celerity dictated by the limitations of his own limbs. He harbored the hope of evading any additional sentinels traversing the streets. Notably, on the way to Lucy Gray and subsequently on the path to Lucky Flickerman, he had depleted the entirety of the clandestine funds, had exhausted all his hush money intended for his sojourn to Dr. Gaul's laboratory. The curfew, a lingering consequence of the recent bombing mere hours prior, persisted unabated this early morning.

Choosing the more expeditious path over a marginally extended one, Coriolanus felt the constraints of time pressing upon him. Dr. Gaul undoubtedly harbored reservations about his delayed arrival at the laboratory, having probably observed the interviews with Lucy Gray, Clemmie, and Lucky Flickerman. She could have entertained the idea that the young man under her mentorship had spent the recent hours assisting a past, or perhaps not entirely extinguished, romantic interest—leaving the lingering question of what role he played in lieu of that.

As he navigated toward the Main Street—the swiftest conduit from the studio to the laboratory—Coriolanus reviewed his deductions.

1. He was cognizant that the toxin he had observed and smelled in Dr. Gaul's laboratory a few weeks ago was unleashed in Grand Heavensbee's hall.
2. Additionally, he recalled that Dr. Gaul had intentionally exposed him to its noxious scent, aiming for him to memorize it and enhance his chances of a safe exit from the hall.
3. Moreover, Dr. Gaul had apprised him of the associated side effects, and he could recollect the following: fever, paranoia, and various manifestations of anxiety.
4. Reflecting further, he revisited the realization that President Ravinstill and Dr. Gaul maintained a close association—an alliance he initially sought to leverage for securing a summer internship. Dr. Gaul had coerced his attendance at one of their meetings, insisting that Coriolanus witness their interactions and deliberate on certain matters. Back then, he assumed it was a tactic to affirm his secured internship, explicitly addressing it in the presence of President Ravinstill and himself. However, the current uncertainty prompted him to reconsider if there was an undisclosed motive behind that meeting and his participation.
5. With elections on the horizon, the recent bombing served as a stark reminder of the Dark Days—a poignant resonance that seamlessly aligned with President Ravinstill's election agenda.

The synthesis of these revelations coalesced into a singular, plausible conjecture, acknowledging the frequently inscrutable interplay of logic and Dr. Gaul. Even within the realms of her eccentricity and ambiguity, a discernible method prevailed. It was a method that, while perplexing and perhaps ambiguous, adhered to its own internal coherence. In the backdrop of impending elections and the recent bombing, the pieces of the puzzle seemed to align with an unsettling precision. The correlation between the Dark Days and President Ravinstill's election program echoed through the corridors of power, amplifying the gravity of the situation.

"A curfew is in effect, young man."

Suddenly, Coriolanus stood face-to-face with three sentinels. A trio of demands surfaced, each clamoring for financial recompense. Yet, in his inattentiveness, these demands had been disregarded. Just moments earlier, he had secretly relished in the certainty of Lucy Gray's renewed loyalty, basking in the belief that she was once again exclusively his. Now, amidst the waning storm of emotions, the stark realization of his heedlessness cast a shadow over his discernment. A reckoning loomed on the horizon, yet with no semblance of currency—no remaining hush money—its resolution remained elusive.

"My apologies, I am aware of the prevailing curfew. However, I am on my way to Dr. Volumnia Gaul and possess the requisite authorization to access her laboratory despite the curfew," responded Coriolanus amiably, speaking deliberately, with a touch of authority.

"Who?" inquired one of the three sentinels, eyeing Coriolanus skeptically.

"Dr. Gaul," Coriolanus replied calmly. "She is the Head Gamemaker of the Hunger Games." How ignorant and uninformed was the man?

Another sentinel, sharing in the skeptical appraisal, chimed in. "Ah. And do you have proof of such authorization, boy?"

Coriolanus's pulse quickened, already agitated by the exigencies of the night—the bombing, Lucy Gray's claim, and the impending laboratory meeting. "Yes, regrettably, the documentation is domiciled—"

"Oh, of course, domiciled," interjected the first sentinel with a sardonic tone. "How unfortunate that it's at home... Forgotten, I presume?"

"Boy, your identification papers. Now!" insisted the third sentinel.

An oversight of a grave nature, Coriolanus acknowledged his neglect. Typically nestled in his academic accoutrements, adherence to the legal dictum of perpetual possession had been undermined by his oversight. "Unfortunately, I have—"

"Let me guess. Also forgotten at home?" completed the second sentinel.

"How convenient," added the third sentinel, punctuating the observation with laughter, until the first sentinel, unyielding in his scrutiny, spoke again: "Your name. Now."

"Coriolanus Snow. I am a student at Capitol University, and—"

"Boy, I don't give a damn whether you're a student. You're walking around here, in the dark, all sweaty... and without your fucking identification papers. And that despite the curfew. Oh yes, and a damn bomb went off a few hours ago in the Capitol. So, Cornelius Snow, I don't give a damn whether you're a student or a damn janitor, you're coming with us," pronounced the first sentinel with acerbic resolve, gripping Coriolanus's arm. Within moments, the second sentinel mirrored the grasp on the opposite extremity.

"No, you misunderstand. Permit me to elucidate. I possess pecuniary means; allow me a swift return to my penthouse, accompany me if you wish, and subsequently—"

"Ha, did you hear that, Arius? That fucking brat wants to appease us with money here, which he—"

"Forgotten at home too. Boy, any sweet girls eagerly anticipating our return? Or perhaps some other delightful surprises? What other wonders might be in store in this fantastical place?" the third guard jeered, bursting into laughter—laughter resonating with mockery.

"Dr. Gaul is the Head—," Coriolanus sought to interject, his attempt to reason impeded as the two sentinels commenced the process of forcibly relocating him from the main thoroughfare toward their awaiting vehicle. Suppressing any inclination towards a public altercation, he sought solely to impress upon them the consequences their actions might incur.

"Who is that Dr. again?" queried the first sentinel, maintaining his grip on Coriolanus' arm.

"As I mentioned, Dr. Gaul is—" Coriolanus's explanation was truncated, preempted by the third sentinel who, opening the car door, derisively characterized her as "that old hag who appears during the Hunger Games."

Evidently, the trio remained oblivious to the ramifications associated with Dr. Gaul—an accustomed circumspection adopted by most. Yet, as Coriolanus pondered the potential repercussions of their ignorance, the realization dawned that these three were naively oblivious to the perilous experimentation and manipulations to which the purported "old hag" might subject them within her laboratory.

"Listen, let's talk briefly like adults, you're really misjudging—," Coriolanus endeavored, yet, his entreaty was silenced by a resounding blow—a forceful chin strike that robbed him of equilibrium, followed by another.

Subsequently, a strange, yet familiar aroma wafted through the air, and with it, an enveloping darkness fell.

***

Upon regaining consciousness, he found his jaw pulsating with an acute ache. Temporarily shutting his eyes, he gingerly manipulated his jaw, seeking relief from the escalating pain, before reopening his eyes. Squinting against the glaring light directly bearing down on him, he perceived an oppressive weight in his body, coupled with the unyielding hardness of the surface beneath him. Blinking repeatedly under the unwavering illumination, his hands tentatively explored the frigid and unyielding expanse beneath him. As his eyes acclimated to the luminosity, a monochromatic tableau revealed itself. A gray-hued blanket draped overhead, and upon shifting his gaze, an archaic lamp on the ceiling emanated an icy brilliance—a relic from a bygone era. This frigid luminescence cast an austere pallor upon the surroundings, gradually revealing the confines of a cell. An arresting feature seized his attention—a barrier of steel mesh constituting one of the walls. With each heartbeat quickening, breath shallowing, an escalating sense of panic overcame him. He was ensconced within the stark confines of a fucking prison cell.

Suddenly, he jolted upright, only to discover a profound dizziness, forcing him to lean against the floor for support. His legs felt remarkably feeble. How long had he lain unconscious on the floor of this cell? And for what unfathomable reason was he confined here? His thoughts spiraled, aching jaw demanding attention once more.

Struggling to recollect the moments preceding his awakening on the cold cell floor, he sought to understand his urgent destination before encountering the trio of imbeciles. He was heading somewhere….but where did he urgently need to go?

Fuck. Dr. Gaul.

Summoning the remnants of his strength, he rallied, taking measured steps forward until he stood right at the cell bars. "Hello?! Is anyone here? I must speak with someone immediately! Hello?!" His desperate cries reverberated through the bars as he clung to them, peering through in the hope of glimpsing more than the desolate corridor beyond. Alas, all that met his gaze was an empty hallway. "Hello?! Is anyone here? This is a misunderstanding! Hello?!"

The passage of time seemed interminable. Undeterred, he persisted, shouting through the bars, heedless of their unyielding stance. "I must speak with someone at once! It's a mistake! Get Dr. Gaul! Dr. Volumnia Gaul!" Jaw throbbing, he cared not for the escalating pain with each impassioned plea, or the futile rattling of the bars. Unheard and unanswered, his fervent repetitions echoed into the void.

As his strength ebbed away, he descended along the frigid bars. Why was he confined here? Did the sentinels place him in this predicament due to the curfew? All because of a fucking curfew? Beads of sweat traced paths down his temples and nose. He became acutely aware of his trembling frame, his hands clenched firmly around the bars, and the resonant thump of his heart, echoing persistently, each beat blending seamlessly into the next until it coalesced into a continuous rhythm. Subsequently, his ears rang, and a peculiar numbness enveloped him. Undeterred, he resumed his impassioned screams, reiterating incessantly that those responsible for his captivity would come to regret it.

He vociferated at the enclosing walls, an urgency, intensity, and brutality infused in his words, warning that they would rue mistreating a Snow in such a manner. He bellowed at the walls, prophesying that Dr. Gaul would transfigure them into repugnant lab rats. He declared his intent to revel in their contorted human forms, relishing their suffering and regret for ever crossing paths with him—Coriolanus Snow, the future President of Panem, the paramount figure in the Capitol and all of Panem. His screams continued, vowing to dispatch their families to the lab, where Dr. Gaul would indulge in her corrupt experiments with their sisters, brothers, parents, children, and all who held significance in their lives. In the crescendo of his manic declaration, he painted a vivid picture of his future reign—a spectacle where he, Coriolanus Snow, the crowned prince of malevolence, would savor the exquisite agony etched across their contorted human canvases. The Capitol, nay, all of Panem, would bow to his whims as he reveled in their suffering and regret, a fucked up symphony of despair conducted by the baton of his ascendancy. He shrieked of delivering their daughters to District brutes, savages, permitting them to enact their desires while his captors watched, witnessing their daughters being subjected from all angles by those untamed pigs, getting fucked from the front, from behind; he would personally make sure to hand their daughters over to some District swine, allowing them to do whatever they pleased. With a morbid delight, he would grant permission to them to satiate their basest desires upon the helpless girls. As his voice grew hoarse, his breath caught in his throat, and tremors overtook him, he succumbed once more to unconsciousness.

As he opened his eyes once more, the unforgiving surface beneath him and the harsh light above greeted him again. It took a moment for him to sit up straight. His head still throbbed, and once again, Coriolanus couldn't quite fathom why the hell he was stuck in a prison cell. Recalling the three sentinels, the bombing, and his journey to Dr. Gaul reignited his panic. His ears rang, his breathing became labored, and he sweated profusely—more than he had in ages. Despite sitting before the bars once again, with a sore chin and a thoroughly hoarse voice, none of it deterred him from continuing to bellow against the walls, demanding Dr. Gaul or anyone else and renewing his threats against those responsible.

Meanwhile, a whirlwind of thoughts raced through his mind. Had he been set up? Betrayed? Why hadn't they sprung him yet? A curfew violation couldn't possibly warrant ending up in a cell. No, something was amiss. Someone—or perhaps multiple someones—clearly had it out for him. But who? And how many? Was it Dr. Gaul? Because he had foolishly prioritized Lucy Gray, running to her first? Because he had saved her, dragging her out of the hall before the actual bombing? Maybe it was a plot against him. Perhaps Dr. Gaul had recognized his immense potential and turned against him out of fear of being replaced! Clearly, the woman was insane, unmistakably old. Coriolanus Snow symbolized a future for Panem; he was young, fit, handsome, and popular—perhaps always a sore point for Dr. Gaul. He couldn't fathom that the woman had ever been popular in her life, not without the looming threat of becoming a lab rat.

Speaking of lab rats... Clemmie. Clemmie was undeniably furious with him. Since the entire incident, for which she was at fault, she had avoided him and held him accountable. Did she have a hand in this? Was it a belated revenge? How dare she. He shouted vehemently that Clemensia should shove any future group work where the sun don't shine. She was just envious. Because he had kept his emotions in check back then, because he hadn't spent the entire night crying over the foolish Arachne Crane, because he possessed the strength to focus on the essentials and write the essay. And even if he had manipulated her a bit by saying he wouldn't write anything. She couldn't be so naive as to believe him. It was her own fault. He continued to bellow that Clemensia deserved everything, every bit, literally, and he hoped she ended up as a snake and…died like one. How dare she defy him, how dare she turn against him, Coriolanus Snow? He would personally haul her to the lab and gleefully toss her into the snake pit—with joy!

And speaking of joy... of course, Lucy Gray. The clever, cunning, pretty Lucy Gray. She had duped him once; was she doing it again? Was that the ungrateful response for merely trying to save her life? He yelled with the last bit of voice he had—while forcefully pressing against the bars—that he should have shot her. "Yes, that's right, Lucy Gray, I wish I had killed you right then, you….you….fucking cunning…. temptress, you…you…. District cunt….you whore!"

As he once again found himself sprawled on the ground before the bars, slipping into unconsciousness, his heart raced so rapidly that he felt on the brink of demise. Was this to be his fate? Was this how Coriolanus Snow, without the opportunity to unveil his true potential, was meant to meet his end, to die, in a fucking prison cell? Tears trickled down his face as he leaned his head against the bars. Tasting the salty liquid, filled with frustration, anger, and despair, he repeatedly banged his head against the cold iron until a metallic fluid ran down from his forehead.

He contemplated his father with a pensive air. Within the recesses of his imagination, he envisioned a disquieting scene— an image of a grave, the final resting place of his father, where a spectral metamorphosis took place. The idea that his father, now interred within the sepulcher, would undergo a metaphysical revolution, contorting with repulsion and perhaps even regurgitating in abhorrence at the current state of affairs, occupied his cogitation. Undoubtedly, his departed father, having found solace in the release from mortal bonds, would be thankful for having been spared the disquieting spectacle of witnessing his only heir, his son, succumb to fatal weakness. The profound sense of revulsion emanating from such a scenario would inevitably saturate his paternal disposition. He would be disgusted by Coriolanus. Absolutely.

Following that, he turned the lens of his contemplation towards his mother. A supposition emerged within his contemplative musings, suggesting that any remnants of filial affection would dissipate upon her encounter with the countenance he now bore within the confines of his cell. The projected image, devoid of familiarity, wrought a profound transformation, eclipsing the once precocious and discerning offspring into an unidentifiable agent of transgressions. Through her discerning gaze, he would transmute into a malefactor—a perpetrator of murder and a betrayer. Any love would vanish at the sight of him in this cell. His mother, too, would recoil at the sight of him in this cell, unable to recognize the sweet boy she once knew, now a murderer and a traitor.

Subsequently, the contours of his thoughts turned to Sejanus—an individual he deemed, in a moment of disdain, as imbecilic, as stupid, as foolish, so, so foolish. Did Sejanus, in the waning moments preceding his suspension from life's tether, experience a cognate frigidity to the one currently coursing through his own veins? The vivid visualization of a young, childish Sejanus, encountered for the first time in the Capitol, presented itself in Coriolanus's consciousness. Coriolanus, back then, was taken aback by the conventional and unremarkable demeanor Sejanus possessed; Coriolanus was surprised by Sejanus's appearance, Sejanus looked so... normal, so human. Before that, he had imagined rebels and people from outside the Capitol as little cunning monsters with fangs they could quickly hide to appear more human, with scales like a snake. But when he scrutinized Sejanus back then, he was disappointed. Sejanus had no fangs. He had no scales. Sejanus was just a boy.

A foolish boy, with an ordinary face, devoid of the monstrous qualities Coriolanus had imagined in rebels. The anticipated monstrous visage simply failed to materialize. Instead, Coriolanus found himself faced with an unassuming boy, bereft of anything extraordinary or ugly, a simpleton whose ill-fated end he had orchestrated. A boy endowed with a tongue that proved to be his undoing, and a heart that Coriolanus, the orchestrator of tragedy, had shattered.

Once again, the metallic resonance of his head against the cell bars reverberated, accompanied by an intensified taste of the sanguine fluid trickling down. The poetic justice of expiring within the confines of a cell, a retribution seemingly befitting his transgressions, did not escape Coriolanus's purview. The crimson stain on his hands bore testament to lives extinguished, foremost among them being Sejanus's. A fleeting contemplation embraced the notion that this, perhaps, was a fitting denouement. Coriolanus Snow, perishing in a cell bespoke for his misdeeds. Very fitting. He, Coriolanus Snow, would die in a cell where he belonged anyway. He had killed people. He had... killed Sejanus.

Again, he revisited old, almost forgotten memories of…a sort of connection, not a camaraderie borne of true friendship but a weird bond predicated on deception. He recalled the incident when, during his first week in the Capitol, Sejanus had been mercilessly beaten by Festus and Felix until he was almost unconscious. It struck Coriolanus as odd, as he banged his head against the bars once more, one would have expected Sejanus to be the one unable to control his fists. However, it turned out to be Festus and Felix, the two idiots. They had trapped little Sejanus in the schoolyard, even hurling small stones at him. The image of Sejanus with his open wounds lingered in Coriolanus's memory. Stepping between them, he positioned himself in front of the bleeding Sejanus, managing to somehow persuade the two idiots to cease their assault. Ever since then, a rumor had circulated claiming that "Coriolanus had a thing for Sejanus." Coriolanus detested this rumor, but no matter how vehemently he denied having any interest in Sejanus, no matter how often he repeated that he "merely tolerated Sejanus," the rumor persisted relentlessly.

He questioned the impetus that impelled him to intervene on Sejanus's behalf, why he had intervened between them in that moment. Why did he not merely stand witness to the continuation of Sejanus's thrashing? Why did he not avert his gaze, in consonance with the indifferent throng?

As tears welled up anew, Coriolanus confronted the specter of an emotional contradiction. Despite the vehement disdain harbored for Sejanus Plinth—his incessant prattle, vociferous diatribes against the Capitol and the Hunger Games—a paradoxical sentiment surfaced. A peculiar fondness for the stupid, foolish Sejanus endured within Coriolanus's psyche. The dichotomy between aversion and reluctant admiration unfolded with Sejanus's emblematic liberation. He was unbridled, an exemplar of freedom, contrary to the shackles that bound Coriolanus's existence. Sejanus unabashedly articulated his thoughts, unlike the formless conformity Coriolanus perpetuated to gain favor. In the tumult of conflicting sentiments, Coriolanus acknowledged an unconventional respect for Sejanus—a reverence for his unadulterated authenticity, irrespective of the consequences it invited. Yes, Coriolanus had felt a fondness for Sejanus. Coriolanus Snow had somehow harbored a liking for that foolish, foolish boy. He despised Sejanus Plinth, loathed his incessant chatter, abhorred almost everything Sejanus uttered. Yet, there existed a part of him that begrudgingly respected Sejanus. Sejanus was liberated. He was free, even if he failed to recognize it. He expressed himself freely. He spoke his thoughts. Sejanus was unlike him; he didn't conform, he didn't lie to gain popularity, he... simply existed as…his own person; even if it subjected him to beatings, he remained unyieldingly true to himself.

Contrarily, Coriolanus remained a puppet master of personas, orchestrating his identity in response to the company he kept. With Clemmie, he assumed the role of a genteel confidante; within academic spheres, he metamorphosed into an exemplar of scholarly diligence; alongside Dr. Gaul, he embodied ambition and unyielding ruthlessness. The polymorphic nature of Coriolanus Snow, devoid of an authentic core, crystallized in stark contrast to the resolute individualism of Sejanus Plinth.

In this moment, Coriolanus recognized the envious undertones in his animosity towards Sejanus. The perceived privilege of the Plinth lineage, although resented, paled in comparison to the liberty Sejanus unabashedly exercised—the freedom to cogitate, articulate, and evolve autonomously. Perhaps, amid the hatred, there lingered an unspoken yearning for the emancipation Sejanus embodied. After all, Coriolanus Snow was never truly himself. He had no shape. No heart that could truly bleed. Unlike Sejanus Plinth. Maybe that's why he hated him so much. Maybe it wasn't just Plinth's wealth that he was jealous of. Maybe it was the freedom Sejanus Plinth possessed... the freedom to be, to exist, to live, to think, to speak, to develop one's own form, to have a heart that could fucking bleed.

If Coriolanus Snow had ever possessed a heart... he had killed it, along with Sejanus Plinth. If such a heart had ever dwelled within him, its once-vibrant pulse had been systematically extinguished, vanishing like a wisp of ethereal smoke. The effacement wasn't solitary; it was a dual obliteration, for alongside the demise of Coriolanus's own heart, the executioner's blade had also descended upon Sejanus Plinth and almost Lucy Gray. It was no surprise that Lucy Gray might betray him in this moment. Following Coriolanus's betrayal, he was left heartless, and without that, he could unleash as much gunfire as he pleased in the woods back then; in that vacuum where a heart once resided, he had found the freedom to discharge gunfire with unchecked abandon amid the wooded expanse of his past. Once a vessel for love, Coriolanus Snow had traversed the turbulent landscape of existence without a heart, and Lucy Gray had almost borne the consequences of it. Once a repository for the symphony of emotions, Coriolanus Snow found himself navigating the precarious precipice of existence without the rhythm of a heartbeat. In this heartless journey, Lucy Gray became an unwitting denizen of the collateral consequences, bearing the weight of a hollow man's actions.

Doubt crept in as he assailed the cell bars anew, pondering the veracity of Sejanus's perception. Did he, Coriolanus, ever possess a heart capable of bleeding? Was it a figment of Sejanus's imagination—a mirage that temporarily obscured the emotional desolation that lurked within Coriolanus Snow? Pounding the bars in a vain attempt to confront his own existential quandary, the prospect of an insipid, unfeeling core gnawed at the recesses of Coriolanus's selfhood. Perhaps he never possessed a heart capable of truly bleeding. It's conceivable that Sejanus merely envisioned such a heart within him, deluding himself into thinking they were alike, both possessing such a heart.

Sejanus Plinth was a truly a foolish, foolish boy…perhaps the only boy with a pulsating heart Coriolanus had ever crossed paths with.

"Ah, Mr. Snow, we should get you to the hospital quickly. It seems to me that the guards have tried the new sedative on you for potential threats. To be honest, you look…terrible."

Abruptly, the cadence of his introspection was interrupted by a resonant voice—an utterance that stirred a sense of recognition within the labyrinth of his consciousness. Slowly lifting his gaze, Coriolanus beheld two figures beyond the dissipating bars. One was a sentinel, a vestige from the antecedent confrontation. The other…President Ravinstill.

Uncertainty pervaded Coriolanus as he grappled with the veracity of the uttered words.

President Ravinstill, maintaining a stoic countenance, continued, "Mr. Snow, I'll arrange for your release. We need to discuss something." Then, he exchanged words with the sentinel beside him.

"What..." Coriolanus' voice faltered.

"Mr. Snow, regrettably, I must convey that Dr. Gaul passed away today. She had been unwell for an extended period, and today... it…occurred. However, we will address all of this calmly. First, you should leave this... place, don't you think?"

Coriolanus pitched forward as the bars suddenly vanished. The President's words reverberated….Dr. Gaul... Right, Coriolanus thought, what was the side effect again? Fever? Paranoia?

What madness. What a fucking mess.

A sense of relief engulfed him before everything surrounding him once again succumbed to darkness.

Chapter Text

With the term 'hospital,' President Ravinstill evidently referred to his own small infirmary. Coriolanus wasn't taken to Capitol Hospital but to President Ravinstill's private residence. There, a small cottage with essential facilities served as a personal hospital for the president.

Coriolanus couldn't recall precisely how he had reached President Ravinstill's residence, situated a bit away from the Capitol's center. He remained in a mostly absent state, barely conscious. Vague memories lingered of being dragged into a vehicle, but the identity of those responsible eluded him. Nevertheless, he found himself in this small cottage, lying on a hospital bed. Syringes were affixed to his arms, and wires dangled, delivering a substance into his veins. A weightiness enveloped his body, accompanied by the metallic flavor of blood and the enduring saltiness of tears on his lips.

Upon regaining consciousness, he found himself alone in the room. Efforts to sit up were impeded by the debility of his body. Eventually, a young attendant, scarcely older than him, entered to replace the fluid bag.

"I...," Coriolanus stammered, unable to articulate more.

"Mr. Snow, President Ravinstill insists you rest first. He sends his regards and will be with you when you feel better. Don't worry; we're taking good care of you," the boy, dressed in sage green like other hospital attendants, reassured before darkness enveloped him again.

Thus passed the next period: brief awakenings followed by immediate slumber. This cycle repeated until Coriolanus could form coherent thoughts. Trying to recall, he examined the monitors and pieced together the events leading to his current state.

Opening ball.
He had delivered a speech.
Excitement had filled the air.
Congratulations echoed... from nearly everyone… most would have congratulated him if he had walked by.
Caesar Highbottom, engrossed in desserts.
Caesar Highbottom, also in black, but unable to rival Coriolanus.
Coriolanus, the more striking figure.
The fog... yes... the fog.

Panic gradually consumed him.

The fucking fog. He had recognized its noxious scent and hurriedly pulled Lucy Gray from the hall before... the bombing.

His heart raced.

He had gone home. Then, he reconsidered and had intended to visit the lab.
Changed his mind.
Sought out Lucy Gray.
The interview.
Progressed well. He had helped Lucy Gray, saving her life that night….So, Lucy Gray…his girl…
Distracted.
Rushed to the lab.
On his way, he encountered three idiots. They had assaulted him, spraying something... he had recognized the scent. The same as in the lab, the same before the bombing. Had the poison been given to the sentinels? Didn't President Ravinstill hint at that before the prison cell?

His heart raced with escalating panic.

The prison cell. They had incarcerated him. Due to the curfew? Or was there more?

His breath quickened.

Where was Dr...

He held his breath.

According to President Ravinstill—unless he misheard—she was… dead. Yet, Dr. Gaul and death? Inconsistent. She was physically human, sure, but... no, something was off, something fishy. Why did the President personally...

"Mr. Snow. You've awakened again," the boy in sage green entered, smiling kindly. "How are you?"

"Fucking terrible, what do you think?" Coriolanus was drained, in agonizing pain, and his body seemed to have struck a deal with gravity, rendering pleasantries an unlikely transaction.

The boy nodded, his smile unwavering. "Yes, no wonder," he replied kindly.

"What exactly... what exactly is wrong with me?" Coriolanus's patience dwindled.

"I must confess, I'm new here... I can give you the relevant document... if that's okay..." The boy mumbled, and Coriolanus rolled his eyes. Of course. They hadn't even assigned him a proper caregiver.

Coriolanus just nodded. The boy left the room, quickly saying, "Be right back," and after a while, he entered again, this time holding said document. "It's really brand new... and I haven't had the chance to go through it all yet, and..." the boy stammered in front of the bed until Coriolanus found enough strength to snatch the document from the boy's hand.

His hands still trembled, but he managed to decipher the document—something apparently beyond the intellectual grasp of the boy—, albeit at a slow pace:

***

Effluvium Obscurus Vaporem Inhalation Solution – Information

Usage:

Effluvium Obscurus Vaporem Inhalation Solution is formulated for strategic deployment in controlled environments as a deterrent against individuals deemed to pose a risk or threat to the Capitol. To be administered with discretion, this lethal concoction is designed to induce a targeted neurophysiological response, rendering those exposed vulnerable to cognitive dissolution.

Admonition:

Strictly administer in accordance with the directives of authorized personnel.
Ensure clandestine deployment for optimal efficacy.
Observe for immediate incapacitation effects.
Keep beyond the reach of unsuspecting individuals.
Store securely in covert locations.

Effects:

Upon inhalation, individuals may experience a gradual onset of FuroFume, characterized by heightened autonomic activity and perceptual alterations. PsykoNebula, a key constituent of Effluvium Obscurus Vaporem, induces a sophisticated neuropsychiatric impact, resulting in diverse cognitive perturbations.

Components:

CogniFrigus: Facilitates a regulated reduction in neural activity, contributing to a calibrated state of cognitive cooling.
DeliriumNubis: Introduces a discreet yet discernible state of cognitive disarray, causing an orchestrated disintegration of normative perceptual constructs.
ParanoiaPulsus: Contributes to an elevated state of vigilance and perceptual acuity, accompanied by a noticeable escalation in psychological distress.
NeuroNebula: Orchestrates a dynamic reconfiguration of neural networks, leading to a transient alteration of cognitive dynamics.
PsychosisFumus: A composite element delineating a complex neuropsychiatric profile, characterized by perceptual distortions and cognitive fragmentation.
CerebroFrigus: The terminal component initiates a controlled modulation of neural thermoregulation, resulting in a perceptible reduction in cognitive warmth.

Instructions for Use:

Administer only as directed by a healthcare professional.
Ensure adequate ventilation during inhalation.
Observe for any adverse effects and report them promptly.
Keep out of reach of children.
Store in a cool, dry place.

Caution:

Effluvium Obscurus Vaporem Inhalation Solution is classified as a restricted substance, intended solely for use by authorized entities. Any deviation from prescribed applications is strictly prohibited. Unauthorized use may result in severe consequences. Exercise utmost discretion during deployment and adhere to stringent security protocols.

***

After finishing reading the document, he closed his eyes again due to exhaustion. What the fuck. He could only muster one thought: Fortunately, he hadn't enrolled in medicine.

Upon reopening his eyes, he was greeted by the direct onslaught of sunbeams, as if the universe itself had decided to spotlight his less-than-illustrious recovery. After a few obligatory blinks, the familiar contours of the room materialized. However, a conspicuous alteration had taken place. Seated nonchalantly on a chair beside his hospital bed was none other than President Ravinstill, engrossed in perusing some inscrutable document. Coriolanus, in his feeble state, observed this scene with an involuntary squint, attempting to decipher the elusive contents that monopolized the president's attention. President Ravinstill, seemingly indifferent to the theatrics of Coriolanus's revival, remained in his contemplative cocoon. Dressed in his customary green ensemble, the president exuded an air of business-as-usual, the fatigue etched on his countenance doing little to disrupt the facade of unassailable authority.

Summoning the courage to rattle the status quo, Coriolanus cleared his throat—an almost futile attempt at announcing his existence. President Ravinstill, caught in the throes of bureaucratic literature, jolted to attention. For a quick moment, Coriolanus sensed the president scrutinizing him with a keenness that transcended the norm, as if trying to extract the very essence of his being through ocular osmosis. The scrutiny, however, concluded with the customary presidential smile—a well-rehearsed play of facial muscles that had no doubt been honed through countless public appearances.

"It seems you're feeling somewhat better. About time. You've been lying here for almost three days now," President Ravinstill declared, as though the passing of time was a mere inconvenience to be overcome.

Coriolanus, grappling with the temporal abyss of a three-day hiatus, recoiled in horror. "Three... three—"

"Yes, a whole three days and nights," President Ravinstill confirmed with an air of nonchalant indifference. "However, rest assured, your recovery seems to be progressing admirably. Please excuse your... still somewhat inexperienced caregiver. He's the son of my secretary, and I couldn't bring myself to ignore his application. I've sent most of the other caregivers to Capitol Hospital. They are quite busy due to the bombing three days ago."

Coriolanus chuckled, albeit with a tinge of gallows humor. "And I'm sure you mentioned this sweet act of yours in an interview? Although... no, someone else from your team publicly praised you for it, didn't they?" The words slipped out, followed swiftly by a pang of regret. What was he thinking?

President Ravinstill's affable countenance remained impervious to the undercurrent of bitter sarcasm. "What can I say? I wouldn't be who I am today if I didn't know how to—"

"—present yourself in the best light," Coriolanus interjected, and again, accompanied by a twinge of remorse. Beside him sat the President of Panem; he could not afford to fail in presenting himself in the best possible light.

"Quite right. So, how are you feeling today, Mr. Snow?" Coriolanus observed the President, who had crossed his legs and was swaying one leg slightly.

He sighed before responding, "The poison has obviously taken effect. Although I am convinced I wasn't the ideal test subject for it."

The President chuckled, swaying his leg even more. "No, you were not. I gather the three sentinels weren't thrilled with your attempt to bypass the curfew and dash to the lab."

Coriolanus's breath caught.

The President scrutinized him once more with great intensity before continuing, "Yes, I was informed of your nightly escapade. Furthermore, I learned that you shouted Dr. Gaul's name quite... frequently and loudly in your prison cell. You either uttered the name as a threat or as an imaginary person you were conversing with. But not surprising, right? Volumnia always had this knack for infiltrating other people's minds. In that sense, it's rather ironic that the Effluvium Obscurus Vaporem—created by Volumnia herself—ultimately led to her demise. Just like her crafted poison, this woman could infiltrate the minds of others, corrupt them, extract their deepest secrets, incite paranoia in every way, poison them—"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Volumnia is pretty much like the poison she brewed and…birthed. Her one biological child, she killed. And her new child—let's be honest, she's really proud of this one..well…was proud of this one—has now killed her."

"I... I still don't understand... how... how did she die?"

The President tilted his head slightly, looking out of the window overlooking the garden. He continued to joyfully tap his foot. "A sort of…overdose of the Effluvium Obscurus Vaporem, of her little brainchild."

Coriolanus grappled with a tumultuous surge of bewildering thoughts. The revelation that Dr. Gaul succumbed to an overdose seemed utterly inconceivable. She, the consummate poison artisan, was renowned for her methodical precision. Throughout his internship, Coriolanus bore witness to her meticulous control—a true virtuoso manipulating chaos with finesse. The paradox of her demise lingered, challenging the image of a stoic control freak. No, that was... out of the question. Yet, beyond this enigma, a more immediate concern surfaced. Why did President Ravinstill personally release him from the cell, only to usher him to his private residence for care from an unassuming, inexperienced boy? The uncertainty lingered—had word of his condition here reached anyone? Doubt gnawed at Coriolanus. Doubt and panic.

He sensed President Ravinstill's eyes on him, dissecting him with scrutiny. Concealing his doubts and panic was imperative, at least until he had all the facts, until he comprehended the unfolding scenario. Despite the pressing need for reflection, time was a luxury he couldn't afford. Action was paramount. "President Ravinstill, thank you for enlightening me on this matter. You must be aware that Dr. Gaul served as a mentor of sorts to me. I appreciate being privy to the circumstances surrounding her demise."

President Ravinstill nodded assuredly. "Yes, I thought so." Was there an underlying tone? If so, what kind? "Impressive interview, by the way."

"What interview?"

"The one with Miss Baird and Miss Dovecote. The interview with Lucky."

What the fuck?

"Oh, Lucky mentioned during my earlier studio appearance that the initiative to interview the two young women was yours. Volumnia evidently endorsed you for a reason, right?"

"It seemed imperative to disseminate information to the public as swiftly as possible," he remarked thoughtfully.

President Ravinstill scrutinized him again in a manner that unsettled Coriolanus. "Indeed," he responded slowly, "spoken like a true politician, Mr. Snow. Very commendable. Volumnia was right. You do have potential."

Coriolanus began to feel an increasing ache in his jaw. "I'm grateful for your kindness in... bringing me here." He had to tread cautiously.

"Of course. I didn't want to attract unnecessary attention. You possess potential, Mr. Snow, and it would be unfortunate if people questioned why Coriolanus Snow was out and about at night shortly after a bomb fell in the Capitol... in defiance of a curfew, only to be accosted by three sentinels... it doesn't paint a favorable picture, does it?"

The logic sounded impeccable, straightforward... yet undeniably disingenuous. "I also extend my sincere gratitude for this."

"Of course you do."

The pain heightened. Fearing a resurgence of dizziness, he couldn't afford to lose focus now. He had to keep his attention on President Ravinstill and his words. "I'm just curious—"

"What piques your curiosity?"

"Why invest so much effort in my well-being? I mean, I'm appreciative, of course, but as the president, you surely have more pressing matters than tending to a young student... particularly given recent events... three days ago."

President Ravinstill's demeanor remained stoic. Had he been too forthright? Should he have approached more gradually?

"A valid inquiry. Very well. Let's address the crux of the matter. I assume you're tired, and I don't intend to prolong your repose any further. You must recuperate, after all. So, let us start again, because it seems that you have not quite understood your situation. Dr. Volumnia Gaul is dead…because of the poison which was created during your internship with Dr. Volumnia Gaul…and after the bombing, in which the poison was used right before the bombing, and a bombing, which you survived without a scratch, you were found at the streets during a curfew, and…"

Coriolanus' heart raced anew.

"...and you aroused significant suspicion among three sentinels, leading them to employ the aforementioned poison against you. What exactly did the medical information state?" He retrieved the information document, previously perused by Coriolanus, from the ground. So, that was what he had been engrossed in before? "Oh, right: Effluvium Obscurus Vaporem Inhalation Solution is formulated for strategic deployment in controlled environments as a deterrent against individuals deemed to pose a risk or threat to the Capitol."

He paused, smiled, and continued, "Mr. Snow, it strongly appears that you are indeed such a risk or threat to the Capitol."

Coriolanus did not respond.

"So, speculators could suggest something along these lines: Coriolanus Snow, the brilliant top student at Capitol University…bombed the Grand Heavensbees Hall, utilized the poison to which he had access due to his internship and mentorship with Dr. Volumnia Gaul…and Dr. Gaul perished the same night after the bombing…Coriolanus Snow was eager to be seen, so he approached Lucky Flickerman, expressing a desire to bring along two girls for an interview…so he could be seen by Lucky and the studio crew…and then he promptly dispatched Dr. Volumnia Gaul with the same poison she created during his internship…and then he was discovered by three highly experienced sentinels…who…deemed him extremely suspicious. How does that sound?"

"Unbelievable," whispered Coriolanus.

"You think so?" President Ravinstill laughed. "No, I believe if Lucky were to disclose this information, it would sound very plausible."

"Why would I bomb—"

"It never matters why. People kill without reason. Isn’t it sad? Your former classmates will say: 'Oh, he was so handsome and popular, no one would have ever thought he’d turn out like this.'"

"It is still not very convincing. Especially because someone else stands to gain the most from such a bombing and the…symptoms…given the ongoing election. A bit suspicious, one might say."

President Ravinstill laughed. He was amused, his feet kicking off. "I'm just teasing you, Mr. Snow. Look at your face. Of course, you did not bomb the hall. Of course, you did not kill Volumnia….just kidding, relax, Mr. Snow. No, no, no. You are not here because I want to blame you for the bombing attack. What person would do such a thing?"

Coriolanus did not answer.

"But, let's discuss another matter: You ran to Miss Baird even before the bombing occurred. There were multiple witnesses stating that you ran before everyone else. You constantly looked at the ceiling, they said. So…I assume Volumnia has spoken to you regarding…the poison?"

Coriolanus nodded.

"Right, that's what I thought. What exactly did she say to you?"

"That I should remember the…smell."

"That's all?"

"Yes."

"No further information?"

"None."

"Okay, fine. We are obviously trying to identify the culprits, so every piece of information is valuable."

"Of course."

"I think it would be great to have you around, Mr. Snow. After all, Dr. Gaul has placed a lot of trust in you, and it seems you never disappointed her. So, let us stay in contact, okay? I mean…right now, you don’t really have many options, considering you are staying in my home." He laughed again.

(….)  (Rest of the conversation will be explored in Part 2)

And thus, the two engaged in discourse that prompted Coriolanus to progressively withdraw into introspection. The more he convalesced, the more he contemplated the events that transpired, the clearer his vision became.

On his concluding day at President Ravinstill's estate, weariness still clung to him, yet the physical state of his body exhibited noticeable improvement. Attiring himself in his erstwhile garments, upon which the traces of blood remained—unwashed, the stains persisting, his blood, streaming down his countenance from the relentless battering against the bars, and the blood borne of the sentinels' blows to his chin—he found himself ruminating anew on Sejanus.

How imprudent he had been. Envy had consumed him, coveting Sejanus's freedom and simplicity. Yet, why should envy possess him? Such a state was attainable for him as well. He could assume a semblance, articulate and enact his desires—albeit with a touch more calculation than Sejanus. For what had veritably claimed Sejanus's life was not Coriolanus Snow himself; it was the myopia inherent in Sejanus's thinking. Coriolanus (and his actions) merely constituted the consequence of such shortsightedness.

He had cursed Sejanus and bemoaned his presence in his life on numerous occasions. Yet, in hindsight, it now appeared a benediction. He had misconstrued this benediction only under the poison's influence, clouding its true nature with unwarranted guilt. The lesson lay in embracing the experience, in learning from it. Sejanus harbored a purpose, and its fruition was now at hand. Perhaps Lucy Gray's musings on fate and stars held a grain of truth... Sejanus had entered Coriolanus's life to illuminate a facet, to impart a lesson: Coriolanus Snow could assume a form.

In essence, Coriolanus Snow had always possessed a form.

It was this intrinsic form that fortified him, enabling not just endurance, but the delicate art of guidance, the tenacity to weather storms, the resilience to endure, the capacity to succeed, and ultimately, the grace to emerge victorious.

In a watershed moment, for the first time in his life, he felt no shame, no trepidation, no fear regarding this innate form.

For the first time in his life, he embraced it.

***

(Coriolanus returned to his penthouse after several nights spent in President Ravinstill's "hospital" room, his mind clouded and unsettled. Tigris, deeply concerned for his well-being, anxiously awaited his arrival. They had a fight (Chapter 30).)

***

(A few days later...)

(After a conversation with President Ravinstill, during which he proposed the idea of his son, Felix, dating her to divert attention from his inadequacies, Lucy Gray exits the room, her mood soured by the discussion. As she ponders *who* might have informed the President about Maude Ivory, a sense of unease settles over her.)

The air in the corridor hung heavy with tension as Lucy Gray emerged from the rector's office. A pallor draped across her features, betraying the weight of what had transpired inside.

"You were privy to this?" her voice, soft as a sigh, reached him as she caught his gaze.

A silent nod from him was all the confirmation she needed.

"And... you..." she hesitated, seeking words that seemed to elude her.

"I...?" he prompted.

She drew in a deep breath, grappling with unspoken thoughts. Her attempt to articulate them faltered, and with a wordless resolve, she turned away from him, retracing her steps down the corridor, the echo of her footsteps fading.

— Part 1 (Prelude) End —

Chapter Text

— Part 2: Charade —

More guests arrived than he had initially anticipated, yet their numbers fell short of adequately filling the expansive living room. As he surveyed the gathering, a few faces triggered a sense of recognition. One of them belonged to the neighbor residing two floors below, a woman of unassuming appearance with pink, curly hair meticulously fashioned into twin braids. Currently indulging at the buffet, her gaze fixated on the succulent chicken positioned to her right. The neighbor, whose name eluded him, seemed to navigate the event solo, estimating her age to be around the late 40s. An enduring memory informed him that her partner had passed away some years ago. Her only companion, aside from the other attendees, was a gaunt feline cradled in her arms like a cherished infant. The cat's fur mirrored the hue of her hair, and with prolonged observation, Coriolanus discerned a strange resemblance between the animal and its caretaker.

Another familiar face emerged—that of yet another neighbor—though Coriolanus couldn't pinpoint the exact floor she occupied. This neighbor's husband had previously held a professorial position at Capitol University until whispers of corruption tarnished his reputation, linking his credibility to the financial depths of his students' wallets. The reserved ex-professor and his wife, exhibiting an air of quiet confidence, ventured towards the buffet. Upon spotting the neighbor with the pink attire, the two women engaged in rapid discourse, resembling long-lost friends reunited, fervently swapping the latest gossip. Simultaneously, the man's gaze remained fixated on the slim cat, prompting Coriolanus to ponder whether he, too, discerned the subtle similarities.

Amidst the assembly, the doorman's face was easily recognizable, serving as a reassuring anchor amid the sea of more elusive acquaintances. However, the majority of the attendees remained a puzzle to him. The turnout, though modest, proved insufficient to truly animate the grandeur of the living room—an outcome that, while not entirely unforeseen, still seemed to carry a tinge of disappointment for Mr. Plinth.

Mr. Plinth positioned himself before the portrait of his wife, his gaze sweeping over the room. It became apparent that individual faces held little interest for him; his perusal was too hasty. Coriolanus surmised that Mr. Plinth was likely gauging the turnout, perhaps more concerned with quantity than the specifics of the attendees. Considering Mrs. Plinth's reputation, Coriolanus couldn't help but think that Mr. Plinth should be pleasantly surprised that anyone had shown up at all. Coriolanus found himself studying the portrait of Mrs. Plinth once more, only to immediately regret the decision.

Upon entering the room earlier, a palpable sense of bewilderment had marked Coriolanus's countenance as his gaze chanced upon the portrait in the living room. It took a considerable amount of time for recognition to dawn on him, as he had grown so accustomed to Mrs. Plinth's worn, graying, and seemingly lifeless face that the memory of her former appearance had almost faded. However, as he discerned the resemblance of her son in her features and the echo of her once-curly brown hair, a wave of discomfort swept over him, compelling him to avert his gaze hastily.

He had been in this place for a solid half-hour, determining to withstand another 10 minutes before returning to Mr. Plinth. His intention was to offer condolences once more and gracefully bow out from Mrs. Plinth's somber memorial. While Mr. Plinth hadn't insisted on his attendance, skipping the event was not an option. The prospect of securing increased sponsorship funds loomed, and Coriolanus recognized the necessity of maintaining a visible presence. In the midst of grief, individuals often veered into irrational decisions. Now that Mr. Plinth grappled with the loss of both his son and wife, Coriolanus saw it as imperative to show support, reminding the grieving man of his sponsorship commitment and emphasizing the responsibility Mr. Plinth held towards him.

He cast another discerning gaze upon his surroundings, briefly scrutinizing the countenances that enveloped him, only to find his expectations dashed when the realization dawned that no individuals of notable stature graced the assembly. Consequently, the cohort of individuals potentially of utility dwindled to a solitary figure—Mr. Plinth himself. Yet, a discerning thought emerged; perhaps it was serendipitous that no fortuitous encounters occurred. After all, entering into an intimate association with the Plinths surpassed the mere acceptance of Plinth sponsorship. With a hurried glance at his watch, a mere four minutes remained before he could liberate himself, approach Mr. Plinth and, consequently, make his exit.

He cast his gaze downward and discerned a scattering of crumbs adorning his tie, an oversight presumably incurred during the morning repast of toast. Experiencing a twinge of chagrin at the spectacle—how long had these minuscule fragments been clandestine on his neckwear? Had they garnered any notice?—he conducted a brief survey of his surroundings. Swiftly, and with a deft motion, he dispatched the crumbs to the floor, seeking to alleviate any potential spectatorial awareness.

"Oh, Mr. Snow, you here?"

Flushed with embarrassment and caught off guard, he swiftly directed his gaze adjacent to him. The neighbor with roseate braids had coalesced; the cat possessing a rose-hued coat still cradled in her arms as a cherished possession. When the cat emitted a hiss in his direction, the neighbor expeditiously responded, "Oh, please forgive her, Mr. Snow. My dear darling harbors an aversion to strangers….Well, in truth, her affections are reserved solely for me." The elderly lady tenderly caressed the pink-hued fur, her countenance assuming a contemplative visage.

A peculiar thought traversed Coriolanus' mind as he scrutinized the cat—a creature once wild, suspicious, and nocturnal, inherently predatory until its disposition underwent domestication. Essentially, the feline now cradled in the woman's arms served as testament to the inherent frailty, lamentable feebleness, and submissiveness of its entire species. It acquiesced to transformation, domestication, and servility. While he harbored an aversion to cats, his disdain extended to all fauna. The domestication of animals eluded him; a practice that introduced nothing but squalor into domiciles without any palpable utility. Their consumption was socially impermissible, and the feline, a source of inconvenience and filth, languid and corpulent in the woman's embrace, likely hadn't engaged in rodent hunting for quite an extended period.

"It was but a matter of time, was it not? Until Marcia Plinth...well…," echoed the neighbor's forthright proclamation. Coriolanus found himself taken aback by the candor of her statement, yet he merely nodded, acknowledging the veracity of her sentiment. Ultimately, the demise of Marcia Plinth did not spring forth as a shock to anyone, particularly those who bore witness to her demeanor post the Sejanus-tragedy.

A cursory glance at his watch revealed a minute remaining. He pivoted towards the neighbor once more, tendered an apology, and navigated expeditiously towards the room's epicenter where Mr. Plinth stood in proximity to the portrait of his departed wife.

"Mr. Plinth," commenced Coriolanus with a resonant timbre, infusing his voice with a measured, melancholic cadence. He interlaced his fingers before the portrait, arched his brows pensively, and directed his gaze downward toward his shoes. It was as if he sought to render a modicum of respect to the portrait of the defunct—a symbolic gesture of obeisance, as if the sorrow-laden countenance of Mrs. Plinth was too profound to meet his gaze directly. After a measured interval, he cast his gaze skyward, assessing Mr. Plinth, who seemed oblivious to his presence. Instead, Mr. Plinth's focus was riveted solely on the portrait, as if he stood alone in its presence.

Coriolanus cleared his throat, but the lack of response prompted him to extend his right hand, delicately resting it on Mr. Plinth's shoulder. This overture proved futile; Mr. Plinth evinced no reaction to the touch, akin to one touching the lifeless. "Mr. Plinth," he ventured once more, met with stoic silence. The man's fixation on the portrait persisted, his gaze unmoored, seemingly reaching into the distance through the painted visage. A fleeting notion of departure crossed Coriolanus's mind, yet his presence here warranted due commitment. Attired in black, with a forethought in his choice of words, he couldn't allow this visit to be in vain. Applying a modicum of pressure to Mr. Plinth's shoulder, he coughed more audibly, resuming his entreaty with a slightly stern tone, "Mr. Plinth, I know that mere words—"

"Enough, Coriolanus," Mr. Plinth murmured to himself. "Enough."

Coriolanus regarded him with perplexity, contemplating if he had misconstrued the sotto voce utterance. Before he could seek clarification, Mr. Plinth repeated the assertion with heightened volume, an unequivocal directive resonating with authority, "Enough, Coriolanus. Enough." Strabo Plinth elevated his hand, yet, contrary to expectations, he swiftly retracted it from Coriolanus's shoulder.

"Mr. Plinth, I—"

"Coriolanus, I insist you depart now." Mr. Plinth's voice crescendoed, inviting the collective gaze of the assembly. Though not a thunderous roar, the pronouncement reached every corner of the room. "Go. Now."

Briefly deliberating whether to retort, Coriolanus ultimately reasoned that it was prudent to withhold any further utterances before Mr. Plinth plunged into complete discomposure. Notably, it was Mr. Plinth who exhibited egregious comportment, a fact not lost on those present, and even if anyone contemplated imputing misconduct to Coriolanus, the individuals within this precinct lacked sufficient significance to warrant genuine concern. Necessarily, amends with Mr. Plinth must be negotiated, but such considerations could defer. Mr. Plinth's current demeanor, though indisputably misguided and brazen, suggested a lapse in coherent thought. Rather than expressing gratitude for Coriolanus' presence—especially considering the Plinths' tenuous standing in the Capitol and the rare occurrence of a Snow's attendance at the memorial service—Mr. Plinth would soon find himself compelled to proffer an apology. However, such matters could await. The anticipation of a prospective augmentation in sponsorship had already been disabused; this was no time for expectations until an adequate period of mourning transpired. While an unforeseen enhancement would have been welcome, Coriolanus had steeled himself for the realization that no such windfall awaited him imminently. Today's purpose resided solely in Mr. Plinth's assurance of Coriolanus Snow's presence and willingness to extend support—a sentiment that, if presently unrequited, proved fortuitous.

Coriolanus inclined his head, contorting his countenance to convey a semblance of disappointment tinged with empathy, then proceeded to the exit. Just as he approached the threshold, Mr. Plinth's voice reverberated, "Incidentally, the scholarship stands rescinded with immediate effect."

Coriolanus swiftly pivoted to face Mr. Plinth, whose gaze persisted on the portrait of the deceased. Had he misheard?

"W-what precisely do you..."

"The scholarship is terminated, and now, kindly vacate the premises." Mr. Plinth remained unmoved, his eyes fixed on the portrait.

The resonance of those words lingered as Coriolanus exited the precincts of the Plinth abode.

Had his perception betrayed him? No, the reiterated utterances were manifestly unambiguous. Mr. Plinth had, unequivocally, brought the sponsorship to an abrupt termination. Ascending the staircase to his penthouse with an unduly brisk gait, as if his limbs bore an ethereal lightness and an impatience to seek sanctuary within, his auditory senses attuned to the escalating cadence of his own heartbeat. What transpired in that moment? Was the venerable gentleman succumbing entirely to a disoriented state of mind? Could this be a transient episode of desperate bereavement, prompting Mr. Plinth to act in an impulsive and irrational manner? Was the grief so profound that it clouded his reasoning, prompting a venting of frustrations, the nature of which remained elusive? What was the precise motivation behind the chosen words, uttered without a meticulous consideration of their implications?

Indeed, this seemed the more plausible scenario. Mr. Plinth, in the grip of his sorrow, likely internalized a sense of culpability for the demise of his final familial link, while he himself persisted among the living, bereft now of both progeny and spouse. Such a conjecture wasn't entirely far-fetched. Bereaved individuals, in essence, often proved to be unreliable narrators of their own sentiments, inadvertently vocalizing sentiments not entirely congruent with their true emotions, and engaging in actions contrary to their own volition. Mr. Plinth, it seemed, couldn't logically contemplate an outright annulment of the scholarship. Surely, he had undertaken a commitment to provide financial sustenance to a student for the entire duration of their academic sojourn. Contractual obligations existed. This covenant couldn't be capriciously sidestepped. The contractual terms were explicit, extending for the duration of the academic pursuits, and Coriolanus remained well within the standard time frame. Strabo Plinth, it appeared, had inconsiderately selected his words, driven more by an impulsive need to discharge pent-up frustrations, with Coriolanus inadvertently situated as the unfortunate receptacle of misplaced ire.

However, looming uncertainties surfaced. What if Mr. Plinth's mourning refused to abate in the foreseeable future? What if his grief-driven disorientation led him to persist in his words, eschewing any intent to retract them, eventually discovering an avenue to nullify the sponsorship contract? Such an outcome, regrettably, couldn't be summarily dismissed.

What the hell. How had he permitted himself to be ensnared once more, subjected to the machinations of a Plinth?

Upon reaching the summit, he swiftly turned the key to admit himself into the confines of his penthouse. Once ensconced within, the door securely sealed behind him, he succumbed to the floor in an exhausted collapse. A mere eighteen months remained until the culmination of his studies. While a reserve had been amassed, it proved insufficient to underwrite his financial obligations, particularly the persistent expenses tethered to the penthouse, inclusive of taxes, for the ensuing eighteen months. The reliance on the Plinths, he now realized, was a fallacy. A more discerning approach should have been exercised. Alternative avenues should have been explored. Naivety was an indulgence he could ill-afford.

Scarcely had he assumed his position on the entryway floor when his Avox Hedgehog made its timely appearance, poised to attend to the customary coat-hanging ritual. Coriolanus gestured for his Avox to retreat. His respiration grew labored. Was he now succumbing to a nascent panic? No, all was not irretrievably lost. Time yet persisted, affording him the opportunity to persuade Strabo Plinth to reconsider the sponsorship. Perhaps, in a fortuitous turn of events, Mr. Plinth would regain clarity today… or soon, recognizing the gravity of his impulsive conduct, and perchance, by way of atonement, even augment the scholarship. The situation, he asserted, remained salvageable.

He adjusted the snug knot of his necktie, drawing a deep breath in and out. Subsequently, he rose from the floor, proceeding to his study where, with a meticulous intent, he aimed to scrutinize his financial ledgers—simply to ascertain precisely the extent of the remaining sponsorship funds. A precautionary measure, one could say.

On the ensuing day, his arrival to the lecture was belated, and, to compound matters, he incurred the attention of a professor evidently not in the best disposition. Coriolanus proffered apologies for his tardiness, endured the professor's acerbic reproaches, and found himself ruing the decision to attend university on that particular day. While his inclination veered towards a direct encounter with Mr. Plinth, a morning resolve prompted him to defer the meeting. He surmised that affording Mr. Plinth more time for composure and discernment would bode well for smoothing over the ensuing discord.

The lecture, unfortunately, struggled to captivate his attention. The preceding night had been consumed with contemplation of his financial state, a comprehensive examination of the ledgers. This cognitive preoccupation was further exacerbated by the disconcerting presence of Felix Ravinstill seated directly in front. Evidently disinterested, Felix had reclined, his head resting upon the desk, oscillating more towards somnolence than attentiveness. It vexed Coriolanus that the professor appeared oblivious to this conduct, not subjecting Felix to the same stringent reproach as Coriolanus, who had only been tardy. Such preferential leniency towards the Ravinstills, however, was a characteristic pattern. They seemed to navigate through transgressions with greater ease than he, Coriolanus Snow, ostensibly could.

Following the second lecture, he relinquished his efforts. His contemplations became wholly consumed by the scholarship, the precarious uncertainty of his financial standing, and the enigmatic motivations that led Mr. Plinth—assuming a modicum of rationality in his pronouncements—to prematurely terminate the sponsorship. In an unprecedented turn, he found himself yearning for the return of Ma Plinth, with whom discourse flowed more seamlessly. Had she been alive, Coriolanus would have readily sought her guidance, confident that Ma Plinth would have advocated on his behalf with her spouse. Ma Plinth had consistently proven dependable in such matters, a stark contrast to her husband's capricious tendencies. The ease with which Coriolanus could converse with Ma Plinth, devoid of reservations and the need for elaborate preparations, lingered in his thoughts. Coriolanus shook his head, reflecting on the palpable absence of those weekly visits….he could have effortlessly petitioned Ma Plinth for additional financial support, offering in return only a modicum of pleasantries, tactfully veiled references to her dead son.

While traversing the campus on his way to the penthouse, he found himself unavoidably drawn to the luminous screens. The colossal canvases, seemingly bearing down upon him, proved impervious to his attempts at nonchalance. His gaze struggled to maintain a level of indifference sufficient to overlook their commanding presence, and his eyes, despite his best efforts, yielded to the allure of the screens. It was almost as though his ocular faculties had conspired against his will, orchestrating movements that compelled him to momentarily succumb to the visual engagement. Although the transient nature of this diversion allowed him to swiftly reclaim command of his gaze, redirecting it to the thoroughfare ahead, the celerity was insufficient. Much like his eyes, his auditory senses, too, had fallen under the spell of the surroundings.

"Are you going?" a girl's voice behind him asked.
"I'm not sure yet... how about you?" responded another girl.
"No one has asked me yet... hopefully—"

Coriolanus promptly accelerated his gait to the point of near-athletic propulsion, only to subsequently modulate it to a more measured tempo. Casting a fleeting, circumspect gaze in his surroundings, he meticulously ensured that no observer within his proximate environs had taken cognizance of his brisk locomotion. Averse to the propagation of speculations suggesting flight or temporal miscalculation for the second instance in the day, he assiduously guarded against any inadvertent revelation. Unfortunately, during this survey, he inadvertently chanced upon the illuminated display on the adjacent edifice housing the medical practitioners. Exerting considerable restraint, he endeavored to preclude any betraying distortion of face.

Initially contemplating the utilization of the elevator for the ascent to his penthouse, Coriolanus found his body imbued with a disquieting restlessness, a palpable swelling of trepidation. Opting for an alternative course, he elected to traverse the staircase, harboring the expectation that the physical exertion involved therein might alleviate the perturbation. This penchant for stairwells, rooted in antiquity, lingered as an enduring idiosyncrasy—a reflexive recourse reminiscent of erstwhile occasions when, gripped by uncertainty, perambulations to the Academy and ascents of staircases functioned as a modicum of physical engagement, serving to unburden his ruminative faculties.

"Oh, Mr. Snow!" The neighbor with pink hair stood on the landing, watching him climb the stairs. He rarely saw her, and somehow, he had the impression she was waiting for him.

"Good day," Coriolanus replied shortly, attempting to pass her. However, the woman suddenly stood in front of him.

"Mr. Snow, do you have a moment?" Her gaze held a gravity, yet the events of the preceding day had already induced ample unease, rendering him disinclined to entertain her inquiries. It was evident that the woman harbored an inclination for gossip, eagerly anticipating the unfolding of recent developments, particularly in elucidating the enigmatic conduct of Strabo Plinth. Nevertheless, her inquisitiveness warranted gratification from alternative sources.

"I'm sorry, I'm really in a hurry, another time—"

"It really can't wait, Mr. Snow!" The lady raised her voice, and her lips formed a thin line. "I must insist, Mr. Snow."

"I really—"

"Mr. Snow, please follow me." Disregarding any anticipation of his response, the woman proceeded towards her ajar apartment door. Coriolanus, exhibiting a subtle exasperation, nonchalantly trailed behind her.

"Please close the door behind you," Resonating from an adjacent room, her voice directed him further into her peculiar abode. However, diverging from the prescribed course of closing the door behind him, Coriolanus lingered in the entrance area. The hallway's walls bathed in a rosy hue, a shade unmistakably akin to the one that adorned both the lady's hair and her feline companion's fur. The cat, momentarily overshadowed by the sheer multitude of its counterparts, had almost slipped from Coriolanus's consciousness. Yet, it was an assembly of hundreds of feline forms that now held his attention—artificial, lifeless entities. Each meticulously placed on diminutive rose-tinted wooden boards affixed to the walls on either side of the entrance door. A macabre menagerie, they posed in a myriad of attitudes: some in apparent repose, others upright on hind legs, a few with contorted maws, several on all fours, some in arched postures, and a few frozen in a semblance of a hiss. Their taxidermied nature eluded him at first glance, creating a transient illusion of a congregation of living felines—whether standing, lying, or engaged in various activities. The elongated corridor accentuated the claustrophobic display, as the cats seemed to vie for space, each body placed in close proximity to its counterpart, obliterating any vacant expanse, be it near the ceiling or along the floor. The unnerving ambiance of this hallway rivaled the disquietude evoked by Dr. Gaul's scientific enclaves.

"Mr. Snow, did you close the door behind you?"

He briefly considered turning around and, looking at the many cats, thought that would be the best solution. But at the end of the corridor, the neighbor with pink hair stood in front of him again, and he replied once more in a firm, determined tone, "Mr. Snow, I ask you again to close the door behind you and then follow me. And not too loudly. Pay attention to your steps. They don't like loud steps."

"They?"

The woman studied him carefully, raised her eyebrows, before answering, "Well, my cats."

Coriolanus looked at the walls again and said nothing. Instead, he decided to get back to the point: "I have a pressing appointment, unfortunately, I don't have the time—"

"Don't be so rude. The door, please."

"I really must—"

"The door!" Now she raised her voice again and seemed almost outraged.

Sighing and shaking his head, Coriolanus looked again at the cat walls and decided he could do without special politeness. Just as he was about to walk out the door again, he heard the woman behind him say, "Mr. Snow, I've been waiting all day to talk to you. It's very urgent."

"I really don't know what you and I have to talk about—" The woman was insane. Clearly. He should just leave and not react to her statements.

"Mr. Snow!"

"I apologize, but I'm leaving now." He left the apartment of the crazy woman and decided that the prejudices against older women with cats did not come from nowhere.

"Mr. Snow!" he heard her call behind him as he reached the landing.

"Mr. Snow, please wait!" She seemed out of breath, which meant he just had to hurry a little, and he would leave her behind.

"Mr.... Mr. Snow! I beg you!" Now the woman was practically screaming.

Coriolanus stopped on the stairs and turned around. The woman stood in front of her front door, all red. "I've really got to go, and as I said, I—"

"I..."—she gasped for breath, now even redder—"I insist, Mr. Snow!"

"What could be so urgent that it can't wait?" he sharply replied. Slowly but surely, the woman was getting on his nerves. She was a resident of this high-rise and certainly not poor, but that didn't mean she could speak to him in such a tone, and obviously, the woman had a loose screw. He had made enough effort to maintain a friendly tone.

"We, the proprietors and denizens of these distinguished abodes," she intoned, progressively short of breath, "have convened with the collective intent to proffer a petition, and conceivably, institute legal proceedings."

Coriolanus arched his eyebrows and fixed a quizzical gaze upon the woman. "A petition?"

"And the prospect of legal action."

His lips curved involuntarily. "Against what exactly?" A campaign against the aesthetic indiscretions of certain residents, perhaps? The lady ought to commence such an endeavor with introspection. It was abundantly clear that Strabo Plinth was not the sole occupant of this lofty abode to have surrendered sanity.

"Against the..." She took a deep breath and twisted her face, as if she suddenly felt very sick. "Against the new owner and resident of the Plinth apartment."

"I don't understand."

"We cannot tolerate, no, we cannot accept someone from the district moving here and becoming part of our neighborhood." She crossed her arms in front of her. "Since I found out, I've collected all the residents' signatures here. Well, except for Mr. Plinth's, of course, and yours."

"I still don't understand. The Plinth apartment—"

"Is getting a new owner and resident. According to Strabo Plinth, she will move in next week."

"She?"

"Yes. A district rat."

Ma Plinth had alluded to a sibling. Was it conceivable that, in his bereavement, Strabo Plinth conceived the ingenious notion of relocating additional denizens from District 2 to this locale? "I'm afraid this matter doesn't particularly pertain to me. And assuming you've garnered signatures from everyone but two, that should be adequate for your endeavors," Coriolanus responded with gravity. If indeed veracious, he ought to distance himself, especially considering his aim to amicably resolve matters with Strabo Plinth regarding the scholarship. Moreover, the sheer incongruity of the enterprise was not lost on him: the Plinths themselves hailed from District 2, establishing residence sans the exigency of a petition or legal recourse. While he empathized with their disquiet about embracing neighbors from the districts, pecuniary considerations held precedence, and propriety was an immutable facet. The precise origin of their district neighbor seemed inconsequential. Grievances, if any, should have been voiced earlier. Presently, the endeavor appeared futile, enacted too belatedly to yield substantive outcomes.

The neighbor shook her head. "It would be unwise not to sign, Mr. Snow. The price and value of your apartment will also be affected."

"As I said, I have an important appointment that cannot wait. Thank you for your inquiry, but—"

"It is absolutely unacceptable to have to accept someone from the districts for the second time. Think about it, Mr. Snow. Even your reputation will suffer, considering that both of you have the same way to the university. How will it look when both of you have to leave this house together every morning? To endure something like that—"

"University?"

"Well, the thing is a student."

"Where did you get this information?" Coriolanus hastily asked as he descended the stairs again.

"I heard it after the funeral yesterday. Mr. Plinth is now on his way to his district."

"Strabo Plinth is going to District 2?" Now Coriolanus stood directly in front of the woman, wondering if the crazy lady had confused something.

"Indeed, my observation stands correct. I witnessed his departure approximately two hours ago. Upon my attempt to address the matter, he bluntly declared his intent to retreat to District 2, emphasizing his aversion to revisiting this abode. Well, his articulation was decidedly less refined than my present rendition," she conveyed with acerbity, her lips forming a taut line. At the sound of a meow, the woman hastened toward her feline companion with a roseate hue, ambling through the entrance. Swiftly, she scooped the cat into her arms. "Oh, my cherished one, it is not befitting for you to venture outdoors and soil your pristine coat," she murmured tenderly while caressing the feline's fur.

"And you heard yesterday that a student...?" Coriolanus' breath became heavier.

"Indeed, my assertion holds true. I received this information directly from Mr. Plinth when I found the accounts of others incredulous. Mrs. Dane apprised me yesterday that her spouse, Mr. Dane, the erstwhile professor and incumbent administrator of this edifice, was apprised a mere two days prior of the alteration in ownership. A student from the districts has been formally recorded as the new proprietor of the Plinth apartment and is slated to take residence here in the ensuing week."

"Do you…happen to know the name of that student?"

"Yes. A certain Miss Baird."

————

Two days prior:

"Do you already have a confirmed companion for the upcoming event?" Tisiphone's inquiry carried a subtle nuance that Coriolanus discerned with precision. Despite his awareness, he hesitated to provide the expected response. "Where?"

Tisiphone, with a touch of theatrics, rolled her eyes gracefully. "You know exactly where, Coryo," she replied gently, gesturing towards the screens in the corridor outside the lecture hall. They patiently awaited the culmination of the prolonged discourse in progress. "You know... I haven't secured a companion yet."

He grasped her unspoken suggestion, having been cognizant of her intentions for several days. The prior day, during lunch in the cafeteria, she had delicately broached the topic, expressing the wish of attending the ball. He had hoped to be spared such inquiries, considering Livia's recent demise and his sustained state of mourning as her former boyfriend. Nevertheless, it appeared that some girls were more unfeeling than he had initially anticipated, and Tisiphone belonged to that category.

"Livia would undoubtedly have found it beautiful," he replied, casting a contemplative gaze into the distance. Hoping this statement would suffice to deter further explicit explanations, he aimed to avoid officially declining Tisiphone's invitation. After all, her aunt held the presidency of the second-largest energy conglomerate, and he had no intention of complicating potential connections with her family at this juncture.

"Oh, you poor thing... It's incredibly tragic the way she left us," Tisiphone responded gently, placing her hand on his upper arm and offering a comforting stroke. "If you need anything, please let me know. Livia would have wanted her friends to take care of you."

That would be the last thing Livia would have wanted, Coriolanus thought to himself, stiffening slightly as Tisiphone's hand lingered.

For days, conversations scarcely revolved around anything other than this stupid ball. Every screen was saturated with announcements.

As he entered the lecture hall, he cast a final glance at the screen. Lucy Gray joyfully announced that the Ravinstill Foundation was financing the New Year's ball, implementing various security measures to celebrate the so-called "Ball of Renewal" with everyone. Tickets for this ball had to be purchased in advance, a departure from the usual practice of simply showing up. The proceeds would contribute to the reconstruction of the Grand Heavensbee Hall. Additionally, attending the ball alone was not permissible; a companion was mandatory.

It seemed as if people had recovered from the bombing. Now that Lucy Gray had proclaimed the initiation of comprehensive measures to safeguard against an attack, there appeared to be scant interest in the theoretical possibility of danger. People seemed to have had enough of barricades, curfews, and abstinence. They desired celebration, revelry, and the semblance of a world without looming threats.

It was poignant to witness Lucy Gray appearing so jubilant on the screens, even if it was ostensibly staged. Nevertheless, he had to concede that he missed her smile, even her feigned one.

Chapter Text

"There must…exist an alternative course," Coriolanus persisted, noticing that he had tightly balled his hands into fists, the abbreviated nails carving minute, bloody furrows into his palm. As he gradually unclenched his hands, placing them composedly on his lap, his gaze briefly lowered before he firmly encircled his knees. "I implore you, have you thoroughly explored all conceivable avenues?"

"I regret to inform you, Coriolanus, that presently, there is little within my purview," Mr. Hop replied with nonchalance, transferring the dossier of papers to the right flank of his pretentiously organized desk. Evidently, this signaled the cessation of their discourse. Observing the wall clock behind Coriolanus, Mr. Hop, a man of stature and lean countenance in his mid-50s, appended a more tempered note, "Coriolanus, I have considered all facets, and, for the time being, placing reliance on receiving any funds from the Plinth Sponsorship appears to be an exercise in futility. Strabo Plinth has vanished since his departure to District 2, and his financial holdings stand barren. Retrieval is unattainable, even if—an improbable scenario—it were plausible to enforce the sponsorship contract. Legal recourse against him may be pursued, but such action would be ineffectual given his elusive nature and financial destitution."

Coriolanus tightened his grip on his knees, discerning every nuance of his patella. Mr. Hop, once the legal counsel of his father, had become a sounding board when Coriolanus experienced an upswing in his financial circumstances through the sponsorship. The prospect of Strabo Plinth absconding and annulling the sponsorship had not remotely occurred to either Mr. Hop or him in those earlier days. Even Mr. Hop, renowned for his meticulous preparedness and rapid retention of details, had not envisioned this unfolding scenario. "My esteem for Strabo Plinth is marginal, but the man has exhibited a penchant for pragmatism thus far. When it comes to pragmatists... they are the most palatable of individuals, you know. Identifying the optimal course and the pragmatist is secured. It's the idealists who strike me as most unpalatable... a cohort of lunatics incapable of aligning their thoughts," Mr. Hop had conveyed in their initial conversation. Coriolanus, with considerably fewer life experiences than Mr. Hop, had concurred with the elder man's assessment.

Coriolanus bid his farewell with a genteel nod, his demeanor a mask of composure as he stepped out of Mr. Hop's office—a bastion of antiquity, steeped in tradition and weighted with the gravitas of yesteryears. As the heavy oak door closed behind him, its resounding thud echoed in the corridor, serving as a somber reminder of the weighty matters that now burdened his mind. He traversed the dimly lit hallway, the flickering light from the sconces casting elongated shadows that danced along the walls, mirroring the tumultuous thoughts swirling within him.

In the sanctuary of solitude that the stairwell offered, Coriolanus descended with measured steps, each footfall supposedly a resolute declaration of his determination to confront the mounting challenges that lay ahead. Yet, with every step, the realization of his predicament settled upon him like a suffocating shroud. Without the steady influx of sponsorship, the once-attainable sanctuary of his penthouse now loomed as an unattainable fortress, its lofty heights an ever-receding mirage on the horizon of his aspirations. The weight of financial strain pressed heavily upon him, a burden exacerbated by the sudden surge in operational costs and the merciless hike in tax rates. Tuition fees, daily expenses for food and attire—all demanded their toll on his dwindling resources. Only the meager remnants of the Plinth funds offered solace amidst the tempest of financial uncertainty, a meager lifeline in the storm-tossed sea of fiscal instability. It rankled him deeply to confront the stark reality of his misjudgment, to acknowledge the sheer naivety with which he had approached his financial affairs—his optimism, once a beacon of hope, now a cruel reminder of his misplaced trust in the promise of prosperity.

Descending the staircase toward the main exit, he found himself ensnared in a maelstrom of memories, swept back to a time when uncertainty hung heavy in the air, and necessity forged his path. A time when his days were filled with the laborious task of repurposing his father's worn garments, and the discordant symphony of his growling stomach served as an unwelcome alarm. Barely had he descended the first flight of stairs when a wave of exhaustion washed over him, forcing him to take respite on the cold, unforgiving steps. It was as if his limbs, bereft of their skeletal support, now bore the weight of his despair alone, each sinew stretched taut with the burden of his predicament. How could he hope to navigate the path ahead when his very foundation threatened to crumble beneath him?

"Mr. Snow! I'm glad I caught you in time!"

The intrusive, unwelcome voice shattered the fragile cocoon of solitude that had enveloped him, jolting him back to the stark reality of the present. Turning to face the source of the interruption, Coriolanus was met with the sight of Mr. Hop's newly-appointed secretary. As she descended with a subtle but discernible hint of clumsiness, memories of his childhood visits to Mr. Hop's office flooded Coriolanus' mind. Once, his father had been a client of Mr. Hop's services, and during those formative years, Coriolanus had become familiar with the former elder stateswoman who presided over the reception area with a quiet dignity. In those bygone days, while accompanying his father on those visits, he would languidly await in the reception room, where the former secretary had bestowed upon him the small kindness of a few cough drops.

Alas, the passing of time had cruelly claimed the former secretary, leaving behind only the echoes of her presence. In her stead emerged a markedly younger woman, perhaps in her thirties, whose arrival chafed against Coriolanus's sensibilities. It was not her overt discourtesy or blatant incompetence that rankled him, but rather the incessant prodding into matters that held little relevance to him. Following the admittance of District students to the university, she persisted in her inquiries about Lucy Gray with a zeal that bordered on obsession. "What kind of person is she?" she would inquire, or "Is she acclimating to her new surroundings here in the Capitol?" And with a particular note of interest, "Does she still flaunt the dresses of the LGB collection by Tigris Snow upon the campus?" The relentless scrutiny was grating, to say the least. It seemed that her curiosity stemmed from a familial fascination—a younger sister, a student at the Capitol University, ensconced in pursuits of questionable value, had become quite enamored with Lucy Gray, and this infatuation had evidently been transferred to her elder counterpart. Each encounter left Coriolanus longing for the simplicity of days gone by, yearning for the former attendant who, aside from dispensing the occasional cough drop, had spared him the burden of incessant interrogation. Not once had she broached the subject of Lucy Gray—a fact that now seemed like a distant dream in the wake of his current ordeal.

"This is from Mr. Hop," the new secretary whispered softly, her words barely audible above the din of Coriolanus' racing thoughts, "You should read it at your leisure, Mr. Snow."

Coriolanus simply nodded, accepting the envelope, while the echo of the secretary's hurried steps faded upstairs. Each footfall resonated sharply, a sound as grating as the woman's persistent presence itself. He couldn't help but find her lack of focus irritating. Shouldn't she be trained to prioritize her duties over idle distractions, instead of indulging in a fan-like obsession with Lucy Gray? It puzzled Coriolanus that her behavior bothered him so. Wasn't he supposed to be pleased by Lucy Gray's positive reception, by the public's growing interest in her? Wasn't that the whole purpose: to shape public opinion in favor of…the…girl?

In theory, yes. However, ever since his encounter with President Ravinstill, the dynamics had shifted. Since then, he couldn't shake off the unease whenever Lucy Gray's name was mentioned in a positive context. It was a persistent thorn in his side, an unwelcome complication amidst his already burgeoning troubles. As if his plate weren't already overflowing with challenges.

After a brief respite, he lifted himself from the staircase's worn steps, the envelope clasped securely in his hand. The weight of its contents bore down on him, a burden compounded by the absence of any favorable tidings of late. With a somber resolve, he resolved to unveil its secrets within the sanctuary of his penthouse, far from the echoing corridors where anxiety often lurked, poised to pounce like a stealthy predator.

Preferring solitude over the unpredictability of chance encounters, especially those involving feline interlopers, he opted for the elevator to his penthouse this time, hoping to evade any unintended distractions. His mind was resolute—no petitions would be signed today, nor would he engage with Lucy Gray's affairs. His focus was singular: to navigate the labyrinth of his financial woes with unwavering determination. Yet, amidst his strategic contemplation, a disquieting thought lingered: the impending occupation of the Plinth apartment by Lucy Gray felt like a punitive twist of fate. Why her, of all people? The unsettling truth lay just beyond his grasp, veiled in uncertainty. However, pressing financial obligations demanded his immediate attention, relegating Lucy Gray's presence to a temporally deferred concern.

As he crossed the threshold into his penthouse, Hedgehog greeted him with a respectful nod, deftly relieving him of his coat—a ritualistic gesture that had become routine between them. Following Mrs. Plinth's somber funeral, Coriolanus had meticulously reviewed his financial obligations and expenditures, concluding that retaining his Avox, Hedgehog, for the time being was a prudent decision. The initial investment required for an Avox, particularly one as trained and capable as Hedgehog, was substantial. However, the Plinths had already borne this expense, leaving Coriolanus responsible solely for the ongoing maintenance costs. Given Hedgehog's dietary restrictions and modest consumption, the expenditure on food remained negligible compared to other financial burdens such as taxes and tuition fees. Moreover, the Plinths had provided Hedgehog with two work outfits upon his arrival, alleviating Coriolanus from any additional financial strain in that regard.

Observing Hedgehog delicately tending to his coat, Coriolanus couldn't ignore the stark decline in his Avox's physical condition. The sudden weight loss stirred a wave of concern within him. Was Hedgehog unwell? Fuming with frustration, he stormed into his study. The last the needed was an ailing Avox. Without waiting for impending medical expenses, he resolved to terminate Hedgehog's employment. While it wasn't socially pristine to send a sick Avox back to the administrative office and burden the institution with medical bills, financial constraints offered him little recourse. Perhaps a bit of subterfuge, a narrative highlighting Hedgehog's incompetence, would suffice to shield him from potential repercussions if the institution demanded payment for medical expenses. But then again, if Hedgehog's illness was severe, rendering him unproductive and costly to maintain, the institution might opt to dispose of his Avox altogether.

Upon reaching his desk, he found himself shaking his head at such notions. There was no certainty yet that his Avox was indeed ill. Granted, lately, Hedgehog appeared somewhat more clumsy and absent-minded than usual, but overall, he still managed to perform adequately. Coriolanus reluctantly acknowledged that he lacked the financial resources to simply replace Hedgehog with a new Avox. For now, Hedgehog would have to remain in his service, and if indeed he was unwell, Coriolanus could only hope it was a serious enough ailment to dissuade the administrative office from lodging complaints about medical expenses.

He let out a weary sigh, allowing his eyelids to drift shut as he reclined against the desk, the weight of his body pressing firmly into the backrest. It seemed futile to pore over the financial records once more; he had already subjected them to meticulous scrutiny four times over, each examination yielding the same disheartening conclusion. He could scarcely eke out seven weeks before his coffers ran dry. Even with the most austere budgeting, his resources would stretch no further than 2.5 months. At the apex of his expenses loomed the towering costs of the penthouse, compounded by the impending burden of tuition fees. While scrimping on food and attire remained viable options—familiar territory in the realm of austerity—circumventing the weighty specters of taxation, heating, and water expenses proved a daunting task. Money had eclipsed all other concerns, becoming the relentless focal point of his thoughts, each attempt at resolution merely fueling the inferno of his financial anxieties.

With a throbbing headache, he compelled himself to unveil the contents of the envelope handed by Mr. Hop—well, his new secretary—, which he had positioned directly in front of him on his desk earlier. Puzzled by the deviation from Mr. Hop's typically diligent behavior, Coriolanus reached for the letter opener, noting the handwriting on the envelope bore a whimsical, feminine flair, contrasting sharply with Mr. Hop's mechanical precision. As he delicately sliced through the paper, a surge of recognition washed over him; he knew all too well to whom this script belonged. Each time he sought financial assistance, she had extended her aid…

"Dear Coriolanus,

As you read these lines, I shall have embarked on the journey beyond mortal bounds. In the waning days, or rather months, of my existence, I have grappled with the notion of life beyond our earthly realm. Fate's cruelest decree—surviving the loss of one's own child. It is a paradox of existence, a burden too weighty to bear. Yet here I remain, amidst the living, while my son's spirit has departed this world. Enduring such solitude amidst the pulse of life is the truest punishment, a penance I shall bear until destiny claims me too.

The memory of our very first encounter remains vivid in my mind, portraying a picture of your family's icy demeanor. A chill so profound, it penetrated to the core of my being. Were all denizens of the Capitol as devoid of warmth, as lacking in life's gentle touch? It appeared as though none among you had ever felt the warmth of the sun's embrace, as though warmth had never graced your souls. You seemed cold, solitary, lifeless—like statues carved from stone. How curious, indeed, for one would anticipate a young boy to radiate vivacity, yet you remained an enigma. And so you remain.

My husband shared this sentiment, finding solace in your mother's countenance. Yet, I detected no such warmth. Was his judgment clouded by her beauty, a tendency of men to revere beauty above all else?

In the aftermath of my son's departure, I sought solace in the hope that he had experienced moments of joy, a bond of friendship to alleviate his solitude. Yet how could I expect you, Coriolanus, to impart warmth when you yourself were shrouded in frost? How could you bestow what you had never experienced?

Gradually, a realization dawned upon me—a reluctance to confront truth's bitter visage.

Like tendrils of frost creeping into the recesses of one's soul, they corrupt and corrode, leaving naught but desolation in their wake. Coldness, with its icy grip, numbs the heart and stifles compassion. It whispers promises of self-preservation, urging one to forsake empathy in favor of self-interest. Yet, in succumbing to its allure, one becomes a barren vessel, devoid of warmth and humanity. Each act of indifference, each turn of a blind eye, chips away at the essence of one's being, until all that remains is a hollow shell, hollowed by the absence of genuine connection.

Spinelessness, akin to a leaf caught in the breeze, flutters aimlessly without direction or resolve. It is the absence of strength, the relinquishment of conviction in the face of adversity. Like a spineless reed bending to the whims of every passing wind, one loses their autonomy, surrendering to the currents of external influence and manipulation. With each compromise of integrity, the spine weakens, bowing ever lower until it collapses under the weight of moral decay.

Together, coldness and spinelessness form a toxic brew, poisoning the soul and corrupting the spirit. They seep into the marrow of one's being, clouding judgment and distorting perception. And in their embrace, one finds not solace, but a barren wasteland devoid of purpose or meaning.

When Lucy Gray crossed my path—a convergence of circumstances beyond comprehension but beyond my concern—I felt warmth anew. Her words, sincere and tender, reignited a fire long extinguished within me. She was a beacon in the winter's gloom, thawing my chilled soul with each utterance. And yet, even her warmth was tinged with a lingering chill. A shadow loomed over her, cast by your frigid presence. And in that moment, clarity emerged.

Perhaps blame lies not with you, or perhaps it does. The distinction matters not.

I clung to a desperate hope, a fanciful delusion.

You harbor no warmth within, and my son languished in coldness, did he not?

The penance I sought to endure, in anticipation of reuniting with my son, I now renounce. I should have suffused him with my warmth, should have sheltered and guided him. My failure knows no bounds, and I realize I am truly unworthy of absolution.

Whether time grants you the opportunity to embrace warmth, I know not, nor do I care. Your feigned warmth, your deceitful facade... perhaps it is intrinsic to your being. But you, with your icy heart, are no concern of mine.

Perhaps coldness is your destiny, your sole companion in the end. But what matter is it to one who has never known the embrace of warmth?

With solemn regret,

Marcia"

Coriolanus carefully folded the missive, his movements betraying a blend of precision and restraint. Subsequently, he methodically rent the parchment asunder, each tear a deliberate act of dissolution, until diminutive remnants coalesced into a mound. Despite the paper's thickness posing a challenge to its reduction, his hands, curiously, seemed to operate autonomously, the sensation of touch receding to a distant realm. An eerie detachment pervaded, an absence of tactile perception that extended beyond his fingertips to encompass his entire body. Poignantly apt, ruminated Coriolanus, as he gingerly lifted the heap of torn fragments from his desk, observing as they cascaded back, each piece an echo of the ineffable emptiness within: Maybe, he had never truly inhabited his own body.

In the ensuing days, life proceeded with its familiar rhythm, albeit with considerable strain as he endeavored to uphold a facade of normalcy within the university walls. Abruptly, the imperative to attentively follow lectures lost its urgency. The specter of financial constraint inexorably tightened its grip around his neck. Despite the imperative to conceal his predicament, he couldn't shake the nagging concern that others would soon discern the termination of the Plinth Scholarship.

As he rode the elevator up to his penthouse after a hectic day at university—having uncharacteristically skipped the last lecture—he was suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to vomit. Despite barely eating in the past few days—partly due to lack of appetite, partly due to viewing every unnecessary bite as a wasteful expense—it all came rushing up. He hoped to hold it in until reaching his penthouse, but just before the elevator doors were supposed to open, he vomited on the floor. It was a slimy, yellowish liquid. Dizziness washed over him, forcing him to lean against the elevator door for support. His breath quickened, his chest tightened, and his head pounded. Then, he vomited once more. Upon hearing the elevator doors slide open, he attempted to hasten towards his penthouse. Yet, an irritating hindrance stood in his path. Before the elevator stood his crazy neighbor, cradling her cat as usual.

"Mr. Snow, at last, I've caught up with you. Have you reconsidered? About the petition?" he heard the neighbor with her pink hair say. Evidently, she had been anticipating his arrival, for her words flowed forth with the precision of a well-aimed shot. Only after she had presented her entreaty did she truly seem to register Coriolanus' state. Her gaze fell upon the floor before him, her expression contorting in distaste. Clearly, she took issue with the elevator floor being smeared with vomit, as she rebuked, "That's communal property, Mr. Snow. It's incumbent upon you to address it immediately, and clean this mess."

Coriolanus, still braced against the wall, his breath coming in short gasps, spared a brief glance at the cat adorned with pink fur before pressing the button to descend to the ground floor. As the elevator doors closed once more, his final glimpse revealed his neighbor, visibly incensed. Recalling a tale, perhaps overheard or read in fleeting recollection, of felines allowing their departed owners only a short respite before yielding to their instinctual hunger, he descended once more. With a fervent hope, he wished that the pink-furred cat would exhibit less patience.

As the elevator doors opened once more, he felt another wave of intense dizziness. But when he looked ahead, his nausea intensified. It took a moment for her to say something.

"Well, that's quite a lovely welcome. Do you greet all your neighbors like this?"

He didn't respond. On one hand, he was afraid he might vomit again. On the other, the humiliation weighed heavily on him, perhaps too heavily. He wished he had rather confronted the neighbor with pink hair. He stood frozen, leaning against the elevator wall, until the doors began to slowly close again. However, Lucy Gray extended her foot forward, causing the doors to retreat once more. She remained silent as she observed him with an unwavering gaze.

"Financial struggle doesn't seem to suit you," she remarked as the elevator doors attempted to close again, only to be interrupted by her foot.

Coriolanus chuckled. How absurd this whole situation was. How fucking unfortunate. "Not really."

"Don't you want to ask me how—"

"I already know, Lucy Gray. I'm not an idiot," his voice sounded weak and frail. How ludicrous.

"No, you're not," she replied dryly. Once again, the elevator doors moved towards her foot and back.

"You must be enjoying this, don't you?"

"Not really."

"Bullshit. After I—"

"After you what? Where do you even begin? Where do you end? The list is long, Coriolanus."

And then he vomited again. Yellowish, slimy liquid landed on the already smeared floor.

"Enjoy it, Lucy Gray," Coriolanus stammered, his throat beginning to burn.

But instead of responding, Lucy Gray took a step forward until she was inside the elevator. He heard her press a button, and then they both ascended. She kept her distance, pressing herself close to the elevator door. Coriolanus, his breath quickening, felt like he was about to lose his balance. As the elevator doors opened again, Lucy Gray took a step back before coming to a halt.

"Can you manage—?" He didn't hear the rest, as everything went black before his eyes.

***

Upon awakening, he was immediately seized by a burning sensation in his throat and a nauseating taste in his mouth. Initially lying still, he eventually panicked and sat up abruptly. His head throbbed, and a wave of dizziness washed over him, yet his anxiety eclipsed any physical discomfort. This resurgence from unconsciousness echoed a previous ordeal, signaling a downward spiral.

Taking in the room, he found comfort in the familiarity of his bedroom. However, this relief was fleeting. In the corner, Lucy Gray sat upon the green, velvety armchair, her head resting upon her hand, curled up in a serene slumber. Clad in a green dress harmonizing with the chair's color, she almost melded into the fabric, her chest rising and falling rhythmically. The scene struck Coriolanus with an odd sense of…naturalness—her presence in his home, peacefully asleep. But, this tranquility soon gave way to a surge of anger, directed inwardly and outwardly, its target ambiguous.

Memories of the moments leading to his loss of consciousness flooded his mind, eliciting a shiver down his spine. His body had betrayed him once again.

Slowly rising from bed, he pondered why he found himself clad in pajamas. Had Lucy Gray...? No, he refused to entertain the completion of that thought. Dehydrated and undernourished, his physical state mirrored his neglect. He should have prioritized physical activity.

Suppressing an eye roll, he couldn't deny his appearance's appeal. Many, many compliments from girls had confirmed his belief—he was undeniably handsome. Coriolanus Snow commanded attention. Surely, Lucy Gray had taken notice. How could she not? Fleetingly, the image of Caesar Highbottom flitted across his mind before he dismissed it with a slow shake of his head, attempting to dispel the intrusive thought. Unfortunately, the action only exacerbated his dizziness.

Grateful for Lucy Gray's slumber, he resolved to spare her the sight of his current state. He had subjected himself to enough humiliation already.

He decided not to wake her up immediately. First, he needed to gather himself a bit more. With slow, deliberate steps, he made his way to the kitchen when thirst overcame him. In front of the stove, with his back to Coriolanus, he found his Avox, who was retrieving something from the oven. Hedgehog didn't seem to notice him. He usually nodded briefly when Coriolanus entered the room.

"Hedgehog..." His voice sounded hoarse, rough, frail. Immediately, the Avox turned around, making up for his earlier lack of acknowledgment while intensely observing Coriolanus. "Water..."

Swiftly, the Avox poured water into a glass and handed it to Coriolanus. Swallowing felt heavy and almost unnatural. After draining the entire glass, he placed it on the kitchen counter beside him. "Get paper... and... write down… what exactly happened and... how I got here..."

It didn't take long for the Avox to rush out of the kitchen and return, holding paper and pen, scribbling something down. Coriolanus accepted the paper, hesitating for a moment before forcing himself to look down.

"I found the young woman in the hallway, she dragged you in. I helped her. Moved her and put you in your bed. The woman insisted on waiting."

He sensed a palpable acceleration in his heartbeat, his breath constricting and his blood surging with an intensity that seemed to rise with each passing moment. The note in his hand was a focal point, its words seeping into his consciousness with each repeated reading, every syllable absorbed with a meticulousness akin to a scholar dissecting an ancient text. There was a childlike anticipation within him, akin to a young boy eagerly awaiting the unwrapping of a long-desired birthday gift. His fingers tightened around the paper, crumpling it imperceptibly in his grasp, a physical manifestation of the emotional weight it bore.

Without relinquishing his hold on the note, he retraced his steps, finding himself once more in the dimly lit bedroom. Seated on the edge of the bed, he cast his gaze upon Lucy Gray, still ensconced in the armchair, her form appearing diminutive and delicate in the soft light. Strands of her hair cascaded across her face, obscuring her features like a veil drawn over a statue.

Moved by an almost involuntary impulse, Coriolanus rose from his seat, his movements purposeful yet gentle as he approached her. With a tender gesture, he reached out, delicately brushing the strands of hair aside, revealing the tranquil face beneath. His touch lingered, a silent promise to shield her from any further intrusion of the unruly locks. Despite the tumultuous storm raging within him—his head swimming with dizziness, his throat parched with an unquenchable thirst, and his heart threatening to burst from his chest—he sank to his knees before her. Due to the position of her legs, which were bent to the side, he found ample space to kneel directly before her armchair.

His gaze remained fixed upon her, a silent sentinel guarding over her peaceful slumber. He observed the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, a soothing cadence amidst the chaos of his own tumultuous emotions.

What was he to do with her?

Kill her?

Punish her?

Hurt her?

Protect her?

Ignore her?

Poison her?

Humble her?

Care for her?

Use her?

Court her?

Terminate her?

Relinquish her?

Spare her?

Inflict pain upon her?

Shield her?

Ensnare her?

Disregard her?

Subdue her?

Exile her?

Exploit her?

Harbor resentment towards her?

Banish her?

Deceive her?

Sacrifice her?

Liberate her?

Humiliate her?

Cherish her?

Hate her?

Seduce her?

What was he to do with her?

As all these questions echoed in his mind, the President's words suddenly came to him.

***

The words President Ravinstill had said to him back in the infirmary in his house: "Dr. Gaul informed me that you went to District 12 at the time. It was strange that you insisted on going there. Especially since you weren't supposed to be sent there. You did it voluntarily. It must be quite strange for you that the girl is back, right? What does she mean to you, this girl?"

Back then, he had stammered to the President that she meant nothing to him, that he didn't care that she was back. In his still foggy state of mind, he briefly thought it sounded believable.

"In that case, you don't mind if I take the liberty of dealing with the girl as I see fit, do you?" the President had replied.

Coriolanus had only nodded.

"I actually have an idea..." the President had responded with a smirk.

It didn't take long for Coriolanus to discern that he had unwittingly stumbled into a carefully laid snare. The President's intentions had never aligned with the notion of entwining his son with Lucy Gray. Coriolanus ought to have exercised better judgment—the son of the President entwined with a girl from the District? Absolutely inconceivable. Yet, Coriolanus found himself ensnared, ensnared by the myriad quandaries surrounding Lucy Gray, ensnared by the complexities of how to navigate her presence.

In his blindness, he failed to perceive the glaring truth: the President harbored no inclination toward uniting Lucy Gray with his son. Rather, the President sought to assay Coriolanus, to uncover his vulnerabilities. And Coriolanus, in his folly, had unwittingly laid bare his weakness. Despite his initial acquiescence to the notion of courtship, notwithstanding his outward affirmation to the President regarding its merits, and despite bearing witness to the President's orchestration of Lucy Gray's introduction into the Dean's office…Coriolanus found himself unable to bear the weight of it all:

A mere day later, just as the President had informed him of the impending unveiling of the couple "Lucy Baird and Felix Ravinstill" to the world, Coriolanus felt compelled to confront President Ravinstill, expressing his reservations. He voiced his concerns over the untenability of public acceptance and the potential damage to Felix Ravinstill's esteemed reputation: "People's reception of this arrangement may prove rather unenthusiastic," "I harbor serious reservations regarding the potential benefits for your son Felix, with whom I share a close friendship," "I struggle to envision the feasibility of this endeavor; naturally, as a supporter of your leadership, I am compelled to express my concerns about Felix being embroiled in such a precarious circumstance." Every apprehension, every misgiving, he laid bare before the President, only to be met with derisive laughter.

"That was all just a silly joke, Mr. Snow," the President had replied, laughing and grinning. "I didn't think you'd take it seriously. Of course, I wouldn't allow my son to date a girl from the District. It was just supposed to be a joke. I didn't think you were so concerned about my son...or perhaps your concern extends to another?"

And there, the trap snapped shut. Coriolanus Snow had betrayed himself. The secret he desperately wanted to keep from Dr. Gaul was now in the President's hands. One might wonder, of course, why the President was even interested?

Coriolanus harbored the unsettling sensation that his proximity to Dr. Gaul, in the end, yielded scant advantage. President Ravinstill, astute as he was, likely inferred—or perhaps presumed—that Coriolanus attributed Dr. Gaul's demise to causes beyond mere illness. Similarly, he might have assumed Coriolanus' divergent interpretation of the Grand Heavenbee Hall incident. President Ravinstill, in his estimation, deemed Coriolanus Snow a potential menace. Yet, he also appraised Coriolanus as lacking the potency, the gravitas requisite to pose a genuine threat, right? After all, Coriolanus Snow was just a student, easily obscured from scrutiny, his orphaned status ensuring inquiries remained dormant.

The motivation behind President Ravinstill's persistence in testing him, exploiting Lucy Gray for what he deemed a "joke," puzzled Coriolanus. With a plethora of pressing matters vying for his attention, it seemed incongruous for a president to squander time indulging in a mere jest.

Coriolanus grappled with a disquieting apprehension. Was this merely a litmus test of his sentiments towards Lucy Gray? Or had he, in the President's estimation, faltered in some regard, failed this sick joke? He found himself vulnerable, subject to the whims of this powerful figure…as long as Lucy Gray remained a concern. The expedient solution beckoned: expunge Lucy Gray from his thoughts and his world. Such an act would not only alleviate a pressing burden but also underscore to the President that she held no sway over him.

***

Yet, as he knelt in contemplation before Lucy Gray, his gaze tracing the delicate contours of her visage—the subtle arch of her lips, the cascade of her brown lashes, her soft skin, her exposed neck…—he grappled with a disconcerting realization. Did he truly harbor enough disdain, enough hate towards Lucy Gray for all the tumult she had wrought upon his life? As he regarded her, his heart racing, a deluge of uncertainty inundated his thoughts.

What was he to do with her?

Chapter Text

Ah, what should one expect when embarking on the grand adventure of moving into a new neighborhood? Could it be that one anticipates a grand reception, complete with fanfare and confetti? Perhaps, upon swinging open the door to one's new abode, a kindly soul stands ready, bearing a platter of gourmet, oven-fresh cookies? Is it reasonable to assume that the unwritten laws of neighborly conduct dictate a chorus of warm greetings, accompanied by toothy smiles, as one traverses the hallways or rides the elevator to one's floor? Yes, one might envision a pretty picture where every encounter is akin to a scene from a heartwarming story, where even the crankiest neighbor is just a misunderstood sweetheart waiting to be won over by your irresistible charm. Oh, but let's not forget the neighbors' eagerness to lend a hand, so palpable that it practically drips from their pores. Yes, the sheer enthusiasm with which they offer to lug your overstuffed moving boxes could almost be mistaken for a plot to overthrow gravity itself.

According Clemmie, yes, one can indeed expect such a utopian welcome when entering a new neighborhood. New beginnings, new friendships; fresh starts, fresh bonds—the whole nine yards, as they say.

But I am not Clemmie. Lo and behold, I am not blessed with such optimism, with such lovely fantasies. No, I am the epitome of what one might call "neighborhood vermin," the black sheep of the neighborhood, the walking embodiment of al that is frowned upon in polite society. I am the whisper about behind closed doors, the cautionary tale parents use to scare their children into obedience. A pariah, a scourge, a social leper, a "district rat," a "district whore," nothing more than annoying, repulsive "district scum," a shameless "district opportunist,"—pick your poison. I am the one they warn their friends and loved ones about, the one they shun like the plague, the one they pray never darkens their doorstep. But fear not, dear reader, for I wear these titles with pride. After all, who needs friends when one can have enemies at every turn? Who needs warmth when one can revel in the icy glares of the neighborhood watch committee?

It's both amusing and tragic, really. It's a delightful paradox, isn't it? The first time someone extended a semblance of courtesy toward me, the first time I was spared the usual barrage of insults and glares, the first time someone deigned to greet me with a modicum of civility, the first time someone refrained from brandishing a broomstick, it was from a person who, just weeks later, would have gladly seen me six feet under. So, perhaps it's not such a terrible thing to be met with hostility after all. Who knows? Maybe it's the secret ingredient to longevity in this cutthroat world we call the neighborhood.

"I appreciate it," I murmured softly, my voice barely audible, "Did you happen to bake these yourself?" As I took the cookies from him, they exuded warmth, their aroma wafting tantalizingly through the air. With each bite, I could discern the rich flavors of caramel, chocolate, and... perhaps walnuts? Pecans? Hazelnuts? The exquisite blend melted on my tongue, providing a comforting contrast to the chilly atmosphere around us.

He nodded, a slight flush coloring his cheeks as I inspected the treats with genuine interest. It was a rare sight—a genuine smile tugging at the corners of my lips, an unfamiliar sensation in this hostile environment.

"Absolutely heavenly," I remarked, watching as his blush deepened. He shuffled uncomfortably, seemingly unaccustomed to receiving praise.

The staircase loomed before us, its grandeur diminished by the coldness that permeated the space. Despite its elegant copper tones and ornate decorations, it felt sterile, devoid of the warmth one would expect from a welcoming abode.

As I finished the last bite of my cookie, I leaned against the entrance door, the chill of the metal seeping through my clothes. "Do you happen to have your notepad with you?"

He nodded, retrieving a minuscule notepad and pencil from his jacket pocket with practiced ease. With meticulous care, he jotted down a response before presenting the notepad to me. "I'm delighted you enjoy them." His eyes flickered with a hint of vulnerability, a fleeting moment of connection before retreating behind a veil of uncertainty.

"Do you think you can manage a visit tonight?"

Without hesitation, he scribbled a reply, his handwriting small and precise on the translucent paper. "He's been restless lately. I'm concerned it might draw attention. But I'll do my utmost."

I nodded, a sense of gratitude mingled with caution. He returned the gesture, his gaze drifting downwards once more, as if seeking solace in the safety of the floor beneath his feet. "Thank you. But please, be careful. If it proves too risky, there's always another time."

Another nod, a tentative bow, and he ascended the stairs to the penthouse, his silhouette fading into the shadows. I watched him go, a flicker of hope igniting within me despite the odds stacked against us.

I reclined further, allowing my body to sink against the entrance door until I sat as I often did, back propped against its cold surface. Nestling into the depths of my long winter coat, I shut my eyes, attempting to conjure the familiar scents of the forest—wood, moss, leaves, true air—but they remained elusive. Even the sensation of earthy dirt underfoot was absent. Though the chill enveloped me once more, my constant companion, the absence of the gritty residue left by nature's touch was keenly felt.

Startled by a sudden pressure on my shoulder, I jolted upright, spying the flashlight beside me, its beam casting a soft glow, not directly on me, but enough to render me visible in the dimness. Realizing I must have dozed off, I scanned the surroundings, gauging it to be the dead of night.

"You managed to make it," I muttered to myself, drawing my winter coat tighter around me, cinching the thick scarf snugly across my face. Only my eyes and the tip of my nose remained exposed, the rest hidden beneath the sheltering brim of a woolen hat.

He settled beside me, his weary frame mirroring my own exhaustion. With a deft press, he dimmed the flashlight's harsh glare, casting a warm, muted radiance between us. Nestling the flashlight against the doorframe, he leaned back, his gaze fixed ahead, weariness etched into the lines of his face more deeply than I had seen in days.

"Is everything alright?" I inquired, draping a blanket over our laps as a buffer against the chill.

He nodded, his attention focused on the elevator before us. Then, as if remembering, he retrieved two folded sheets of paper from his jacket pocket, passing them to me without meeting my gaze.

"New?" I asked eagerly, a hopeful smile tugging at my lips almost instinctively.

A gentle nod accompanied by a downward glance followed. Though obscured by the darkness, I imagined a hint of blush coloring his cheeks. Despite the wind's lament through the stairwell, we remained unperturbed, finding solace in the tranquility of the night.

With cautious fingers, I unfurled the paper, recognizing the familiar handwriting as I read:

"In the heart of a forest veiled in mystery, where ancient trees whispered tales of forgotten lore, there dwelled a cannibal girl whose hunger knew no bounds. Her eyes, pools of midnight, gleamed with a relentless craving as she prowled the forest's edge, lips stained a deep crimson with the remnants of her feast. Yet in the shadow of her existence, amidst the eerie silence, there flickered an unexpected light—a boy of simple demeanor, untouched by the darkness that ensnared her.

With each clandestine meeting, he bestowed upon her the treasures of all his kindness, his presence a soothing balm to her restless soul. Amidst the tranquil moments shared beneath the canopy of stars, by the flickering firelight and rustling leaves, the boy tenderly offered his heart to the cannibal girl without hesitation. And she, trembling with uncertainty, accepted his gift with trembling hands, her insatiable hunger momentarily stilled by the warmth of his affection.

As she consumed his heart with desperate fervor, the boy's gaze remained steadfast, his smile serene in the face of sacrifice. For he understood that the heart he offered had never truly been his own, not since the moment his eyes first beheld the cannibal girl. In that fleeting communion, as their souls entwined amidst the darkness and the light, the girl tasted the sweetness of a love transcending flesh and bone. And the boy, content in the knowledge that his heart had found its true home, surrendered willingly to the embrace of the forest's enigmatic depths, where shadows danced and whispered secrets found their eternal rest."

Again and again, I immersed myself in the narrative, painting vivid scenes in my mind's eye. I conjured the image of the cannibal girl, her feral grin revealing glistening teeth as she plunged them into the tender flesh of the boy's heart. He, seemingly devoid of emotion yet transfixed, watched her with a mixture of ecstasy, yearning, and delight as scarlet rivulets trickled from his chest. The vision unfolded before me, each bite drawing forth more crimson streams, painting her hands in a deep, intoxicating hue. I envisioned her voraciously consuming the heart until not a trace remained.

"Do you think that's what love is?" I asked him after a while.

At first motionless, he eventually extended his hand towards his notebook, hurriedly inscribing words onto the page before tearing it off and offering it to me. "Perhaps for some, love's hunger knows no satiety. But no, this is not my understanding of it."

"It sounds…like…greed, I think."

He merely shrugged, once again committing his thoughts to paper. "For some, there's no difference."

While we lounged by the entrance of the Plinth Apartments—a place once familiar, once home to the woman who ushered me here, nurtured me, betrayed and deceived me, yet also bestowed upon me a second lease on life—I mused over the reaction of an ordinary Capitol citizen stumbling upon a District girl and an Avox outside a lavish apartment. Undoubtedly, the citizen would be indignant, questioning which of the pair was the greater disgrace.

***

Upon my initial encounter with Filly, it had marked the inaugural night within the confines of Mrs. Plinth's former abode—a transition that had been prompted by the necessity to vacate my prior residence. Through Mrs. Plinth's intervention, I had found myself heir to her refined apartment. Reluctant to relocate, I had beseeched Mr. Plinth to spare me the abandonment of my former dwelling—not out of sentimental attachment, for my concern had lain solely in avoiding the plight of homelessness within the Capitol's unforgiving streets. However, Mr. Plinth had remained resolute following the passing of Mrs. Plinth, decreeing her apartment as my sole sanctuary. Aware of the inhabitants within this edifice, I had implored Mr. Plinth once more, fearing the suffocating presence of a certain someone.

Though she had deceived me, her significance had lingered. To tread the halls once hers had proved unbearable, rendering sleep in her room an insurmountable task. Without pause for contemplation, I had gathered my thickest garments and a blanket, retreating to the stairwell outside. Perhaps attributed to my solitary tenure in the woodland, the outdoor reprieve had held no discomfort; I had preferred its solace to the apartment's confines.

As I had drifted towards slumber, approaching footsteps had roused me momentarily—a surge of panic accompanying the realization that he had resided above. Who would have ventured forth to visit amidst the nocturnal hours? Raising my gaze, I had beheld a lean figure with fiery locks, who, in turn, had refrained from meeting my gaze. Inquiring if he too had resided within these walls, my astonishment had peaked upon his lack of disdain or vitriol, a departure from the customary reception afforded by other tenants. Yet, the young man had remained silent, resorting to his notepad, revealing his identity as an Avox.

Subsequent nights had found me stationed outside the apartment door, with the fourth evening prompting a fortuitous encounter. As the young man had descended, he had presented me with sustenance and warmth, delicious tee and a piece of cake—a gesture accompanied by a note, advising against the chill's embrace. Stirred by an internal prompting on the fourth night, I had felt a sudden urge as he had passed by, descending the stairwell: "Do you hate them?"

Filly's response had been but a subtle shake of the head. Upon his return upstairs, he had extended a written inquiry: "Do you hate them?"

Reflecting momentarily, I had confessed, "Sometimes."

The subsequent night had seen his proposition of companionship, met with an unhesitant affirmation. And as he had entrusted me with a stack of papers on the sixth night—each surface inscribed with meticulous prose—a revelation had dawned: amidst this gallery of austere, indifferent figures…maybe Clemmie had been correct: New beginnings, new friendships. Fresh starts, fresh bonds. Perhaps this neighborhood wasn't as dismal as I had perceived.

***

"All the stories, all the words you craft... You must be in love. One doesn't conjure such beauty and darkness without love in their heart. What is that person…like?" I inquired, adjusting the blanket and silently wishing for more cookies.

He remained motionless. Eventually, he resumed writing on his notepad. "She possesses the most precious thing I have to offer."

"Deservingly so?" It erupted from me instantly. Filly, who had yet to meet my gaze fully, flinched slightly, then locked eyes with me for the very first time, nodding firmly in affirmation.

—————

A few days later…

The day had stretched on endlessly at the university, weighed down by the accumulated fatigue of restless nights. Typically, I opted for the stairs, a choice influenced by Filly's observation that my former mentor had recently taken to the elevator. Yet, could chance truly be so unkind, so cruel? Not today, not after enduring such a taxing day. Every moment had been consumed by my role of a walking advertisement…

As the elevator doors parted, disbelief momentarily seized me. There he stood, leaning against the wall, his pallor accentuated by labored breaths. A viscous, yellowish substance pooled at his feet and stained his coat—a jarring sight amidst the sterile confines of the lift.

"Well, that's quite a lovely welcome. Do you greet all your neighbors like this?" was the only thing that came to mind in that moment.

Chapter Text

In the furry world of Lucrezia Bidwell, in the ethereal realm of beauty, where shadows dance with moonbeams and whispers linger in the air like forgotten dreams, there exists a creature of unparalleled allure—the cat.

Cats reigned supreme as both muse and confidant, their enigmatic presence casting a beguiling spell over her existence. Their eyes, twin pools of liquid gold, hold within them the secrets of the cosmos—the mysteries of the stars and the wisdom of ages long past. Each glance is a portal to another world, a realm where time stands still and reality bends to the will of the feline gaze. Their forms, sculpted by the hands of ancient beings, move with an otherworldly elegance—a dance of shadows and light that defies mortal comprehension. They slink through the darkness like phantoms, their silhouettes etched against the backdrop of the night, their every movement a symphony of grace and poise. And oh, their voices—their haunting melodies that echo through the labyrinth of the soul, stirring ancient memories and igniting primal desires. Each purr is a siren's song, a call to the depths of the human heart, beckoning the weary traveler to surrender to the embrace of the unknown. Yes, in the pantheon of beauty, there is no creature more captivating, more beguiling, more intoxicating than the cat.

They are the guardians of secrets untold, the embodiment of all that is wild and untamed in the human spirit. To gaze upon a cat is to glimpse the sublime—to touch the edges of eternity and lose oneself in the depths of infinity. For in their presence, time stands still, and the boundaries between reality and fantasy blur into nothingness. Oh, how they bewitch, these creatures of the night, these feline enchantresses who hold the keys to the universe in their velvet paws.

It wasn't merely their physical allure that enraptured Lucrezia Bidwell—though their ethereal beauty and plush, velvety fur were undeniably captivating, stirring a primal longing within her soul—nor was it solely their graceful demeanor that held her captive. No, it ran deeper; it was the peculiar affinity she shared with them, a strange communion, a mutual affection, an unspoken bond. Everywhere she roamed, cats seemed to gravitate towards her, drawn by an invisible thread of connection. They would slink from shadowy corners, their eyes aglow with an otherworldly intelligence, and sidle up to her with an eerie familiarity. With an almost preternatural instinct, they would nuzzle against her legs, their purrs resonating like whispers, whispers of affection, whispers of love—true love.

To Lucrezia Bidwell, these encounters felt like encounters with kindred spirits, their silent communication akin to a secret language shared between souls. She believed she could decipher their cryptic messages, could discern their desires and fears hidden beneath their gazes. With silent reverence, the cats would approach, their sleek bodies undulating with a sinuous grace that bordered on the supernatural. They would brush against her legs with a delicate touch, their purrs resonating like ethereal melodies that echoed through her very being. In those moments, Lucrezia Bidwell felt a sense of belonging. In their presence, she felt an unsettling sense of comfort, as if she had found her place amidst these beautiful creatures.

The very first feline companion to grace Lucrezia Bidwell's life was a vision of ethereal beauty—a gentle soul cloaked in the delicate hues of pale gray, with eyes akin to sapphires gleaming beneath a moonlit sky. It was a gift bestowed upon her for her twelfth birthday, a milestone she had eagerly anticipated, for she knew in the depths of her heart that this cat would become her eternal love.

From the tender age when she could barely form words, Lucrezia Bidwell had beseeched her parents incessantly for the gift of a feline friend. With fervent pleas, she had implored them, her youthful voice tinged with longing and desperation. It was a relentless campaign, waged upon bended knees and tear-streaked cheeks, as she yearned for the solace and companionship only a cat could provide.

Yet, her parents' decision to grant her wish was not solely driven by their own enthusiasm for the addition of a furry companion to their household. No, it was an act born out of concern for their daughter's well-being, for Lucrezia Bidwell was not merely melancholic, but a fragment of despair personified. Her appetite was meager, her thirst reluctant, and her presence in school marked by a lack of engagement and dismal academic performance.

Desperate measures were taken in the form of tutoring sessions, but each instructor eventually succumbed to defeat in the face of Lucrezia's unwavering obstinacy. Once she set her mind to something, it became an impenetrable fortress of determination, impervious to persuasion or reason.

And so, with the arrival of the gray feline, a subtle shift began to unfold within Lucrezia Bidwell's world. In the gentle purr and tender gaze of her newfound companion, she discovered a source of solace—a beacon of light amidst the shadows that had long plagued her spirit. With each passing day, the bond between them grew stronger, weaving tendrils of affection and understanding that transcended the limitations of language and reason.

Her parents found solace in their daughter's physical improvement. She displayed a heartier appetite, drank with greater regularity. Yet, Lucrezia Bidwell's scholastic achievements continued to plummet, each report card bearing worse grades than the last.

Obsessed with all things feline, her mind became a labyrinth of cat-centric musings. Her room transformed into a shrine to the creatures, adorned with an array of cat pictures adorning the walls, plush toys shaped like cats strewn across the floor, and textbooks defaced with intricate cat sketches. In moments of solitude, Lucrezia Bidwell would retreat to the floor, where she'd surreptitiously lick her arm, lost in a fantasy of becoming one with the creatures she so adored.

As her fixation grew, her parents' tolerance waned, replaced by an overwhelming aversion to the creatures that seemed to dominate their daughter's every waking moment. Her father, upon sighting a stray cat on the street, couldn't help but silently wish for its untimely demise, while her mother wrestled with thoughts of ending their household cat's life to rid themselves of the constant reminder of Lucrezia Bidwell's peculiar obsession.

However, despite their growing disdain for all things feline, the notion of harming their daughter's cherished pet filled them with dread. They feared the consequences of such an act on Lucrezia's already fragile mental state, dreading the possibility of her descent into madness should anything befall her beloved cat.

It was this precarious balance of concern and exasperation that led them to take drastic action when Lucrezia returned home with yet another disappointing report card ("My dear child, my dear Lucrezia, please, is there a way you could focus a little bit more on school instead…on cats?"). One day, her father ascended the stairs to the Snows' penthouse, his request for tutoring for their "eccentric" daughter masked by polite diplomacy and the silent hope that the heir, their son, Crassus Snow might succeed where others had failed.

Crassus Snow embodied the epitome of charisma—popular, intelligent, with a countenance so striking it could turn heads in any room. Lucrezia Bidwell's parents had long relinquished any futile attempts to measure their daughter against others; the comparison only served to deepen their despair. And in the presence of Crassus Snow, a mere year older than their daughter, any notion of competition was laughable.

The following day, Crassus Snow graced the Bidwell household with his presence. Upon entering Lucrezia Bidwell's room, an eerie silence enveloped the air, until Crassus finally broke it with his observation: "You seem to be…quite fond of cats."

Lucrezia Bidwell held a disdain for most individuals, viewing them as mere shadows compared to the captivating allure of her feline companions. Yet, Crassus Snow occupied a unique place in her contemptuous repertoire—she loathed him.

Why? — Seventy-two days prior, Crassus Snow had carelessly trodden upon her gray house cat's tail. The resultant hiss from Lucrezia herself was as much a warning as it was a testament to her fierce loyalty to her beloved feline companion. With bared teeth and venomous words, she had cast a damning curse upon him as he retreated, her fury unbridled.

Now, for Lucrezia Bidwell, it was as though the cosmos had conspired against her: her most despised adversary who lived in the same building as her family, trespassed within her sanctuary. She entertained fantasies of lashing out, of unleashing her legion of feline confidants upon him.

But fate, in its capriciousness, delivered an unexpected twist: her gray house cat, the very creature upon which Crassus had inflicted pain, now sought solace at his feet….her gray house cat, who had been violently attacked by Crassus Snow seventy-two days ago with so much hatred and malice—in fact, Crassus Snow accidentally stepped on her tail—nestled up against Crassus Snow's foot.

It was a scene of surreal contradiction—an act of forgiveness so profound, it defied logic. Lucrezia, astounded, could scarcely believe her eyes. Her vengeful companion, often consumed by thoughts of retribution, had extended an olive branch to her tormentor. After all, her cat, inherently vengeful and always plotting retaliation—Lucrezia Bidwell could see it in her eyes, for the cat spoke regularly to her—had decided for the first time in her life to wave the white flag and forgive Crassus Snow. It was plainly obvious.

As she scrutinized Crassus Snow—his piercing azure gaze, the graceful arch of his neck, the tousled tendrils of his hair—Lucrezia realized the hidden message conveyed by her feline ally. In the language of the cats, it whispered: "This is your human love. You must ensnare him."

And thus, amidst the tapestry of her existence—beside her feline kindred spirits—Crassus Snow now stood as an enigmatic addition, his presence casting ripples of intrigue through the fabric of her peculiar world. She observed Crassus Snow, she followed him, no matter where he went, she studied him. Her heart raced when he passed by and gave her tutoring sessions. The idea that Crassus Snow might feel...something like….discomfort, didn't even cross Lucrezia Bidwell's mind. Her cat had prophesied her love. Crassus Snow was destined to be with Lucrezia Bidwell.

As the sands of time sifted through the hourglass of her life, Lucrezia Bidwell found herself ensnared ever deeper in the enchanting web of affection for Crassus Snow. With each day that dawned, her adoration for him burgeoned, manifesting in tender caresses and fervent declarations of love from afar. Yet, when the hour of departure tolled for Crassus, whisking him away to the hallowed halls of university, their intimate tutoring sessions dissolved like mist in the morning sun, leaving Lucrezia adrift in a tempest of desolation unparalleled in her experience.

Yet, amidst the tempest of her anguish, one steadfast beacon remained unwavering: her devotion to her feline companions. In the company of her faithful cats, Lucrezia found solace from the tumultuous seas of human fickleness.

When Crassus Snow's marriage to an undeserving ugly slut loomed on the horizon, Lucrezia contemplated intervening, only to be struck by another blow: the loss of her beloved house cat. Thus, she found herself bereft of both her human and feline love, but, in the end, the loss of her cat felt heavier, more profound than Crassus Snow and his marriage.

So she realized that Crassus Snow was not the love of her life; it was her cats who held that title. Despite the trials brought by the "Dark Days," the arrival of stray cats offered a glimmer of comfort, compensating for Crassus' betrayal (the marriage and ignoring her). In that sense, the time wasn't so bad after all. Crassus Snow got what he deserved for not marrying Lucrezia.

*** 

When Marcia Plinth, a vexation in her neighborhood, a thorn, saved only by her husband's wealth, met her end, Lucrezia attended the funeral out of curiosity. The news of another impending arrival in her neighborhood—a new District rat—fueled a blaze of indignation within her. That very evening, seeking counsel from her feline companions, she deliberated on how best to thwart the newcomer's intrusion into her domain.

In the nocturnal company of her cats, Lucrezia encountered a cacophony of conflicting voices echoing in her apartment. While some cats (mostly very wise ones) suggested extreme measures, advocating for the removal of the interloper called Miss Baird by any means necessary, others proposed more conventional avenues, such as legal action. The weight of this decision bore down heavily upon her, accentuated by the unusual discord amongst her typically harmonious feline advisors. Her love for her cats, unwavering and unconditional, served as a guiding light through the quagmire in which she found herself ensnared.

Amidst this struggle, one feline companion stood out among the rest—her pink-hued cat that held a special place in Lucrezia's heart. Though she cherished all her cats equally, this particular cat possessed an ineffable charm that rendered it irreplaceable in her affections, an enigmatic exception to her otherwise egalitarian devotion. For her, all cats were equal, but her pink one was just a tiny bit more equal.

Lucrezia Bidwell, adorned in determination, embarked on a campaign of persuasion. She wielded her words like a maestro conducting an orchestra, orchestrating harmony among her neighborhood—yet one discordant note remained: Coriolanus Snow, a shadow of his father, obstinately resistant to her entreaties. She harbored no fondness for the boy, always mindful to shield her beloved felines from his presence. Yet, amidst the tumult of her thoughts, there was no room for distractions by the likes of Crassus-Snow-Mini; her paramount duty was to safeguard her cherished companions from the encroaching District mire. Of course, the defiance of Crassus' progeny came as no surprise—like father, like son; their resemblance striking, their demeanor alike.

Perhaps it was time to heed the counsel of her feline confidants. Should she entertain the notion of dispatching the girl? It would not be a real slaying, for she was no true human—more akin to a creature of the wild. Yet, not a cat, of course, for cats were creatures of grace, intellect, and elegance, qualities alien to such a one. Rather, she bore resemblance to a dog, a bird, a rat, or a mouse—creatures expendable and disposable.

With the girl's arrival, Lucrezia plotted her "welcoming" strategy, concocting schemes involving poison or, if necessary, bullets—her father's bequeathed arsenal stood ready. For her cherished felines, she would be unyielding, and the thought of maybe even unsettling Coriolanus Snow with the girl's demise offered a bittersweet satisfaction.

Her pink-hued feline compatriot appeared resolute in agreement. Thus, the die was cast: The girl needed to vanish. 

On the dawn of the second day since the girl's intrusion, Lucrezia's heart plunged into a chasm of despair as her beloved cat vanished. She scoured every nook and cranny of her abode, beseeching the heavens, rallying her feline companions in search of their lost comrade—yet she was met with naught but silence. Desperation guided her steps as she traversed the stairwells, her soul ablaze with anguish, until at last, she beheld a scene that stilled her breath.

There, amidst the cold embrace of midnight, her treasured feline lay ensconced upon the girl's lap, nestled amidst the folds of her garments. A tableau of serenity unfolded before Lucrezia's eyes, soft moonlight bathing the pair in an ethereal glow. A myriad of emotions surged within her breast—fear, confusion, and a flicker of newfound understanding.

Her feline companion, ever vocal, whispered secrets upon the night breeze, entreating her with plaintive mews: "Not her. I like her. We must protect her."

In the slumbering form of the girl, Lucrezia glimpsed a reflection of feline grace—the delicate contours of her visage, the silken tendrils of hair cascading like moonbeams. A symphony of conflicting emotions played upon the strings of her soul as she stood at the precipice of choice.

With a heavy sigh, Lucrezia Bidwell bowed to the will of her feline kin, for how could she deny her true love anything? That girl, that cat-like girl needed protection…like all her loves. 

Chapter Text

Recap time!

Previously on the Capitol Chronicles. Here's a quick rundown of the drama you may have missed (or intentionally skipped, I won't judge) (yes, the rundown you've received or still receive when a new episode premieres; the "previously on" segment you typically fast forward through, but if you want to stay "in the loop," it could be worth a glance):

PART 1

I. Meet Coriolanus Snow, the Capitol University's golden boy, sponsored by the Plinths. He's got it all: money, looks, brains, and even his cousin Tiger's couture (new fashion label) is covered. Life's good when you're rich, hot, and brainy.

II. Newsflash: Capitol University opens its doors to 5 District students, including Lucy Gray, courtesy of the Plinth family's generosity. Coriolanus isn't thrilled. In fact, he's so peeved he contemplates making Lucy Gray disappear (*poison*) fearing she'll spill the beans about their past (*original book plot*).

III. Lucy Gray struggles to fit into Capitol society. She's not exactly happy about it, but with enemies (*mayor*) lurking in District 12, she reluctantly accepted Marica Plinth's offer of a "second chance." Marica finds solace in Lucy Gray's kind words about her son, forging an unexpected bond. Meanwhile, Tigris steps in to lend a hand, showering Lucy Gray with her signature "LGB" dresses. Why the sudden Tigris generosity? Well, let's just say Tigris and Coriolanus aren't exactly BFFs...

IV. One by one, the District students meet unfortunate ends, much to the delight of the Capitol elite. Happiness abounds in Capitol circles as the numbers dwindle.

V. Coriolanus, having completed an internship with Dr. Gaul the previous summer, sets his sights on the prestigious and elusive President's internship. With his winning combination of looks, intelligence, and wealth, Coriolanus is confident he'll snag the position, especially with Dr. Gaul backing him up. President Ravinstill is currently amidst a campaign as the presidential elections loom ahead. (People are growing rather weary of him.)

VI. Chaos erupts at the "Opening ball" in the Grand Heavensbee Hall when a bombing unleashes a poisonous gas, inducing paranoia among the attendees. Thanks to insights gained during his internship with Dr. Gaul, Coriolanus identifies the gas's telltale signs, allowing him to rescue Lucy Gray and Clemmie just in the nick of time.

VII. Rather than rushing to Dr. Gaul after the bombing, Coriolanus makes a detour to visit Lucy Gray, harboring delusions that his heroic act will win her affections (*Coryo gets fck delulu and is convinced that Lucy Gray is going to open heart&legs for him as a thank you for saving her*). Cue the cringe "she's mine" spiel. Desperate to salvage Lucy Gray's reputation, he arranges an interview with Lucky Flickerman, hoping to paint her in a better light than her fellow District students (who might get blamed since…insert: Capitol propaganda). But as reality hits, Coriolanus realizes he's made a colossal blunder. With Dr. Gaul's disapproval looming, he scrambles back to the lab, tail between his legs.

VIII. The Capitol imposes a curfew in the aftermath of the bombing, a rule that Coriolanus feels *doesn't apply to him* (also: money rules). Ignoring the curfew, he crosses paths with two sentinels who've had enough of his attitude. Seizing the opportunity, they deploy the same poisonous gas used during the bombing, officially intended for quelling rebellion among police or military forces.

IX. The poisonous gas leaves Coriolanus with a mind-bending trip of hallucinations, landing him in a cell for several nights. Amidst threats, tears, and regret, he's a hot mess. Enter the President, who pays him a surprise visit and arranges for medical treatment at the his residence.

X. The President enjoys toying with Coriolanus, relishing in the power play. As Coriolanus begins to recover, the President drops a bombshell: Dr. Gaul was behind the plan to bring 5 District kids to the Capitol for the next Hunger Games. The twisted logic? To showcase their supposed barbarity, proving that even the brightest among them are no better than animals. Shocking, but sadly not surprising.

XI. The President delivers more unsettling news: Dr. Gaul's demise. Officially, she was just old as fuck. Unofficially: the poisonous gas has claimed her life, though the perpetrator..*remains a mystery*.

XII. The president suggests pairing off his less-than-stellar son, Felix, with Lucy Gray to manufacture an "it couple" and deflect attention from Felix's shortcomings. Coriolanus shrugs off the scheme, declaring he couldn't care less, Lucy Gray *means nothing* to him. After all, the President can pull whatever strings he wants.

XIII. Riding the wave of post-bombing anxiety, President Ravinstill regains the favor of the populace, catapulting him back into power. With promises of being the only one capable of guiding the people through turbulent times, he secures his presidency once more.

XIV. Coriolanus, back from his psychedelic journey and in (not so in) touch with reality, is appalled by the absurdity of Felix+Lucy Gray=power couple, or just a couple. He barges into the President's office, proclaiming the idea to be stupid and NOT beneficial. The President dismisses it with a laugh, claiming it was all just a prank, insisting he'd sooner marry off his son to a mutant squirrel than a District girl. Coriolanus is left scratching his head, wondering if the President's got a secret talent for trolling or if he's just had too much toxic gas himself.

———

PART 2

I. Marcia Plinth dies (suicide). As the guests mourn over canapés at her farewell bash, Mr. Plinth pulls the sponsorship rug from under Coriolanus' feet. Now, we enter the broke-Coryo-era (at least he is still a hottie).

II. Coriolanus visits his father's old friend lawyer (who helped Coryo with legal stuff after getting rich again/after the Plinth sponsorship), hoping for a lifeline. Instead, he's hit with the harsh truth: Mr. Plinth has disappeared, leaving Coriolanus high and dry. As if that weren't enough, a blunt letter from Ma Plinth arrives, criticizing Coriolanus' character and questioning her son's death. Though he tries to brush it off, Coriolanus can't ignore the sting of being both penniless and insulted by a ghost.

III. Lucy Gray graces every screen, hyping up a new ball. Coriolanus isn't thrilled. Why? Well, for starters, he pins the blame for everything on her. Plus, he couldn't care less about her. Double whammy.

IV. Lucy Gray becomes the newest resident of the Plinth apartment, inheriting it per Mr. Plinth's wish (before he disappeared). With no other options, she bids farewell to her old place and settles into her new digs, conveniently located in the same building as Coriolanus.

V. Lucy Gray finds herself unable to rest in Marcia's bed, grappling with unspoken grief. Despite her reluctance to admit it, she's still bitter about Ma Plinth's deception regarding her "fresh start" in the Capitol (Ma Plinth after all was forced by Dr. Gaul to start this 5-District-student-program). So, instead of sharing the same space as Marcia's memory, she opts for sleeping in front of the apartment. It might seem foolish (*it is*), but she's sad and at a loss for where else to turn.

VI. One night, Filly—Coriolanus' lovestruck Avox still mourning the loss of Livia (aka Coriolanus' ex)—stumbles upon Lucy Gray sleeping outside the apartment. Their encounter reveals Filly's status as an Avox to Lucy Gray. As they engage in more frequent "conversations," they find a connection rooted in their shared sense of alienation (both outsiders). Additionally, both possess a knack for poetry, deepening their bond. Now, Filly makes nightly visits to Lucy Gray, sharing his latest (poetic) works inspired by his love and loss of Livia. (*It helps him grieve since he cannot talk about her*)

VII. The neighbors aren't exactly rolling out the welcome mat for Lucy Gray's arrival in their building. One particularly eccentric resident, a crazy cat lady, is extremely mad because "district scum." However, the tide turns when Lucy Gray's nighttime slumbers outside the Plinth apartment attract the attention of the cat lady's prized pet. Suddenly, Lucy Gray finds herself in the good graces of the cat lady, who sees a resemblance between Lucy Gray and her beloved cats. To top it off, the cat lady's favorite cat "whispers" some cat wisdom, convincing her that Lucy Gray isn't so bad after all. In a bizarre twist of *logic*, Lucy Gray gets a secret…new “friend”.

VIII. Current status: Coriolanus Snow is officially broke and bummed out. He's puzzled as to why the President is suddenly so invested in messing with him (like why so many fucks), especially since he's not a fan of being both manipulated (*reserved for others*) and broke, not to mention the smear campaign launched by Ma Plinth (via the letter to him).

Then, to add insult to injury, he has a spectacularly embarrassing moment of sickness in the elevator, only to be "welcomed" by Lucy Gray. Cue the melodrama as he dramatically loses consciousness, and when he finally regains it, he discovers himself back in his bedroom, with Lucy Gray snoozing away in an armchair. She looks hella cute and now he is unsure whether she is truly to blame for all the shit going.

Chapter Text

Coriolanus surged to his feet with alacrity as he detected the subtle shift of Lucy Gray in his armchair. It was one matter to kneel before her under the cloak of darkness, drinking in her beauty with silent reverence, but to do so…so openly…presented an entirely different quandary. The notion of Lucy Gray catching him in such a vulnerable state was unbearable—especially not with him kneeling before her, his hand delicately cupping her cheek, while he grappled with his next steps, contemplating just what the hell to do with this enchanting beautiful girl before him.

The sudden ascent left him momentarily disoriented, urging him to retreat to the sanctuary of the bathroom. Stepping into the space, he was enveloped by the cool embrace of the marble-tiled haven. Allowing the icy water to cascade over his face, he sought solace in its cleansing embrace, washing away the weariness that seemed to seep into his very essence. With each droplet that fell, he scrutinized his reflection in the mirror, his gaze tracing the contours of his fatigued countenance. He appeared depleted, a mere echo of the man he once knew himself to be. The shadows beneath his eyes provided a haunting contrast against his pallid complexion, while crimson blemishes marred the otherwise porcelain surface of his skin. Gone was the Coriolanus Snow of yore, with his unyielding composure, keen intellect, and charismatic smile; in his stead stood but a semblance, a fragmented reflection of his former self.

It repulsed him. The tiny crimson patches. The pallor. The deep violet circles. The lifeless countenance. This wasn't Coriolanus Snow.

Without pause, almost instinctively, he lifted his right hand and delivered a sharp slap to his cheek. He observed as the skin reddened, then repeated the action. Again. And again. Until the entirety of his right cheek was flushed crimson. No ointment, no remedy, no cream, no foundation, no serum could conceal it. Leaning against the edge of the grand marble sink, he brought his face so close to the mirror that only millimeters separated them. "That's not who you are," he muttered to his reflection. "That's not you." Then, he shut his eyes, maintaining that stance, his fingernails pressing into the marble surface of the sink.

No, the boy he saw before him, so pitiful, so defeated, so lost, and so impoverished... that wasn't Coriolanus Snow... that could not be Coriolanus Snow.

He needed to cleanse himself. Stepping into the shower, he aimed to wash away every trace of that shadow until only the true Coriolanus Snow, with his winning smile and flawless skin, remained. Only then would he be ready to face Lucy Gray. Abruptly, the doorbell rang. What time was it? It felt like the dead of night. Who would dare disturb him at this hour? He lacked both the energy and the inclination to entertain visitors in his penthouse. It rang again, until his Avox knocked on the bathroom door.

"Send whoever it is away, no matter what!" he angrily instructed.

Yet Hedgehog persisted, knocking once more, longer and harder this time.

"I'm serious, get rid of them, damn it!"

What could possibly be transpiring with Hedgehog? How audacious of him to defy commands, if only for a fleeting moment. Had he perhaps lost his grip on reality? Or had Coriolanus been excessively indulgent, inadvertently fostering a belief in Hedgehog that he could flout authority? The incessant knocking persisted, each rap on the door wearing away at Coriolanus' patience with his Avox. Consumed by anger, he surged towards the door, heedless of his lack of attire, and yanked it open, ready to unleash his wrath upon Hedgehog. Yet, a sudden pang of concern gripped him, fearing the possibility of waking up Lucy Gray prematurely. Should she bear witness to Coriolanus Snow, the epitome of Capitol sophistication, grappling with an Avox? As if the situation weren't already sufficiently mortifying... He drew a sharp breath, endeavoring to rein in his fury before addressing Hedgehog, his tone subdued yet pulsating with indignation, "What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing."

With a single fluid motion, his Avox retrieved his small pad with an almost inhuman speed and swiftly scribbled upon it: "President."

Coriolanus' anger dissipated in an instant. Hedgehog walked past him, draping his robe over Coriolanus' shoulders, which he donned without hesitation before rushing to the door. If there was one person in the Capitol he couldn't afford to keep waiting, it was President Ravinstill. Any sense of dizziness had vanished as well. Only a slight tremor and a fearful heart remained. Glancing at the monitor in the hallway, he spotted the President flanked by two bodyguards. Before opening the entrance, he quickly instructed his Avox, who had followed him: "The girl in the bedroom must not come out. Go to her, close the bedroom door, and ensure she stays put if she wakes up. She must remain quiet, understood?"

This time, the Avox made no hesitation and immediately headed towards the bedroom.

"Mr. President," Coriolanus called out as he swung open the entrance to his penthouse. "Your visit tonight comes as a surprise, but please, come in." His tone carried warmth, yet beneath it lay a discernible tremor, despite his efforts to maintain composure. Without delay, Coriolanus pressed himself against the hallway wall, gesturing inward with a graceful motion, inviting the President to step inside.

"You two, stay here," President Ravinstill instructed his two bodyguards with an ear-to-ear grin, before making his way inside. Coriolanus' attire, or lack thereof, seemed to pose no concern to the President.

"Yes, yes, I understand it's late, sorry about that. But with so much to attend to at the moment, I couldn't find a more opportune time," the President remarked in a calm, friendly tone as he stood before Coriolanus. Typically, visitors to his penthouse would immediately scan the surroundings, yet the President's unwavering gaze focused solely on Coriolanus, as if nothing else mattered.

"May I offer you a drink, Mr. President?" Coriolanus closed the door behind them, reminding himself to regulate his breathing.

"Please."

And so, the President, the most influential figure in Panem, and Coriolanus, currently a mere shadow of his former self, entered the living room. Alcohol would likely be found in one of the blue cabinets—a bottle of whiskey intended for Mr. Plinth, whose visits were now unlikely to occur again. Since Coriolanus abhorred alcohol, fortunately, the new bottle remained untouched.

President Ravinstill, dressed in a navy-blue suit with a white stripe adorning the velvet, settled into one of the armchairs. Crossing his legs, he caused one of his black shoes to kick up, revealing a yellow sole. With a relaxed demeanor, he leaned back as Coriolanus handed him a glass of whiskey.

"Would you mind waiting for a second? I'll quickly change—"

The President theatrically rolled his eyes and took a sip of whiskey before responding, "Coriolanus, I'm not a girl you're trying to charm... although the bathrobe might even be the better choice for that. Don't be silly. It doesn't bother me. Sit down."

Coriolanus, still breathing irregularly and now with a queasy stomach, took a seat opposite the President, ensuring the robe was tightly fastened to prevent any mishaps.

"Nice job with your father's penthouse," the President remarked, finally taking a glance around. "The Plinths seem to have been quite generous, it appears."

Coriolanus offered a dry smile. "Yes, I've done some renovations. But I suspect you didn't come here to admire my interior design."

"No, certainly not," chuckled President Ravinstill as he ran his fingers through his greying yet still full hair. "How are things going for you lately?"

"Fairly well."

"Good. Although you don't quite look the part, if I may be so bold."

"I'm just tired."

"Hmm. I am too, believe me. So many aspire to this job, but once you have it, you start to hate it. That's the greatest irony, isn't it? Once the desire is fulfilled, once you've finally climbed the mountain, it's all downhill from there." The President took another sip from his glass. "Nothing for you?"

"I don't really drink."

"Good boy."

Coriolanus remained silent, observing as the President's legs fidgeted slightly. Unable to bear the silence any longer, he continued, aware that this was yet another setback for Coriolanus Snow, too weak to endure silence: "If I may...?"

The President smiled and nodded.

"What brings me the honor? Another joke?" He nearly bit his tongue. He spoke what he shouldn't have spoken. He betrayed himself once again. His frustration. His weakness. He truly was nothing more than a shadow of his former self. He tried to lean back in a relaxed manner, but now the soft velvet of the chair felt as hard as concrete.

"Oh, I should probably apologize for that, shouldn't I?" With a delighted expression, the President put his leg back down and leaned forward slightly, the glass held loosely in his hand. "I wouldn't have taken you for someone who..."

"Who what?" Coriolanus struggled, made an extreme effort, to maintain a friendly, calm tone.

"You must be wondering what the fuck I'm doing in your apartment at this hour. You're young, but even you need sleep... especially now, it seems. I don't want to keep you from your beauty sleep any longer. I believe, Coriolanus, that at your core, you are a pragmatist. You perceive an opportunity, and you seize it. That's an admirable trait. Volumnia recognized that in you as well. Remember when you were involved in the Hunger Games... well... misunderstood the regulations a tad? Volumnia apprised me of the situation, remarking that disposing of you swiftly and easily would be an egregious waste. I wholeheartedly concur with her sentiment. I abhor waste too." He indulged in another deliberate sip before casting his gaze downward at the amber liquid swirling in the glass. "I detest waste with a passion. During the Dark Days, you were just a kid. However, I bore the weight of adulthood and its accompanying responsibilities. Numerous squandered resources. One would expect better, wouldn't they? If resources are finite, one should exercise prudence in their management. Yet, many fail to grasp this concept. They remain ensnared in the illusion that vibrancy will persist indefinitely, can life will always remain colorful."

Suddenly, he lifted his gaze again, looking at Coriolanus with determination, yet his mouth still slightly upturned. "Do you know who was particularly wasteful, yet…less colorful?"

Coriolanus didn't respond, though the President scrutinized him closely.

"Casca Highbottom." The President drew out the name, adding weight to it. "What a waste. What a fucking waste. Brilliant. And yet, so wasteful of his potential. But I suppose that happens when you feel you've reached the end and are just waiting for a final conclusion."

Coriolanus maintained a stoic silence. Immovable, he remained rigid in his uncomfortable seat. Instead of meeting the President's gaze directly, his eyes lingered on the void between them.

"Casca died rather quickly. It must have been a blow for you. Considering you were the last one to see him before he... took the overdose."

Coriolanus' temples throbbed.

"But I can't blame you if it wasn't. The Highbottoms are a fucking pain in the ass. But I don't need to tell you that. While Casca was in decline, his sister held her ground with more resilience. She's still going strong. Resilient and astute. Dealing with her is like grappling with an affliction you just can't rid yourself of. A graceful, yet insidious affliction. And that, in my view, only adds to the tragedy of it all. A squandered potential, in this respect. A waste, in this regard."

The President sighed, took another sip, and then continued cheerfully after his smile briefly faded: "Which brings me to the point: I can't get rid of her. She's... like a wild animal that has sunk her teeth into me, and now that it tastes blood, it won't let go. The dilemma lies in the fact that I cannot...in a sense...compel her. I cannot repel her, inflict direct harm upon her, nor coax her into relinquishing her grasp on me. However, perhaps you possess the ability to do so."

"How could I possibly manage that?" Coriolanus didn't understand. Least of all, where this conversation was going. Was it about Dean Highbottom and... his death? But what the hell did that have to do with the sister?

"She has a boy. Also a student. One year below you."

Yeah, that one's a pain in the ass too, Coriolanus thought. "Yes, Caesar Highbottom." Just the name sounded like an insult.

"She's very attached to her boy. Her only child. Her husband passed away during the Dark Days, so she raised on her own."

Coriolanus nodded, though he strongly felt that things were about to go downhill here. This was setting up the trap.

"Perhaps she's as attached to him as someone else is to a District girl."

There it was, the trap before him.

"I believe people are best moved by the prospect of some evil. Some think the opposite: a reward might be enough. But I'm just not optimistic enough to assume that people operate as effectively…I doubt that people can be swayed to undertake actions they are disinclined towards solely through inducements. Adversity, on the other hand, holds an intrinsic sway over human nature—its avoidance becomes an innate imperative, and the magnitude of this adversity only serves to bolster one's resolve. Evil…the greater it is, the more determined one acts."

Therein lay the impetus, meticulously crafted to ensnare him, inducing his inevitable descent into the meticulously laid trap. And what precise guise should this impetus assume? What manifestation would it adopt? Coriolanus found himself keenly attuned to the contours of this impending maneuver, discerning with exactitude the form it would inevitably assume.

"A pretty little thing. Now residing in close proximity beneath your abode? Should malevolent intentions arise, her path would undoubtedly be fraught with adversity. Ultimately, she embodies the essence of a denizen from the District—a status that renders her vulnerable to myriad perils. She's ultimately just a District girl."

Coriolanus sensed his hands coiling into taut fists. "Let us entertain, momentarily, the notion that the girl from the District possesses the capacity to... compel my actions. Indeed, you are correct in acknowledging her significance, I will no longer deny it. Yet, the chasm between acknowledging her relevance and harboring an unwavering dedication to her protection—irrespective of motive—is vast. Mere acknowledgement of her relevance does not inherently denote a profound concern for her well-being. Nevertheless, for the sake of elucidating my query, let us hypothesize that her plight would intertwine with my own. From your vantage point, how might I avert such a scenario? What course of action do you prescribe?" And thus, the intricacies of the trap would be elucidated.

"Caesar Highbottom must…follow his uncle."

Coriolanus assumed a more upright posture. "You command a cadre of staunch adherents, a bunch of skilled, loyal men. Surely, among them exists a more fitting candidate for this task."

"Oh, you mean, why you?" President Ravinstill interjected, reaching for another glass. "Were my words not heeded? I abhor inefficiency, I hate waste. My pragmatic inclinations, much like yours, perhaps, endear me to your disposition. Volumnia, too, if one could attribute such sentiments to her, favored your caliber, though sentimentality was hardly her forte. In any case, waste is a detestation shared."

"That rationale does not explain—"

"On the contrary, Coriolanus, it clarifies all. It elucidates precisely why the onus falls upon you. It has to be you, Coriolanus."

Coriolanus elevated his posture further, dismissing any concern for his attire. "Sure, I share an academic milieu with him at Capitol University. Granted, such proximity may offer strategic advantages. However, it's worth noting that we do not share the same academic cohort, nor do we maintain any personal rapport. We are not friends, if—"

"That sounds more like your problem, to be honest."

"I..I just..others are better suited—"

"No," the President interjected with unwavering resolve. "You are impeccably suited for this task. Firstly, I afford you the opportunity to demonstrate your utility to me. Those who prove their worth to me earn my proximity. As I've iterated, pragmatism guides my decisions, and inefficiency is anathema to me. Volumnia instilled this ethos in me. You were not the sole beneficiary, the only student of her favor, I must remind you. This opportunity, you should recognize, is owed to me. Given your pragmatic inclinations, you would be remiss not to seize it. Consider it one facet of the equation, one side of the coin."

"And what's the other?"

"The other side of the coin? Well, imagine this: Picture Coriolanus Snow, our esteemed student, getting caught up in a scandal involving the death of lovely Casca Highbottom. Now, new evidence pops up, revealing some pretty condemning stuff about Coriolanus. He's got this whole double-life thing going on where his classmates love him but the dean seems to have it out for him. And oh boy, the motives! Revenge? Ambition running wild? Maybe both? Who knows? But here's the kicker: even though all this drama went down two years ago, there's still a chance Coriolanus could face the music because the law's got a long memory for murder cases. And just imagine if Caesar Highbottom, the nephew of the deceased, starts poking around and confronts Coriolanus. Could things get even messier? Will Coriolanus snap under pressure? It's like a twisted family saga with Coriolanus at the center of it all. Yeah, two times unlucky for the Highbottoms, both victims of Coriolanus Snow, too ambitious, too…unstable….Coriolanus Snow, the double murderer, a repeat offender. The whole situation is like a twisted knot of Highbottom family drama, with Coriolanus as the common thread in two unfortunate incidents. The nitty-gritty details? Well, let someone else handle that headache."

That, perhaps, was the true embodiment of malevolence unveiled. The snare had been sprung; the trap closed.

"Failing? Not much risk there. And if you mess up, it'll blow over fast, no one poking too deep. Even if you try blaming the President, who's gonna buy that? The proof won't back you up. People don't trust a double murderer, you know?" He took another sip. "But if you pull it off... oh boy, you'll be riding high. This internship will catapult you to success. I'm all about efficiency, see? I won't let your talent go to waste."

President Ravinstill clapped his hands twice and grinned again. "So, what do you say? Will you seize this opportunity? Others are of course also considered, but why settle for second best?"

"Why..." Coriolanus' head was burning with questions. "Why... why is... Dean Highbottom's sister... so important to you? She's a nobody by now. And why not go directly against you—"

"That's my affair….and problem…and pain...You just need to know that Caesar Highbottom is your target. And if you do well, you'll get everything you've ever dreamed of in your career. Not out of generosity, but because I'm not wasteful. When I see potential, I want to know that potential is working for me."

"And…" Coriolanus took a deep breath. "If I should fail..."

"Caesar Highbottom's fate will be sealed by someone else's actions. Yet, the responsibility will land on you, fitting the public narrative. You'll be branded as the one who brought down two Highbottoms... the double Highbottom murderer. So, you see, either I gain a prospective ally who benefits from my position of authority, or... I simply identify the most suitable scapegoat, in the event of scrutiny... in case someone decides to investigate. I emerge victorious regardless. There's no need to acquire two coins and gamble on a specific outcome. Instead, I utilize a single coin, minimizing waste, and the result holds no significance as I stand to benefit regardless of which side it lands on. As I've mentioned, I abhor wastefulness."

"Why Lucy Gray?" Coriolanus stammered absent-mindedly.

"The girl from the District?" The President's gaze fixed on him.

"Why Lucy Gray?" Coriolanus found himself asking, not entirely sure why the words were coming out. It was as if his lips had a mind of their own, driven by a deep-seated need to understand. "You…do not…need her. I'm backed into a corner here, so why..."

"Ah, you mean why I mentioned her in this conversation?" The President's expression shifted, his smile fading into a sigh. "That's a personal matter."

With a deliberate motion, he set his glass down on the floor beside him, rising from his seat in one swift movement. Adjusting his suit with a practiced hand, he offered a single enthusiastic nod before bidding farewell with a curt, "Stay put. I'll see myself out."

Coriolanus, his bathrobe carelessly draped open, observed the President's departure with a mixture of disbelief and unease, a churning in his stomach signaling a rising tide of nausea. Within the confines of his mind, a void echoed with the absence of coherent thoughts, leaving him adrift in the wake of this surreal encounter. It was as if he had been thrust into a fevered dream, where the enigmatic President of Panem expounded upon nonsensical notions, leaving Coriolanus yearning for the solace of wakefulness from this unsettling reverie.

Seated in silence, the room enveloped in an air of unfamiliarity, Coriolanus found his gaze drifting over the newly arranged furnishings, each object a foreign artifact in this moment of disorientation. Amidst this tableau of confusion, a solitary idea danced at the periphery of his consciousness.

A profound aversion towards Caesar Highbottom lingered within him, a visceral disdain that whispered of hidden resentments and buried grievances. Perhaps, he mused, this antipathy ran deep enough to stir the darkest of desires – the desire for Highbottom's demise...

...perhaps orchestrating Caesar Highbottom's downfall could serve as a solution to more than one predicament...perhaps, in orchestrating Highbottom's downfall, Coriolanus could achieve not only retribution but also a semblance of liberation from the shackles of his own discontent...

...perhaps the clandestine title of "two-time Highbottom-Killer", known only to him, shrouded in secrecy and detached from official records, held a peculiar allure, its weight softened by the promise of liberation from constraints and consequences.

He found himself adrift in a nebulous passage of time, unsure of the minutes slipping away as he sat motionless. Then, gradually, his attention was drawn to Hedgehog, who stooped to retrieve the glass from the floor, a subtle indicator that this was no mere dream. Yet, it was not the glass that finally jolted him from his reverie.

His gaze drifted towards the doorway, where Lucy Gray stood, a spectral presence in the dimly lit room. "How long have you been there?" he inquired, his voice tinged with a hint of bewilderment.

"For about five minutes. You've scarcely moved," her words reached him as if from a distance, carrying with them a sense of detachment.

"Ah... yes... I believe my body momentarily bid me farewell. Tell me, Lucy Gray, how does it feel?" he mused, his words laced with a curious blend of detachment and introspection.

"How does what feel?" she echoed, her voice a mere whisper amidst the hazy atmosphere of uncertainty.

"Tell me," he murmured, his breath catching in his throat, "how does it feel to be….?"

He struggled to articulate it fully. Like a lump, it lodged in his throat. What was it he wanted to express aloud? It hardly mattered. Caesar Highbottom's demise was imperative now. Whatever the precise presidential rationale, still elusive to him, he felt a certainty driving him. It loomed in the entrance of his living room, beautiful, eyes wide upon him.

A bit exaggerated, Coriolanus reasoned with himself, but then again... if he secured the internship, if he positioned himself alongside the most powerful man of Panem... if he ascended to power, as intended... now perhaps even sooner and more assuredly than anticipated... who would scrutinize what's exaggerated and what's not? Who could dictate his actions once he himself attained such authority?

In that moment, he felt as if he reclaimed his identity. The darkness receded. Sensation returned to his fingers, his hands, his legs, and feet. He felt the fervor coursing through his veins.

He sensed himself morphing back into Coriolanus Snow once more.

Chapter Text

Slowly, as if weighed down by invisible burdens, he levered himself up from the plush armchair, his muscles protesting mildly at the effort. Each step towards the door was deliberate, calculated, a silent negotiation with the gravity of the moment. Lucy Gray, a figure of tension, awaited him there, her presence palpable in the room.

The green fabric of her dress, its hue a mirror to the upholstery in his bedroom, clung to her frame, albeit slightly rumpled, as if it had shared in the weariness of the evening. Coriolanus couldn't help but notice the creases, feeling a fleeting compulsion to smooth them out, to restore order to the fabric. To him, they seemed an unwelcome intrusion upon Lucy Gray, like unwanted guests disrupting a serene gathering.

"Coriolanus..."

His name, uttered softly, broke the silence that enveloped them.

"Yes?" His response was accompanied by a lift of his gaze, away from the wrinkled attire, and into the depths of her eyes. Fatigue mirrored in her gaze, a reflection of the night's trials. How could it not be so? The chair in the bedroom, while luxurious, offered little solace for restful slumber…perhaps she should have lain beside him. Then, perhaps, she would have found less—

"Your…bathrobe."

Lucy Gray's gaze diverted with a tinge of embarrassment as Coriolanus glanced down to realize that his bathrobe had inadvertently parted more than intended. A rush of warmth flooded his cheeks, prompting a hasty readjustment of the robe's closure with the belt, while a flurry of thoughts danced through his mind. Was Lucy Gray's aversion a sign of disapproval, or perhaps something more nuanced? The flush on her cheeks mirrored his own, leading Coriolanus to speculate on the nature of her reaction. Could it be that she felt caught glimpsing what was not meant to be seen, only to find herself oddly intrigued and aroused? Observing the subtle shift in her demeanor, he couldn't help but interpret her embarrassment as a reflection of his own predicament. Was she grappling with the same internal conflict, torn between curiosity and propriety?

"Did you... hear something?" His tone was more serious now, the weight of the moment pressing upon them. He struggled to tear his gaze away from her flushed cheeks, finding no rest in the diversion to her neckline.

"What should I have heard? How you slept?" Her response was accompanied by still averted eyes, the embarrassment now tinged with a hint of amusement.

"No, who I spoke to earlier."

"No. Your... Filly... he left a note, insisting I remain in the bedroom."

"And you complied?" He arched an eyebrow, studying her intently for any signs of deceit. Despite instructing Hedgehog to confine her to the bedroom, he found it hard to believe Lucy Gray would yield so easily. Yet, her demeanor betrayed no falsehood. Still, he reminded himself of his past failures in deciphering her intentions and words.

"At first...I hesitated...but then he mentioned potential repercussions for him…as an Avox. So, I acquiesced." Now, her gaze met his, her sincerity evident, yet Coriolanus couldn't shake the nagging doubt. He resolved to interrogate Hedgehog later, confident in his Avox's fidelity. Besides, Hedgehog's mendacity would pale in comparison to Lucy Gray's artistry.

"Who did you converse with?" Her interruption was firm, arms crossed defensively before her.

Coriolanus' lips curved into a gentle smile. "Why? Jealous?" His words carried a playful edge, masking the turmoil within.

"Jealous? Of whom? Your next unsuspecting prey?" With a brusque pivot, Lucy Gray attempted to evade him, moving towards the hallway. But Coriolanus was swift, intercepting her path and erecting an invisible barrier between her and escape.

"Where's the hurry?" His amusement lingered, a subtle invitation to delve deeper into their exchange. "Why did you stay? More importantly, why did you drag me home and ensconce yourself in my bedroom? You know, one might…misunderstand."

Lucy Gray sighed, her frustration palpable as she attempted to sidestep him, only to find her path blocked once more. "You're childish," she retorted, her tone laden with irritation.

"Hm," Coriolanus conceded inwardly, the dichotomy of his roles not lost on him. "You're elusive. So who's the greater child, you or I?"

She fixated on his chest, a silent protest against meeting his gaze.

"Why do you refuse to divulge what led you into my bedroom?" Coriolanus inquired, his voice laced with a blend of curiosity and concern. The ambiance shifted, casting a shadow upon their playful banter as they stood in the dimly lit corridor.

Lucy Gray's eyes held a mixture of defiance and something else as she met his gaze. "Why can't you simply appreciate that I spared you the indignity of languishing in your own vomit?"

With those words, the levity dissipated, replaced by a solemn recognition of the night's events. The memory of Coriolanus sprawled amidst his own turmoil lingered, a haunting image that silenced any further jests.

"Why did you bring me home?" Coriolanus questioned, his tone now tinged with sincerity, his fingers tingling with anticipation of her response. Uncertainty shrouded his features as he awaited her words, unsure of what he truly desired to hear.

"I don't know," Lucy Gray confessed, her voice soft, betraying a vulnerability she struggled to conceal. "Are you content with that?"

His gaze softened, a mixture of understanding and yearning dancing in his eyes. "Not entirely," he admitted, his voice resonating with a depth of emotion.

"I'm tired, Coriolanus. I wasn't sure if you were going to suffocate in your own vomit, so I stayed. If you're going to die, it won't be like that." She still avoided his gaze, her voice laden with exhaustion and a hint of resignation.

"And how then?" Coriolanus murmured, his breath grazing against her ear as he leaned in, his touch gentle yet commanding as he lifted her chin, urging her to meet his gaze. "In what manner should I prefer to meet my death? Tell me, Lucy Gray."

A wistful smile graced her lips, tinged with a sorrowful elegance. "Maybe in a chase through the wilderness, culminating in the finality of a lover's bullet."

Coriolanus exhaled softly, a melancholic acknowledgment of her cruelty veiled beneath her poetic words. Releasing her chin, he took a step back, leaning against the cool expanse of the corridor's wall, granting her the freedom to leave. With a determined stride, she retreated, the sound of the door's closing echoing in the silence that followed.

In a sudden surge of emotion, he felt an irresistible pull to pursue her. Hastening to the door, he flung it open with fervor and descended the staircase in a whirlwind of determination, until he finally caught up with her just outside the Plinth Apartment's threshold. As he reached her, his breath ragged from the rapid descent, he leaned momentarily against the wall for support, his chest heaving with the weight of unspoken desires.

"Is this what you want? Would it be enough?" His words hung in the air, heavy with longing and uncertainty.

"What do you mean?" Her eyes widened in disbelief, taking an involuntary step back.

"Do you...wish for me to be hunted through the forest and to be shot?"

"I... I don't understand—"

"Do you desire that, Lucy Gray? Would it bring you solace? Would it level the scales between us—"

"Level?!" Her breath caught in her throat. "Do you truly believe that would make things right?"

"Well...they say 'quits pro quo', do they not? An eye for an eye? I did not end your life, so..."

Her laughter rang out like a bell, echoing through the empty corridor. "And what then? Shall I become the hunter, seeking you amidst the trees with weapon in hand?"

Coriolanus, his heart pounding with an intensity matching the rhythm of his racing thoughts, responded without hesitation: "Why not?"

"You've lost your mind," she declared, shaking her head incredulously, her hands instinctively folding before her.

"I... I mean every word. This is no jest. Do you truly wish to take aim at me? Shall I raise the stakes? I would have done the same, had I caught you earlier back then." His words flowed forth like a torrent, driven by a surge of emotions he could scarcely contain. Was it the influence of the President, offering him a sudden glimpse of tangible power through an act he secretly yearned for? He felt intoxicated, though not by liquor; it was the heady mixture of stress and anticipation, compounded by the presence of the girl standing before him at the foot of the stairs.

"Let us suppose I would entertain such a notion. Do you honestly believe it would mend the broken pieces of our past? Do you think... all would be forgiven?"

"Lucy Gray, I mean it. I am at a loss as to what... to do with you. Should I harbor resentment for your unexpected return? Should I embrace you for finding your way back into my life? Should I implore you to take me back? Should I issue threats if you refuse? Should I end your existence to silence any potential revelations? Should I seduce you, ensuring you never leave my side? I…cannot fathom it. I am adrift in a sea of uncertainty. But... if we could find a way to put our tumultuous history behind us, then we could embark upon a new beginning, and then I would only have to contemplate how I..." He struggled to catch his breath, his heart pounding with such force that he feared it might rupture. "Chase me through the woods. I will present the weapon myself. Pursue me through the forest and deliver the blow." A wistful chuckle escaped him, his words tinged with a hint of desperation. "Shoot me. I hope that you will spare any vital organs, perhaps target my foot or leg or—"

"What do you want from me?" Lucy Gray's interruption was sharp, her gaze piercing his soul in a way he found discomfiting. "What. Do. You. Want. From. Me."

He shook his head, once again seeking support from the wall. "I do not know... Perhaps, initially, I simply wish to find a solution that would allow..." Drawing a deep breath, he met her gaze with unwavering determination. "I wish to..have you. That is my desire."

"To bind me, you say. And by firing upon you... avoiding any mortal wounds... you believe you can simply chain me up?" Her words dripped with sarcasm.

"You asked, and I answered truthfully. You once told me that trust was paramount to you. I have answered truthfully. That is my desire. I wish to bind you, and I wish for you to be mine."

"This is not love, Coriolanus—"

"Perhaps not by your definition. But by mine, it is, I think."

Lucy Gray's gaze fell, and Coriolanus responded with tender reassurance: "Consider it, Lucy Gray. Perhaps it will bring you solace. For you, I would endure it. Quits pro quo." With those words, he turned on his heel and ascended the staircase back to his penthouse.

Yes, she was likely correct; he was, indeed, unhinged. He was mad for not banishing Lucy Gray or eliminating her when he first learned of her return to the Capitol, when he witnessed her standing upon that stage alongside the other District students. He should have silenced her. Yet, he did not. No matter how many times he pondered what to do with her, he found himself at an impasse.

Yes, he found himself teetering on the edge of madness. Yet, if Lucy Gray's forgiveness and affection required the tender of trust and the echo of a gunshot through the forest, then he would willingly surrender. No longer plagued by the incessant questioning of what to do with her, he saw solace in the notion of binding her to him. For in her chains, he glimpsed the promise of tranquility and redemption.

Ma Plinth's prophecy proved false; the chill that once defined him would thaw. For once Lucy Gray rested in his chains, he would bask in the warmth of her essence with every fleeting moment.

One truth remained resolute: He desired her. And for that, he would consent to be pursued through the woods and shot.

For that, he would kill Caesar Highbottom.

For Lucy Gray, and for President Ravinstill, the internship and his future career.

***

As Coriolanus Snow ascended the staircase to his penthouse, he remained blissfully unaware that his neighbor with the bright pink hair, a character he had relegated to the dusty corners of his memory, was eavesdropping—accompanied by her equally flamboyant feline companion, whose fur matched her own vibrant hue. Together, they perched on the landing, absorbing every syllable of the impassioned discourse echoing through the stairwell. In the midst of their covert surveillance, the neighbor found herself pondering the peculiar spectacle unfolding between her newfound acquaintance (the enigmatic girl called Lucy Gray, as she had recently discovered) and the diminutive doppelgänger of meow-tally disdainful Crassus-Snow.

A myriad of inquiries swirled within her mind, prompting her to postpone her nocturnal escapade and indulge in the clandestine pleasure of eavesdropping. After the conversation between the two seemed to reach its crescendo, she retreated to the sanctuary of her apartment, where she sought counsel from her eclectic array of feline companions. While most offered indecipherable murmurs of uncertainty, her pink-haired feline confidant purred forth a startling suggestion: "Perhaps the girl I like, this Lucy Gray, harbors a desire to wield lethal force; after all, the stupid human boy talked about shooting and a gun. In such a case, we should hasten to offer her access to your father's firearm… Lucy Gray should be able to protect herself and maybe shoot him, if she wants."

And as always, the neighbor's head bobbed in feline-esque concurrence with her cat confidant's purrfectly eccentric utterance, as if she too were embracing her inner whiskers and embracing the quirks of their meowgical connection.

Chapter Text

"You're perfect. Every inch of you is…a masterpiece, a vision I could drown in for eternity. I can't fathom anyone more breathtaking than you, and the fact that you're mine…still feels like a dream," Lucy Gray whispered huskily as her fingertips danced over his bare chest. Starting from the curve of his collarbone, she trailed a path down to the enticing crevice of his chest, then followed the sculpted lines of his abdominal muscles with slow, deliberate strokes of her index and middle fingers, her nails lightly grazing his skin, tracing every ridge and contour as if committing them to memory.

Straddling his lap, she held him captive, his hands bound behind his back, her legs entwined with his in an embrace of fiery desire. Her hungry gaze devoured him shamelessly, drinking in every inch of his form with unabashed admiration and longing. With every caress, she sent electric pulses of pleasure coursing through his veins, his body quivering with anticipation under her touch. He felt the heat between them intensify, a primal hunger driving every movement.

As her fingers grazed the waistband of his pajamas, she paused, savoring the delicious tension that hung thick in the air between them. Parting her lips, she leaned in closer, her warm breath a tantalizing promise against his heated skin as she pressed her lips to his collarbone in a searing kiss. Her tongue flicked out to taste him, savoring the salty sweetness of his skin, igniting a firestorm of desire.

"Can you repeat that?" he breathed, his voice a mere whisper, his desire palpable as he strained against his restraints, yearning to touch her, to feel her skin against his.

With a wicked gleam in her eyes, a mischievous glint, she continued to tease him, her lips trailing lower, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Each kiss sent tremors of pleasure coursing through him, his body reacting to her touch with an urgency that bordered on desperation. She reveled in the way his body trembled beneath her, his arousal palpable in the way his muscles quivered with need.

"I said..." she breathed into his ear, her voice husky with desire, low and sultry, "...that I've done this with others too."

Suddenly, his entire physique stiffened with an abruptness that jolted him from his excitement, and in an instant, two brunet boys materialized behind Lucy Gray. Positioned directly behind her, Billy Taupe knelt on the right side of her, and on the opposite flank, Caesar Highbottom assumed a similar posture, his figure mirroring Billy's as they both knelt upon the bed's soft expanse. Before he could even muster a syllable, he found himself ensnared in the clutches of reality, the clammy embrace of awakening wrenching him from the depths of his slumber. Drenched in sweat and disoriented, he blinked away the lingering fragments of a nightmare he prayed never to relive.

***

What a splendidly dismal way to kick off the day, mused Coriolanus with a wry twist to his lips as he sauntered towards the dining area. His usual breakfast awaited him, meticulously arranged at his customary spot on the table. However, today's spread diverged from the norm; alongside the customary toast with butter, an assortment of porridge, pudding, and two hard-boiled eggs lay before him. It was evident that his Avox had taken it upon themselves to reimagine the typical morning fare. Moreover, the self-scribbled note, typically a fixture on the table, was conspicuously absent—a detail he couldn't overlook, despite his habitual disregard for its presence. His Avox's increasingly peculiar behavior and ailing appearance did not escape Coriolanus' notice, prompting a renewed concern for its well-being. He silently prayed that illness hadn't befallen his Avox, understanding the necessity of continued health until Coriolanus could rectify his financial woes. The thought of his Avox's potential indisposition gnawed at him, a reminder of the precariousness of his current circumstances.

Nevertheless, a glimmer of reassurance flickered as he observed the porridge delicately adorned with berries, a subtle indication that his Avox hadn't entirely forsaken its sensibilities. Yet, as he indulged in a bite of toast, a pang of guilt seized him. He chastised himself for such extravagance, recognizing the imperative to exercise restraint until he could resolve his monetary predicament. Despite recently instructing Hedgehog to curtail expenditures, it appeared his directives hadn't been entirely heeded: The presence of expensive berries, while a modest touch for a Snow, underscored a failure to fully embrace austerity measures—he couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps his instructions to tighten the purse strings had been lost in translation. While the absence of a meat or cheese platter hinted at some degree of frugality, Coriolanus lamented the lack of rigor in his cost-cutting endeavors. After all, if one was going to economize, one might as well do it properly.

He observed with a sense of detachment as the fine crumbs of his toasted bread cascaded onto the pristine expanse of the simple, unadorned porcelain plate. Each fragment left behind a subtle imprint, transforming the once immaculate surface into a canvas marred by specks of brown. The plate, once a symbol of understated elegance, now bore the unmistakable signs of neglect, its smooth contours disrupted by the unsightly blemishes. A wave of disquiet washed over him as he surveyed the altered tableau, the allure of his breakfast now diminished by the unanticipated intrusion of imperfection. With a faint sigh of resignation, he gingerly returned the partially consumed slice of toast to its resting place upon the now tarnished plate, the prospect of further indulgence tarnished by the visual assault of disarray.

The day had commenced on a sour note, with Coriolanus foreseeing its likely somber conclusion. Nevertheless, duty compelled him to navigate through the awaiting challenges. Rising with a sense of resolve, he issued stern directives to Hedgehog, emphasizing the need for further austerity in grocery expenditures and judicious handling of costly items. Proceeding to the bathroom, he retrieved a pair of hair scissors, attending to a few errant strands that had exceeded their bounds. Though his customary visit to the hairdresser would have been long overdue under normal circumstances, the constraints of his financial circumstances rendered such luxuries untenable.

As he delicately trimmed the stray strands of hair, he subjected his reflection to a more discerning scrutiny. The shadows beneath his eyes had begun to recede, and the pallor that once dominated his countenance had somewhat abated. Though still lacking in the appearance of complete rejuvenation, there existed a perceptible improvement from the preceding day. Since the onset of yesterday, a subtle sense of relief had gradually pervaded his consciousness—an irony he couldn't overlook: while most would balk at the notion of…getting rid of a fellow peer, he found himself bearing the responsibility with relative equanimity. In fact, it seemed to offer solutions to several conundrums:

1. Fulfilling the task would undoubtedly cement his standing within the internship program. Throughout history, the Presidential Internship had proven to be a transformative experience, serving as a crucial stepping stone for countless luminaries in the political arena. President Ravinstill himself had once walked this very path as a student, as had his predecessors before him. While not an absolute guarantee, it stood as an unspoken prerequisite—a minimum threshold for those harboring aspirations of climbing to the pinnacle of power, to the highest office. There was, however, one notable exception: President Heavensbee, the great-great-great-grandfather of his former classmate. But Coriolanus had no desire to follow in those footsteps and become another anomaly in the esteemed lineage of interns-turned-leaders.
2. Fulfilling the task would demonstrate to the President his unwavering dependability. While the prospect of accruing favors or wielding influence held a certain allure, the stark reality dictated otherwise. Coriolanus found himself lacking in the requisite clout, rendering notions of leveraging debts or issuing ultimatums futile. Nevertheless, for the time being, the endeavor afforded him the opportunity to cultivate a relationship of trust with the President—Coriolanus Snow, a reliable confidant, a trustworthy associate, someone deemed worthy of involvement in certain affairs.
3. Fulfilling the task offered another advantage: It would ensure that the morning's disturbing nightmare remained confined to the realm of dreams, a twisted fantasy locked away in the recesses of his mind. It was akin to sealing a lid on a jar of unsettling imaginings, preventing the horror from seeping into his waking life. While the demise of Billy Taupe alleviated one source of concern, the continued vitality of Caesar Highbottom (thus far) served as a disquieting reminder of unresolved tensions. Coriolanus couldn't shake the discomforting feeling of Highbottom's lingering gaze upon Lucy Gray—a sensation underscored by the increased frequency of their encounters since the bombing. In hindsight, the frequency required no pondering, as the image had been indelibly etched into his memory, like a regrettable tattoo he urgently wished to erase.

Although there were indeed drawbacks, significant and far-reaching, and the prospect of seemingly boundless risks loomed large, such concerns were not at the forefront of his mind. He stood poised on the precipice of potential loss, yet simultaneously teetered on the brink of unparalleled opportunity. Forging a close alliance with the President promised to catapult him into a sphere of influence far more swiftly and assuredly than any other route—a realm that, in essence, had always been rightfully his. No longer would he be beholden to Dr. Gaul's machinations. Gone were the days of seemingly admiring her grotesque laboratories or pandering to her every whim. However, as he elegantly swept back his blond locks, a thought lingered in the recesses of his mind: had he simply traded one malevolent force for another? The President's revelation—that he too had once been a student-turned-protege of Dr. Gaul—haunted him, casting a shadow over his newfound aspirations.

The exterior of the building bore the weathered marks of time. Despite numerous renovations undertaken since the Dark Days, resources remained insufficient to extend the rejuvenation efforts to the outer areas of the Capitol. His penthouse lay a leisurely hour's distance from the structure. Eschewing the luxury of being chauffeured—the driver dismissed under the pretext of Coriolanus' newfound preference for physical activity—prolonged his journey to nearly two hours. Standing before the austere, grey door, he emitted a deep sigh, refining his posture, relaxing his shoulders, before gently rapping twice to gain entry into the studio.

"Oh, Coriolanus, what a delightful surprise!" The secretary, possessing an uncanny youthfulness despite her twenty-one or twenty-two years, adorned in mustard yellow with avant-garde silhouettes, greeted him warmly, her enthusiasm palpable as she eagerly rose from her seat. "What a striking ensemble! Is it a recent addition? I don't recall having seen it on you before… though, I must admit, everything seems to suit you effortlessly!" Her grin widened as she took measured steps towards him, coming to a poised halt just inches from his person.

"You could so pass as a model, you know?" she teased, her touch grazing his collar with a playful gesture, as if to refine its alignment. Her gaze, penetrating and confident, left Coriolanus momentarily bewildered by the audacity of this mustard-clad presence before him—its confidence out of place.

"Flattery like that might convince me to walk the catwalk, but only if you're in the front row cheering me on," Coriolanus replied with a faint smile, though inwardly he recoiled with distaste as he observed the yellow-clad girl's cheeks flush and her mouth twist upwards in a near-grimace. "Could you kindly inform me if Tigris is present in the atelier today?"

He couldn't help but notice the slight shiver that seemed to ripple through the girl. With an uncomfortably touched expression, she withdrew from him, retreating to her desk positioned directly across from the cold, grey door. To access the inner sanctum of the atelier, he had to circumvent the door situated behind her desk.

"I truly apologize, Coriolanus, but—"

He spared no effort in hearing her feigned apologies and subsequent attempts at explanation; instead, he briskly traversed the expanse of the desk and unlatched the second door, ushering himself into the expansive hall where approximately twenty individuals were deeply engrossed in their tasks, oblivious to his intrusion. The atelier, though not vast, felt crowded, the myriad tables strewn with fabrics, tools, photographs, and mounds of paper creating a labyrinthine maze. The scarce gaps between the tables were claimed by various haphazardly strewn objects, while the walls served as a collage of fabric swatches and imagery, inundating Coriolanus with a cacophony of hues and textures. Feathers, glitter, and sundry accoutrements lay scattered about, lending an air of chaotic creativity to the space. Tigris' adeptness at navigating this chaos was undoubtedly her most impressive, perhaps only talent. Casting a discerning eye over each individual, Coriolanus found no trace of his cousin amidst the bustling activity.

"Coriolanus!" the secretary's voice called out from behind him, drawing his attention. "Tigris is really not here!" Catching up to him, she met his gaze with an air of embarrassment, almost shame. "But… she mentioned… that you shouldn't…"

Coriolanus merely nodded, his voice cool and composed as he turned back to address the mustard-colored anomaly. "Where can she be found?"

The secretary averted her gaze, her discomfort evident, but as Coriolanus pressed for an answer, his tone unwavering, she replied in a hushed tone, "She has an appointment…"

"Where?"

A subtle shrug was her response. "She didn't specify. Honestly, I don't know. She always has a weekly appointment… always at the same time, and she… she doesn't disclose the location… or with whom…" In that moment, a disquieting sensation gripped Coriolanus. There was a familiarity in her words, stirring memories he had long suppressed, fervently hoping they would never resurface.

He deliberated the prospect of awaiting her return, confident in her eventual reappearance at the atelier—an assumption rooted in the belief that this was not merely her workplace but also her residence. Yet, the exigencies of his academic obligations forbade him from forsaking his lectures today; a presentation loomed at 11 o'clock, an event seemingly inconsequential in the broader scope of his life. Nevertheless, he rigorously reminded himself of the imperative to attain exemplary grades for the internship and his graduation.

While disposing of Caesar Highbottom solidified his chances of securing the internship, adherence to formal prerequisites remained a non-negotiable imperative. He staunchly refused to entertain any hint of nepotism, despite its prevalence in traditional career trajectories. It was imperative to dispel any notion that nepotism alone had propelled him to his position—not that it wasn't a common occurrence, but he was acutely aware of the need to minimize vulnerabilities, particularly in light of Lucy Gray's presence, which presented a significant vulnerability that demanded flawless execution in all other aspects. A bitter reflection ensued as he considered Lucy Gray's propensity to comfortably rest upon his shoulders, while he alone bore the weight of orchestrating both her life and his own. Yet, thoughts of Caesar Highbottom's shoulders surfaced... Lucy Gray could lean on Coriolanus' (broader and more defined) shoulders as much as she pleased.

Tigris had to wait. Alongside her, his speech concerning how the budget cuts directly impacted her. To a considerable degree. And the longer she disregarded him, the greater her cuts would become.

***

The presentation for his class proceeded smoothly. Despite the challenging days leading up to it, the more or less sleepless nights, and his state of illness, he managed to articulate all the points convincingly and thoroughly respond to the inquiries from both students and the professor. He encountered a momentary lapse of composure when faced with one probing question, but with a deft manoeuvre, a subtle shift in direction, he adeptly skirted around the core of the query, presenting it as an "oh, that also brings to mind this intriguing thought," and hence effortlessly redirected the discourse, seamlessly integrating it into his narrative as it if were a mere afterthought. A subtle deception, for those attentive enough. However, amidst the aura of exuding confidence with every gesture, the impeccable tailoring of his attire, and a faint smile, it was a deception that went undetected.

As the morning edged toward its conclusion, he made a mental note to speak with Clemmie. However, on the way to her office in the journalist club, where she usually spent her breaks, he found himself intercepted in the hallway by Tisiphone—one of the hyenas from Livia's former circle of friends.

"Oh, Coryo, are you feeling any better?" she inquired, placing her hand delicately on his left upper arm, her expression feigning concern. Despite the slight furrowing of her brows, the creasing of her forehead, and the downturn of her mouth, her demeanor felt contrived, calculated, akin to that of a child pretending to be sad while struggling to suppress a grin. It was a pitiful performance, a transparent charade. Though he couldn't help but notice during the university's orientation week that she possessed a certain beauty absent in Livia's other companions, Tisiphone's lackluster acting skills only served to detract from her physical appeal. In contrast, while Livia may have lacked in beauty, she at least compensated with her ability to command a room—albeit through manipulation. Yet Tisiphone seemed to have been allotted a larger portion of physical beauty, although her theatrical talents were sorely lacking.

"Yes, thank you, I'm feeling better now. It was just a minor cold," he responded gently, offering a kind smile while placing his right hand atop hers, still resting on his left upper arm. A subtle squeeze of her fingers conveyed his gratitude. Tisiphone had evidently noticed his recent ailment, and the prospect that she might discern its cause troubled him. The news of the sponsorship's termination would inevitably spread across campus, casting Coriolanus Snow in a negative light: Coriolanus Snow, struggling to uphold a scholarship.

"Well, I'm relieved to hear that. I was really worried about you!" Tisiphone's eyebrows relaxed, her forehead smoothed. Now she regarded him with wide-open eyes, an intense gaze that he knew all too well. A gaze promising assent to any suggestion he might make—except Coriolanus had no intention of requesting anything beyond the opportunity for a professional friendship with her aunt, the president of the second-largest energy conglomerate. However, he suspected Tisiphone had other inquiries in mind. During the orientation week, she had brazenly placed her hand on his lap at the bar one evening. Despite his official relationship with Livia at the time, Tisiphone remained unfazed—she even claimed it "turned her on even more."

"No, no, everything's fine. Thank you, though, Tisiphone. I'm in a bit of a hurry, I—"

He removed her hand from his arm, intending to continue toward Clemmie's office, but Tisiphone refused to let go. "Don't be like that, Coryo. Can't you spare me just two seconds?" Her pout was adorned with full, rosy lips—lips she ought to keep sealed, preferably far from his own.

"Of course," Coryo replied in a friendly tone, refraining from mentioning that the two seconds had long passed.

"You know, tomorrow is the ball and..."

His attention waned. He knew precisely where this conversation was headed. Tisiphone had fixated on the ball for weeks, continuously steering discussions in its direction. Coriolanus found her lack of self-respect and dignity somewhat disturbing. How could someone, particularly a Capitol resident, behave so beguilingly, so pathetically, so lustfully? It was shameful.

But what could he say now that she had broached the subject openly? He lacked a proper excuse. He could claim another commitment prevented him from attending, but he knew Lucy Gray would be there—after all, she was the ball's poster child, sponsored by the Ravinstills. He certainly wouldn't remain holed up in the penthouse while Lucy Gray graced the ball without him. Lucy Gray would undoubtedly accompany Felix Ravinstill, so Coriolanus needed a companion as well. Though Tisiphone's company was somewhat bothersome, given her penchant for unwanted physical contact, it presented the simplest solution.

"I had intended to extend the invitation myself. It would be my pleasure to accompany you tomorrow," he replied softly, his smile luminous, though behind it lay a veneer of manufactured warmth in his gaze.

Relief cascaded across the her face. Eagerly, she divulged her address to him, a subtle expectation lingering in the air, as if she anticipated his gallant offer to escort her—a notion unspoken, yet seemingly woven into the fabric of her conviction. Despite the absence of such a proposition from him, Tisiphone appeared steadfast in her belief that he had tacitly agreed to or proposed such an arrangement. As they prepared to part ways, Tisiphone insisted upon enveloping him in an embrace, her enthusiasm palpable in the fervency of her gesture. He reciprocated, albeit with a degree of reservation, careful to maintain a respectful distance—for himself. Nevertheless, her fervor seemed uncontainable as she pressed herself against his chest, a few stray tendrils of her hair wistfully finding their way into his mouth. He carefully endeavored to dislodge them with the tip of his tongue, relieved when she finally released him. "I simply cannot wait for tomorrow!" she exclaimed once more, her eyes aglow with enthusiasm, her gaze imbued with an intended allure as she spoke in hushed tones.

Coriolanus bestowed upon Tisiphone a polite smile once more, offering a slight nod of acknowledgment, silently hoping that she would just fuck off. As she began to walk away, he too made a subtle attempt to depart swiftly, his thoughts preoccupied with the impending conversation with Clemmie.

Yet, as he proceeded forward, his path intersected with Lucy Gray's penetrating gaze. Instantly, he found himself averting his eyes, a subtle unease creeping over him. How long had she lingered there, an unseen observer to his interaction with Tisiphone? Could she discern the underlying disquiet that pulsed beneath his facade?

Compounding his discomfort, fragments of the previous night's events surged forth, unbidden, flooding his consciousness: Lucy Gray poised above him, flanked by the haunting appearances of Billy Taupe and Caesar Highbottom.

When he dared to cast his gaze forward once more, Lucy Gray had already surpassed him, her form receding into the distance with deliberate grace. Though an impulse urged him to call out to her, something inexplicable restrained him. Instead, he remained rooted in place, an inert observer as she vanished from sight, her back turned to him.

It was not the possibility of Lucy Gray witnessing his embrace with Tisiphone or discerning his discomfort that troubled him.

No, it wasn't the tangible events that troubled him, but rather the intangible specter of misunderstanding that clouded his mind. An unsettling uncertainty hovered like a whisper of foreboding, promising absurd expectations and the potential for colossal misinterpretation.

Coriolanus Snow, encircled by girls.
Coriolanus Snow, adept with girls.
Coriolanus Snow, a player.
Coriolanus Snow, no longer... a virgin.

Chapter Text

The ball exuded an aura of opulence that dared to defy the bounds of possibility. Sponsored by the shadowy Ravinstill Foundation, its funding origins veiled in secrecy, the event spared no expense in its pursuit of excess. Even the typically inconspicuous Avoxes were clad in attire of relative refinement, their silver trays bearing glasses of liquor that likely cost a small fortune, amidst ostentatious decor featuring an abundance of white and pink flowers suspended overhead in a feeble attempt to mimic a garden in bloom. It was a spectacle of extravagance, a brazen insult to the atmosphere of the Grand Heavensbee Hall, serving as a stark reminder of the vast divide between the privileged and the destitute. It was unabashedly lavish, a mocking gesture to all those whose coffers were less abundant.

Instead of channeling resources into essential Capitol infrastructure or the modernization of the Hunger Games arena, the affluent elite squandered their wealth on trifles—a veritable feast of minuscule snacks and overpriced libations, consumed with reckless abandon even by those too inebriated to discern the difference between luxury and mediocrity. Amidst this sea of excess, Coriolanus stood resplendent in his beautifully tailored burgundy suit, a relic of better times crafted by the skilled hands of his cousin. He navigated the opulent surroundings with practiced ease, his every movement a study in propriety, his company carefully curated to match the occasion—such as Tisiphone, whose arm was linked with his in a display of social decorum.

The journey to the university building hosting the ball had proven to be more of an involuntary ordeal than a voluntary one, descending swiftly into a complete disaster. For Coriolanus, it had become a test of patience and restraint. Initially, he found himself waiting for his companion for what had seemed like an eternity, enduring her incessant inquiries about her attire and seeking validation for her appearance. As if that hadn't been challenging enough, her proximity had become suffocating as she had pressed herself against him throughout the ride. Starting with a seemingly innocent hand resting on his thigh, her touch had gradually become more invasive as the journey had progressed. When her advances had become uncomfortably bold—attempting to grab something that didn't want to be grabbed—, Coriolanus had felt compelled to intervene, gently explaining, "I'm really sorry, Tisiphone, but... after Livia's death... I still find this very difficult." Tisiphone, lacking in subtlety, had struggled to conceal her disappointment, but realizing the sensitivity of the situation, she had reluctantly relented, murmuring, "I totally understand, that's… sweet of you," albeit with a hint of a pout. As they had arrived at their destination, Coriolanus had ignored her fleeting expression, focusing instead on smoothing the fabric of his thigh as he had exited the vehicle, relieved to finally escape the uncomfortable situation.

"Coriolanus, Tisiphone, you two look absolutely stunning together!" Tisiphone's friend, a young woman from Livia's social circle named Callista, bestowed a significant glance upon Tisiphone and nudged her gently with a playful grin. As she did so, the crystal glass in her hand trembled, its contents swirling tumultuously with her awkward movement, a small but noticeable portion spilling onto Tisiphone's elegant dress. The liquid, a deep crimson hue, left an ominous stain against the pale fabric, but Tisiphone remained blissfully unaware, engrossed in conversation. Her friend, Callista, watched with a mixture of concern and relief, her hazel eyes flicking momentarily to the damp patch before returning to Tisiphone's animated expression, silently thankful that her friend hadn't noticed the mishap amidst the opulent surroundings of the ballroom, where chandeliers cast shimmering reflections on the marble floors.

"If you two stunning beauties could kindly excuse me for just a moment, I believe I spotted Professor Holt, and I'd like to extend my greetings." With these words, Coriolanus delicately extricated himself from Tisiphone's embrace, the fabric of her gown grazing his fingertips as he stepped away. Navigating through the pulsating sea of guests, his gaze remained fixed on the figure he presumed to be Professor Holt, a distant silhouette amidst the shimmering lights of the ballroom.

As he weaved through the bustling crowd, Coriolanus couldn't help but be struck by the audacious optimism displayed by these revelers, their laughter mingling with the strains of the string quartet. Despite the recent tragedy of a bomb ravaging the Grand Heavensbee hall during the last ball, claiming several lives, the attendees now danced, laughed, and imbibed with abandon, as though they were impervious to danger. They seemed utterly entranced by the tantalizing array of delicacies, the effervescent golden libations, and the dulcet strains of the string quartet, their senses ensnared to the point where thoughts of impending peril scarcely seemed to register.

Coriolanus was acutely aware that the rebels were not responsible for the bombing of the Grand Heavensbee Hall, yet the prevailing assumption among the attendees was quite the contrary. How, then, could they carry on with such carefree abandon, their collective amnesia shrouding the grim reality lurking just beyond the glittering facade? The notion of being lumped in with these oblivious fools merely by virtue of attending the same ball did not sit well with Coriolanus in the slightest.

Professor Holt, whom he was determined to sway in his favor, held the key to one of his coveted recommendation letters for the prestigious presidential internship, and he was just a few strides away. Despite his unremarkable stature and ordinary features, Professor Holt stood out among the crowd, his fiery red hair springing upward in unruly curls reminiscent of a vibrant chive. However, what truly made him conspicuous was his choice of attire—a brownish old ensemble that contrasted starkly with the elegance of the other guests. Though the significance of the recommendation letter might wane if he successfully executed the President's directives, Coriolanus remained steadfast in his desire to uphold formalities. He couldn't afford even the slightest suggestion on paper that questioned his worthiness of the internship. Every detail had to be flawless, as any insinuation to the contrary could jeopardize his future ambitions. Tigris had once cautioned him against succumbing to such paranoid thoughts, but what did she know of his struggles? While she enjoyed the luxury of creating her little dresses without a care in the world, Coriolanus had to meticulously navigate treacherous, deathly waters to ensure his survival and ascent.

Just as he was on the verge of greeting Professor Holt, who stood only a few meters ahead, his words faltered in his throat. Something had intruded his field of vision, sending a chilling shiver down his spine and setting every nerve, every fiber ablaze with alarm. Nausea enveloped him like a suffocating fog as his heart seemed to falter, skipping beats in erratic rhythm. A few rows behind Professor Holt, whose existence Coriolanus had momentarily forgotten, stood Lucy Gray.

But instead of seeking out Coriolanus, instead of standing with Felix in a state of listless boredom and dismal mood, devoid of any hope for enjoyment on this evening, Lucy Gray smiled. The sight of a smiling Lucy Gray was not inherently disturbing.

What was disturbing was the person she was smiling at. And that distorted figure, with features contorted in a twisted grin, wore a black suit that seemed to swallow the light around him, casting an ominous shadow over his girl. Not that he ever entertained a shred of doubt regarding his unwavering compliance to the President's commands, but in this very moment, as he witnessed the abhorrent scene unfolding before him, a chilling, malevolent resolve seized him—a determination so sinister, it vowed to eradicate this abomination from Lucy Gray's gaze, forever.

"Ah, Mr. Snow, what a pleasure to find you here," Professor Holt exclaimed as he turned around and spotted him. The professor, with new wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, approached Coriolanus with a warm smile, extending his hand in greeting. But Coriolanus, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and distractions, scarcely registered the professor's presence. Without so much as a glance or a proper acknowledgment, he muttered, "Be right back," and briskly sidestepped the professor, his mind fixated elsewhere, determined to reach Lucy Gray.

She stood with an effortless elegance, her posture impeccable, and her gestures animated, punctuating her words with graceful movements of her slender hands. Her laughter, like tinkling bells, mingled with the ambient chatter of the room, drawing the attention of those nearby. As Coriolanus closed the distance, the weight of uncertainty regarding President Ravinstill's cryptic directive concerning Caesar Highbottom's demise bore down on him. Had Dr. Gaul unearthed Coriolanus'—secret or not so secret—past employment of rat poison and conveyed it to President Ravinstill? The origin of the information was of little consequence now; all that occupied his mind was the stark realization that rat poison remained a viable option for dealing with this particular Highbottom. However, as he beheld Lucy Gray's radiant smile, seemingly reserved for him alone, a pang of doubt crept into Coriolanus' thoughts. Would such a swift, relatively painless method suffice for their purposes?

"Lucy Gray," he murmured, his voice a low whisper as he stood beside her, his fingers enclosing her upper arm. His touch was firm, a silent plea woven into the warmth of his grasp. Coriolanus' gaze, a storm of conflicting emotions, bore into hers with an intensity that belied the turmoil raging within him. Lucy Gray, her eyes the color of rich, melted chocolate, met his with a blend of curiosity and apprehension. There was a depth to her gaze, an ocean of unspoken emotions roiling beneath the surface, as she momentarily faltered under the weight of his scrutiny. In that fleeting moment, Coriolanus dared to entertain the notion that perhaps their connection surpassed the tumultuous circumstances surrounding them. Perhaps, amidst the chaos, there existed a thread of understanding that bound them together. But as Lucy Gray's gaze flickered downward to where his fingers tightened around her arm, a shadow of discomfort passed over her features. The delicate line of her brow furrowed imperceptibly, betraying the faintest hint of unease. It was as though an invisible barrier had materialized between them, disrupting the fragile equilibrium of their interaction.

"Ouch," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the din of the room, her arm tensing beneath his touch. Startled by her reaction, Coriolanus released his grip, his heart sinking as he beheld the faint blush blooming on her flawless skin.

"I... I'm sorry," he stammered, his voice laced with genuine contrition as he withdrew his hand, his gaze falling to the red spot.

Meanwhile, a familiar voice pierced the uneasy silence, drawing Coriolanus' attention to Felix Ravinstill, whose presence had seemingly materialized out of thin air. With an air of nonchalance, Felix extended his hand to Lucy Gray, his smug smirk betraying his amusement. "Lucy, would you care to join me for a dance, perhaps?"

Lucy Gray hesitated, her uncertainty palpable as she glanced between Coriolanus and Felix. "I... I don't know how to dance..."

Felix's laughter rang out, a patronizing edge underscoring his words. "Oh, I see. They don't teach you those little thrills in the Districts, do they? I reckon all they show you is how to dig graves..." His words dripped with disdain.

Coriolanus' blood boiled.

"...but here in the Capitol, well, we prefer a more exhilarating pastime," Caesar purred, his lips curling into a suggestive smile as he inched closer to Lucy Gray, the heat of his breath teasingly grazing her ear. "We prefer to dance upon them. It's a rush like no other, a thrill that quickens the pulse, wouldn't you agree…Lucy Gray?"

Coriolanus, dismissing Felix entirely, found himself fixated on a single notion: Did that piece of shit just utter "Lucy Gray"?

Chapter Text

"You can't stand him, can you?" Lucy Gray asked, her voice carrying a hint of amusement.

"Who are you talking about?" he inquired, his tone tinged with mild irritation.

"Felix," she clarified, observing his reaction closely.

He let out a long-suffering sigh, his eyes rolling in exasperation. "Can anyone stand him, really?" he retorted, his lip curling slightly in distaste. He lifted his glass to his nose, sniffing it disdainfully before taking a tentative sip. The grimace that twisted his features afterward spoke volumes. "Absolutely repulsive. Too sour."

Lucy Gray arched an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. "Weren't we here because you promised delicious desserts?" she reminded him, scanning the room expectantly for any sign of sweet treats. Earlier, she had caught glimpses of servers clad in sleek black attire, gracefully weaving through the crowd with trays of tantalizing delicacies, but now they seemed to have disappeared.

"Oh, right," he replied absentmindedly, his attention momentarily diverted as he inspected his drink with a mixture of disdain and irritation again. "Who in their right mind would drink this?" he muttered to himself before returning his focus to Lucy Gray.

"Yeah, and?" she pressed, her curiosity piqued. "Where's the delicious dessert?"

Suddenly, he met her gaze with a mischievous glint in his eyes, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Oh, I was referring to myself," Caesar Highbottom declared, his tone laced with playful arrogance.

Lucy Gray's lips twitched upwards in amusement, though she couldn't suppress a small roll of her eyes. "Of course, you—"

"Lucy Gray." 

The mere utterance of her name reverberated through the air, casting a shadow of familiarity tinged with unwelcome tension that instinctively sent shivers down Lucy Gray's spine. She pivoted abruptly towards the source of the voice, only to find herself locking eyes with a figure all too recognizable. Before she could muster a response, his hand had already seized her upper arm with an unexpected vigor, the firmness of his grip causing her to wince as his fingers pressed into her flesh, each passing moment amplifying the discomfort. It was as though he sought to assert dominance, to assert his control over her in an unsettling display of power. A sharp intake of breath escaped her lips as his fingers bore deeper into her flesh, each digit leaving an imprint as if marking territory.

"Ouch," she managed to croak, her voice strained with discomfort, as she glanced down at the hand that held her captive. It felt like an eternity before he relented, releasing her arm with a suddenness that left her reeling. As sensation returned to her numbed limb, she braced herself for the inevitable bruise that would blossom from the pressure inflicted upon her skin. Judging by the apologetic uncertainty etched across Coriolanus' features, he seemed cognizant of the pain he had caused.

But what was a bruise? Lucy Gray pondered, her resilience forged through a lifetime of enduring far worse. Bruises were but a minor inconvenience in comparison to the trials she had faced—physical and emotional scars etched into her being, each a testament to her indomitable spirit. Whether it was the bruises inflicted by her father's drunken rage, the bruises borne from the cruelty of her peers in District 12, or the bruises she endured in the treacherous arena, Lucy Gray had learned to wear them as badges of survival, reminders of her unwavering strength in the face of adversity.

So, what significance did a mere bruise hold in comparison to the harrowing experiences of almost facing death, narrowly escaping a gunshot, and being abandoned in the unforgiving depths of the woods? Lucy Gray contemplated, her mind retracing the traumatic events that had unfolded, each one a stark reminder of the danger lurking in the shadows of Coriolanus Snow's ambitions. Yet, even amidst the respite she had momentarily secured from his relentless pursuit, she couldn't shake the lingering fear that his desire to silence her, to erase the last vestiges of her existence, still loomed ominously. It was as if his intent to bury her alongside the secrets she harbored remained as potent as ever, with only a fleeting reprieve granted until his whims shifted, or until she refused to be shackled by his malevolent will.

Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted when, with casual nonchalance, Felix sauntered back into the scene after his brief absence to exchange pleasantries with Festus. He extended his hand towards Lucy Gray, with a self-satisfied smirk betraying his amusement. "Lucy, would you care to join me for a dance, perhaps?" 

Lucy Gray felt the rhythmic pulsing of her temples, a silent testament to the inner turmoil she battled to conceal. With a practiced composure, she masked any hint of discomfort and anger, acutely aware that every subtle reaction only fueled Felix's desire for provocation. His demeanor bespoke an intent to wound, evident in his sly smirk as he extended his hand towards her, a gesture laden with calculated insolence—nothing but a calculated attempt to wound the last remains of her pride: As they had made their entrance into the hall earlier, Felix had dictated that she would dance exclusively with him.Lucy Gray, acknowledging her lack of prowess in formal dances with unreserved honesty, dared to challenge his edict. So why did he persist in his demand?

In recent weeks, Felix's demeanor had grown increasingly volatile, his fragile ego interpreting any dissent as a personal affront deserving of retribution. His method of punishment was blunt and lacking in nuance; he sought to humiliate her, to assert his dominance through public ridicule. Gone were the days when Felix had pursued her favor with false, noneffective charm and calculated flattery. There was a darkness festering within him, an unsettling rage that threatened to spill over at the slightest provocation. Yet, Lucy Gray remained unmoved by his inner turmoil, steadfast in her refusal to be drawn into his orbit. If Felix desired to wallow in misery and anger, he could do so gladly without her concern.

"I... I don't know how to dance..." she replied calmly.

Felix's laughter rang out, a patronizing edge underscoring his words. "Oh, I see. They don't teach you those little thrills in the Districts, do they? I reckon all they show you is how to dig graves..." His words dripped with disdain.

Lucy Gray harbored bitterness over Felix's childish provocation. Contemplating whether to brush off his comment, she weighed the fatigue of dealing with his ongoing irritability in recent weeks. She had no inclination to prolong her engagement with his sour demeanor any more than necessary. Let it slide, she murmured to herself, mustering her resolve to coax her lips into a faint smile.

"...but here in the Capitol, well, we prefer a more exhilarating pastime," Caesar purred, his lips curling into a suggestive smile as he inched closer to Lucy Gray, the heat of his breath teasingly grazing her ear. "We prefer to dance upon them. It's a rush like no other, a thrill that quickens the pulse, wouldn't you agree…Lucy Gray?" 

As the sensation of his breath teased her neck and ear, and the gentle warmth of his exhalation enveloped her skin like a delicate veil, she found her thoughts momentarily eclipsed by a singular inquiry, far removed from Felix's calculated provocations: Had Caesar Highbottom, in that fleeting moment, dared to utter her real name? The notion hung suspended in her consciousness, an elusive wisp of possibility that demanded scrutiny. Had she ever divulged her authentic identity, her Covey name, to Caesar? No, she concluded resolutely, recalling no such disclosure in their interactions thus far. The realization sent her pulse racing, each heartbeat echoing through her body. Caesar Highbottom's utterance of her true name, in that intimate whisper, stirred a sense of resonance deep within her.

Oh no, Lucy Gray muttered under her breath as she stole a glance at Coriolanus. Now, a mere bruise seemed trivial amidst her concerns. Taking a cautious step back, she sought to create a subtle barrier between herself and Caesar, her instincts urging for caution. Casting a fleeting gaze in Caesar's direction, she couldn't help but notice the stark contrast in their demeanor: While Coriolanus's emotions were transparent, etched across his face, Caesar remained stoically indifferent, shrouded in his usual veil of nonchalance, his expression betraying none of the turmoil brewing within Lucy Gray's and Coriolanus' minds.

Chapter Text

Lucy Gray.

"Mr. Snow!"

"Not now." He briskly sidestepped her and slipped into the yawning maw of the elevator, his finger stabbing at the button for the top floor like a dagger seeking its mark.

Lucy Gray.

"Mr. Snow!" his deranged neighbor persisted, her wild eyes trailing him into the confined space. As if her nocturnal ambush hadn't already rattled him enough. "Mr. Snow..." — she wheezed for air as she invaded his sanctuary — "I... I must speak with you, I—"

"I won't sign your fucking petition. I've made my stance crystal clear, but since you seem to need reminding: I have absolutely zero doubts about my decision. I. Want. Nothing. To do. With it." His temples throbbed with irritation, veins pulsing like snakes beneath his skin. As the elevator ascended, his thoughts careened off into the abyss. Throughout the entire journey homeward, two words hammered incessantly against the walls of his skull, each syllable a nail driven deeper into his consciousness…spoken in a voice soon to be silenced—without a doubt. Lucy Gray. 

"Mr. Snow, it's not about the petition anymore, my concern is..." As his tiresome neighbor droned on in her gravelly voice, Coriolanus sagged against the elevator's back wall, his mind a whirlwind of chaos. Replaying the events of the past hour was like sifting through shards of broken glass, each shard a jagged reminder of his fractured reality: Caesar Highbottom's audacious closeness to Lucy Gray had been followed by Tisiphone's unwelcome intervention. Visions of vengeance had danced behind his eyes, a frenzied ballet of retribution waiting to be unleashed upon the insolent Caesar Highbottom. But of course, he had had to play the part, to feign compliance with Tisiphone's request for a dance—Before he could take action against Caesar Highbottom, perhaps by seizing one of the silver trays wielded by the Avoxes? No, he couldn't afford to act rashly; he needed a precise plan. With his blood boiling and his sanity hanging by a thread, he hadn't been able to bear to remain at the ball a moment longer.

Lucy Gray. Did she explicitly instruct him to cease using the familiar "Lucy" and address her by her true name? Hadn't she passionately outlined the Covey tradition of adopting a second name inspired by a color, back then, in District 12? Didn't she now insist on maintaining the facade of "Lucy" within the Capitol's walls? Was she... contemplating an exception for Caesar Highbottom? Was she really considering bending her rules for that asshole?

Lucy Gray. No ambiguity here. Caesar Highbottom needed to vanish. And not just from sight, but from Lucy Gray's world entirely, gone from Lucy Gray's world like he never even existed. It wasn't jealousy that fueled these thoughts—Coriolanus Snow didn't do jealousy. No, it was a primal urge to protect his former tribute at any cost. Caesar Highbottom wasn't fit for someone of Lucy Gray's caliber. Plus, he was on borrowed time anyway...Removing him from the picture would only shield Lucy Gray's reputation from further erosion, ensuring she didn't entangle herself with a Highbottom, a name soon to be forgotten. Coriolanus thought as her guardian, a role deeply ingrained within him, like her mentor—old habits died hard... or in this case, as slow as a Highbottom's demise. It wasn't jealousy that spurred this obsession—no, Coriolanus Snow didn't stoop to such base emotions. It was a matter of protecting what was rightfully his, protecting Lucy Gray, his precious former tribute, from the clutches of that snake, ensuring that Lucy Gray remained untouched by the toxic influence of someone like Highbottom. And if it took every fiber of his being to achieve it, so be it. After all, Coriolanus Snow didn't do half measures.

Lucy Gray. She deserved someone who understood her, who cherished her, who didn't drag her down with his own pathetic existence. Caesar Highbottom, with his arrogant demeanor and entitled attitude, was the antithesis of what Lucy Gray deserved. She deserved someone who saw her for who she truly was. She deserved someone who appreciated her complexities, her quirks, her very essence. Someone who wouldn't try to change her or mold her into something she wasn't.

"Mr. Snow!" The deranged neighbor, clutching her garishly pink cat, abruptly jolted Coriolanus out of his thoughts, her bony finger jabbing into his left chest like a rusty dagger. He observed with a twisted satisfaction as her weathered face contorted into a grotesque mask of fury, her eyes narrowing into slits of malice. Ignoring her manic tirade, he allowed her to poke him once more before seizing her fragile finger in his hand, relishing the tremor of fear that coursed through her.

The woman's eyes widened in terror as she realized her predicament, futilely attempting to wrench her finger free from his iron grip.

Coriolanus tightened his hold, feeling the bones creak beneath his fingers, relishing the sensation of power coursing through him.

"You wanted my attention, didn't you, my dear neighbor?" he murmured softly, a chilling smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Well, now you have it." With a sudden jerk, he released her finger, causing her to stumble backward, a whimper escaping her trembling lips.

As the elevator doors slid open, he stepped out into the hallway, his gaze cold and calculating. Before the doors closed behind him, he turned to the occupants inside, his voice dripping with friendliness.

"Next time you seek my attention," he said calmly, "I'll shove your cat's bones down your throat so deep, you'll choke on them."

Then, he turned away, the door closing behind him with a final, ominous click.

Chapter Text

1. Death by poisoning:

• Pros: Can be discreetly executed; reduced risk if multiple individuals are simultaneously affected (resulting in more potential suspects, motives, and complicating the identification of the intended target); Used before (success).
• Cons: Rapidly consummated; lacks prolonged suffering (—>potential strategy involves administering incremental doses of poison to extend the duration of the fatal process).

2. Death by blunt force trauma:

• Pros: Evidences severe bodily trauma; L.G. won't find arousal in gazing upon his battered remains. —> L.G.: possibly stating something like, "Upon reflection, C.H. has always been fucking ugly. I should have prioritized my true love, Coriolanus Snow, whose appearance surpasses that of C.H."
• Cons: High risk; challenging to conceal; resource-intensive; possible bruises/scars on my flawless skin.

3. Death by proxy:

• Pros: Minimal personal exposure if proxy is effectively utilized (with the option to eliminate the proxy subsequently).
• Cons: Identification and recruitment of a suitable proxy necessitates considerable effort and resources (difficult, particularly given current financial constraints).
• Am I such proxy?

4. Death by manipulation (Triangle Death):

• Pros: Offers potential for discreet execution and reduced personal risk.
• Cons: Procuring an unwitting participant poses logistical challenges... A comprehensive strategy must be devised to ensure the individual possesses sufficient motive and resolve to execute C.H.

Coriolanus peered down at the sheet of paper in his hands, the dim light casting a faint glow over the words scrawled upon it. Having dedicated the entirety of the night to meticulously analyzing and evaluating every intricate detail of each point, he finally made a decision: it was time to grant himself a reprieve from the sinister machinations that had consumed his thoughts. With final exams looming ominously on the horizon, the weight of their importance bore down heavily upon him. Failure was not an option, and he knew all too well whom he would hold responsible should he falter—a litany of accusations poised to be hurled in a whirlwind of blame.

He took out a lighter, the flame flickering to life as he held it to the paper, watching as it caught fire and began to curl at the edges. Once the paper was engulfed in flames, he turned his attention to his study materials, retrieving them from his bag with a sense of purpose.

***

The campus hummed with an electric tension, casting a shadow over the lingering euphoria of the recent ball and other trivial diversions. Now, every conversation pivoted on the edge of anticipation: discussions about last-minute changes to exam syllabi mingled with whispered inquiries about classmates' study progress. Some proudly boasted of their diligent preparation, while others grappled with a mounting sense of dread as they realized they were falling behind.

In the midst of it all, Coriolanus thrived. It wasn't just his unwavering confidence in his ability to excel in exams; it was the thrill he derived from the palpable fear and panic radiating from his peers. As they confronted their own limitations and anxieties, the divide between Coriolanus Snow and the rest of the student body widened even further. No matter how tirelessly they toiled in the libraries or poured over their notes, they knew they could never bridge the gap to match his prowess. As others fretted and faltered, Coriolanus exuded a tranquil confidence, his lips curved in a serene smile as he strolled through the campus. He wasn't just superior on paper; he embodied excellence in every facet, symbolizing unattainable achievement—typically.

This time, however, his attention was diverted by matters that tarnished his usual winning smile. Among these distractions were not only his diminishing financial circumstances but also the looming presence of President Ravinstill, constantly bearing down on him. Additionally, there was Lucy Gray, seemingly preoccupied with entirely separate concerns... matters that were soon to be relegated to obscurity, soon to be forgotten.

"Coryo, you fucking nerd," Festus quipped beside him as Coriolanus settled in next to him in the cafeteria during their lunch break. The chatter of other students provided a background hum to their conversation. "Heard about you and Tisiphone...?" Festus smirked mischievously, taking a hearty bite of his muffin. "Livia would lose it if she... well, were still kicking."

The girl Festus had been frequently seen with lately—tackling either psychology or biology a year below them—playfully swatted Festus on the cheek. Her fingernails, painted a vibrant shade of crimson, added a pop of color to his pale face. "Don't say that!" Despite her admonition, she appeared to find the situation amusing, her laughter blending with the cafeteria's lively ambiance.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, not exactly diplomatic of me," Festus mumbled through mouthfuls. Crumbs of muffin clung to the corners of his mouth. "Aren't you chowing down on anything, Coryo?" he continued, casting a glance at the barren table in front of Coriolanus, where only a half-empty glass of water sat.

"Nah, not hungry," Coriolanus replied nonchalantly, his gaze wandering around the bustling cafeteria, taking in the animated conversations and occasional bursts of laughter. "By the way, have you heard? Rumor has it there's a new Head Gamemaker in the works."

The girl beside Festus, her ponytail swaying with every movement, along with the two fellows who had now joined them, immediately seized upon the topic. "Yeah, heard whispers, but nothing official yet," the girl remarked, her expression thoughtful as she twirled a lock of hair around her finger. Before one of the boys interjected, "Finding Gaul Junior for the job's no easy feat." His voice carried a hint of skepticism, his eyes narrowing in contemplation.

And thus commenced a lively debate among the group, speculating on potential candidates and discussing whether the gossip about funding cuts for the arena's renovations held any water. The clinking of utensils and the murmur of voices provided the soundtrack to their animated conversation.

As the university day drew to a close by late afternoon, the campus began to quieten, with students dispersing to their various destinations. Coriolanus, however, had a specific plan in mind. He intended to revisit the studio that day, hoping to find Tigris there this time. The weight of impending discussions about budget cuts pressed on his mind. He resolved that—if he couldn't manage to speak with Tigris about it this week, or if she continued to elude him—he would proceed with the cuts without informing her beforehand. The decision weighed heavily on him, for he knew the repercussions it could have. Despite his determination, the memory of their last conversation in the bathroom lingered in his thoughts, a reminder of their unresolved tension.

Yet, as he made his way through the campus towards his penthouse, an obstacle emerged before him, quite literally. Tisiphone, a figure of unpredictability and potential trouble, awaited him outside the main entrance to his penthouse.

"Tisiphone... how... how can I help you?" Coriolanus flashed a charming smile as he approached Tisiphone, who stood out conspicuously in her excessively thick violet fur coat, the fabric billowing around her like a regal cloak.

"Well, after you left the ball so abruptly last week... I must admit, I was somewhat disappointed that you didn't reach out afterwards..." She exaggeratedly lowered the corners of her mouth, burying herself further in the voluminous fur. The golden sunset light cast a soft glow on her features, accentuating the theatrics of her expression. Taking two steps towards him, she now stood directly before him, her perfume filling the air with a heady aroma as she cast a seductive glance upwards. "I was... a bit concerned..."

"Concerned? Whatever for?" Coriolanus replied, his smile unwavering as he attempted to maintain an air of innocence. His eyes, however, betrayed a hint of suspicion.

"Well, perhaps I did something to upset you... and you were somehow angry with me..." Her voice rose slightly, speaking softer, as if confiding a secret.

"Oh, I'm very sorry if I gave you that impression, Tisiphone. Quite the contrary, I thoroughly enjoyed our time together that evening. It's just that I'm feeling…rather stressed lately... with exams looming, you understand..." Coriolanus' tone softened, attempting to convey sincerity. "Speaking of which, I realized today that I really need to buckle down and study more... to alleviate some of this stress. And I'm sure you have your own obligations to attend to, so—"

"Oh, I completely understand the pressure, darling. But you know what helps with stress?" Her voice took on a higher pitch, almost childlike. However, unlike a child, she boldly placed her hand on Coriolanus' collar and deftly slipped her foot between his legs, her actions adding an not so unexpected, unwelcome twist to the conversation.

"Tisi—"

"I'm really feeling cold. You live here, right? You wouldn't mind if I warmed up with you for a bit, would you?" Tisiphone's voice carried a hint of urgency as she huddled closer to Coriolanus.

Coriolanus felt a twinge of annoyance, but he masked it with a practiced smile. "No, not at all. I'd be happy to invite you up, but... my cousin is probably upstairs, and she's with... a special guest. She wouldn't forgive me if I suddenly brought someone else up and ruined the mood—"

"I'll be very quiet...a very, very good girl."

"I don't doubt that, but—"

"Oh, Coryo, I love it when you're such a... gentleman. But I'm freezing out here, and surely your cousin would understand, wouldn't she? She wouldn't want this little sweetheart out here exposed to the cold." Tisiphone's leg pressed more firmly between his, her perfume mingling with the crisp air.

As Coriolanus noticed one of his neighbors passing by—shaking his head with an embarrassed look—he remembered that someone had moved into his building who shouldn't see this spectacle. "Tisiphone, how about we go to your—"

"Don't be ridiculous. That's way too far!" Pouting, she immediately distanced herself from him and hurried to the entrance area of the building, where she pressed the elevator button. "Come on, Coryo! Where do you live again? At the top?"

Perhaps Coriolanus thought about adding another item to his deadly list of things to do, as he followed Tisiphone with clenched fists and pressed the button for the penthouse. And where the fuck was that lovely cat neighbor when he needed her the most?! Now would have been the ideal moment to discuss that petition or whatever was troubling the poor soul of that delightful woman. 

"Yes, I might be a bit early. But she's…due any moment now, and as I mentioned, she'd never let me live it down if..." His words trailed off as Tisiphone's thick, violet fur coat cascaded to the ground.

Coriolanus couldn't help but internally scoff at the scene before him. Here stood Tisiphone, the epitome of a predictable stereotype. Every facet of her demeanor exuded conformity: from the honeyed cadence of her voice to the way her curves were accentuated by her daring attire (or lack thereof), from the carefully orchestrated seductive glances she bestowed upon him to the coy smile that vacillated between feigned innocence and a tangible undercurrent of urgency.

As he watched Tisiphone's performance unfold before him, Coriolanus couldn't help but draw parallels to Lucy Gray's past gestures. Hadn't she, too, engaged in such beguiling theatrics? Hadn't her eyes once delved into his with an intensity that spoke volumes, her words weaving a tapestry of admiration, and her lips conveying a longing that seemed to transcend mundane expectations? Yet, unlike Tisiphone's orchestrated displays, Lucy Gray's actions had carried a different weight of motive—a primal, raw instinct for survival driving her rather than the shallow pressures of society.

With each step Tisiphone took, closing the distance between them, Coriolanus felt the weight of his uncertainty intensify. The lines between what was real and what was staged blurred before his eyes, leaving him adrift between authenticity and artifice, between genuine emotion and contrived performance. As Tisiphone's presence loomed larger, he wondered if the once passionate exchanges he had shared with Lucy Gray had been nothing more than calculated maneuvers, akin to her performance, her manipulation played out in the arena…the way her eyes had sparkled with a hidden fire, the warmth of her touch that had stirred something profound within him, and the whispered promises of a future untainted by the cruelty of their world… Intertwined with these recollections were doubts that gnawed at his resolve.

And amidst the swirling doubts, a yearning surged within him—a yearning for Lucy Gray's gestures to have stemmed from genuine emotion, free from the insidious influence of manipulation, societal expectations, and the relentless pressure to survive. He craved the purity of sincerity, a connection unencumbered by the shadows of pretense. 

Yet, perhaps it was fucking stupid to expect authenticity from a girl whose very existence hinged upon the performance of affection. Yes, it may have been fucking stupid to harbor expectation of unadulterated authenticity from a girl whose very existence teetered on the edge of a knife. Lucy Gray's journey through the deathly trials of the Hunger Games was not solely defined by her prowess in strategy and guile; rather, it was illuminated by her adeptness in the art of illusion, in the delicate art of portraying desire where…maybe none existed.

In the crucible of the Games, Lucy Gray wove webs of allure, drawing others into her orbit with a beguiling smile, a suggestive glance—the tools of a masterful illusionist, honed not only for entertainment but for survival. Her every gesture, every expression, was a stroke upon the canvas of her persona, carefully crafted to elicit the desired response, to ensnare hearts and minds in the transient embrace of her fabricated affection.

Coriolanus could not deny the allure of her performance, nor could he dismiss the undeniable skill with which she wielded her charms. Yet, beneath the veneer of enchantment lay a stark reality: Lucy Gray's affection was not freely given but constructed, a mirage shimmering in the desert of desperation. And in his quest for sincerity, Coriolanus had been ensnared by the illusion, mistaking the shadows of performance for the substance of truth.

In that moment, Tisiphone now stood mere inches away, practically breathing down his neck. With a swift motion, she reached for his hand, gently guiding it from its absentminded position towards her exposed chest. The warmth of her skin beneath his touch sent a shiver down his spine as she closed her fingers around his, molding his palm to the curve of her right breast. As if choreographing, Tisiphone positioned his index and middle fingers around her erect nipple, a silent invitation that Coriolanus followed, capturing the sensitive nipple between his fingertips. 

Then, with a daring move, she took his other hand and guided it lower, placing it between her legs. He felt the dampness beneath his fingertips. With a practiced hand, she guided Coriolanus, encouraging him to explore further, guiding his fingers between her folds, teasingly coaxing him deeper into the heated, wet core. 

"You can do whatever you like with me, Mr. Snow," she murmured, her voice barely audible as his fingers delved deeper into her. "But…I wonder how my lips would feel…around your dick."

Chapter Text

He stood at the lavish sink as he reached for the opulent golden dispenser, an artifact of extravagance and excess from a bygone era. The golden glass dispenser, adorned with an unfamiliar emblem, seemed to mock him with its ostentatiousness. It was a symbol of wealth long past, reminiscent of times when financial power was also measured in the extravagance of one's hand soap. With fervor, he dispensed more hand soap than usual, letting the whitish liquid cascade into his palms like liquid silk. As he spread it across his skin, he couldn't shake the image of Coriolanus Snow, the epitome of affluent decadence, indulging in such luxuries. The emblem on the bottle, a mouth-blown circle studded with tiny stars, gleamed through the shimmering glass, a cruel reminder of the now unreachable heights of luxury.

The water flowed incessantly from the faucet, but he paid it no mind. Financial ruin had already begun its relentless descent upon him, starting with the withdrawal of Mr. Plinth's sponsorship. In this moment, such concerns seemed trivial, inconsequential compared to the weight of all his other bills. Almost manic in his precision, he lathered the soap, coating every inch of his hands in a thick, stubborn foam. Each finger was attended to, enveloped in a cleansing ritual that bordered on obsession. He intertwined his fingers, ensuring that no crevice remained untouched, as if he sought to erase not just the dirt but the very essence of his being. With each repetition, he felt himself slipping further into a trance, his world reduced to the rhythm of water and soap, a symphony of purification and penance.

The water continued to flow. He repeated the process, again and again, until his hands felt raw and stripped of moisture. As he dried them with a plush towel, the sensation was jarring. His fingertips, once smooth and supple, now felt rough and desiccated, as if the very act of cleansing had drained them of their vitality, leaving behind only a hollow shell of skin and bone. It was as if he had surrendered a piece of his soul to the relentless current of the sink, where it now lay, lost and forgotten, mingling with the remnants of soap and water in the dark depths of the pipes below.

He avoided catching his own reflection in the mirror.

Exiting the bathroom, he eased himself into the chair at his desk, and with a sense of purpose, he reached for his study materials, each book and notebook a tangible reminder of the impending examinations awaiting him. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of paper as he sifted through his notes. Taking a deep breath, he delved more and more into the depths of his studies, his mind becoming immersed in the sea of information before him. The hours slipped away, unnoticed and unheeded, as he poured over theories, statistics and historical events.

As the evening sun began its slow descent beyond the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, he continued his pursuit of academic excellence, despite the fatigue that threatened to overtake him. 

***

"I feel like I've been screwed over," Felix exclaimed, his voice echoing through the corridor as they stepped out of the cavernous lecture hall where their final exam had just concluded. The biting chill of the wind met them at the door, but for Coriolanus, it seemed as though an invisible barrier enveloped him, shielding him from the elements, isolating him in his thoughts.

"Alright, lads, you know the drill," Festus chimed in, his jovial tone contrasting sharply with the somber mood. He draped his arms around Felix and Coriolanus, his weight leaning heavily on their shoulders, and gestured towards the university's main square. It was a tradition for students to gather there after the final exams, where libations and refreshments awaited—a modest reprieve from the rigors of academia.

"I have to pass, sorry," Coriolanus replied somberly, extricating himself from Festus' embrace.

"What?!" Festus and Felix came to an abrupt halt, incredulity etched on their faces. Felix's eyes rolled skyward in exasperation, while Festus regarded Coriolanus with a mixture of disappointment and disbelief.

"Coryo, exams are done, mate. You don't need to bury yourself in books anymore," Felix protested, shaking his head. "You'll have ample time to prepare for the next round. Let's just—"

"No, that's not it," Coriolanus interjected sharply, before softening his tone. "My cousin's gotten herself into a bit of a jam, I need to have a word with her, and I haven't had the chance until now."

Festus shook his head in resignation. "Classic perfect Coryo, always the noble one. Fine, but you better make an appearance at my bash tonight!"

Coriolanus, knowing full well he had no intention of setting foot at Festus' party, offered a reassuring nod before bidding his friends farewell and making his way home, the weight of many, many concerns heavy on his mind.

Once again, he chose the stairs over the elevator, feeling an inexplicable need to avoid the mechanical contraption for a while. Passing by the Plinth Apartment, he paused momentarily on the floor, his gaze fixated on the entrance door as if contemplating some invisible force. The silence enveloped him, allowing his thoughts to drift aimlessly. It was almost as if he sought solace in the stillness of the hallway.

Continuing his ascent up the stairs, the rhythm of his footsteps echoed faintly in the dimly lit stairwell. With each step, he felt a weight lift off his shoulders, yet a sense of unease lingered beneath the surface. Time seemed to blur as he reached the landing of his penthouse, greeted by the familiar sight of his Avox standing at attention in the hallway, ready to assist him.

With a pang of hunger gnawing at him, he decided to indulge in a simple pleasure: a slice of buttered toast, as usual. As he assembled Hedgehog, his custom toast-making apparatus, the anticipation of that first bite filled him with a strange sense of comfort. When the Avox presented him with the freshly prepared slice, adorned with a generous spread of melted butter, he couldn't help but notice the unusual presence of the servant lingering by his side.

"What?" Coriolanus' tone was tinged with a hint of irritation as he savored the warmth of the toast against his fingertips.

The Avox hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his expression before he retrieved a notepad and hastily jotted down a message. Placing the note deliberately beside Coriolanus' plate, he awaited acknowledgment. "The young lady paid another visit this morning, though she left no message," the note conveyed, prompting Coriolanus to take another bite of the buttery indulgence.

Without missing a beat, Coriolanus issued a directive, his voice devoid of emotion yet firm in its resolve. "Do not grant her entry, even if I'm present. Inform her that I've already departed should she attempt to intrude again," he instructed, observing the Avox's compliant nod before retreating to the sanctuary of the kitchen.

He leaned his head forward, propping it up with one hand, while the other reached to his temples, his thumb and middle finger pressing lightly against the pulsing veins. For a fleeting moment, he shut his eyes, contemplating the onset of the trimester break and the vanishing opportunities to deal with Caesar Highbottom. Caesar wasn't one to grace social gatherings with his presence unless absolutely necessary, yet his attendance at both balls contradicted that pattern. Had his preferences suddenly shifted, making him a patron of social gatherings? It seemed improbable. Perhaps there was another lure, another motive at play, someone…

Abruptly, he reopened his eyes, fixing his gaze on the partially eaten toast resting before him. Caesar Highbottom's penchant for sweets echoed in his mind. How many times had Coriolanus observed him surreptitiously indulging in sugary delights? It wouldn't be difficult to exploit. Caesar practically begged for his food to be tampered with. If it came down to a small buffet, he might need to extend his reach to others, perhaps even himself. By doing so, suspicion would be diverted from him, for like Caesar and the others, Coriolanus Snow would merely appear as another victim of the poison. A victim who wouldn't succumb to its lethal effects. And in the end, the finger-pointing wouldn't matter. As long as Coriolanus remained untethered from Caesar Highbottom, he would be shielded: They weren't confidants, their interactions limited to sporadic exchanges; they shared nothing beyond the coincidental proximity of attending the same university, albeit in different academic years. On the surface, their paths were unrelated. There was no discernible motive. Coriolanus Snow's reputation was hardly synonymous with lethal violence or with a proficiency in poisoning. Instead, he was regarded as a composed and sophisticated gentleman, a steadfast friend, a neighbor of impeccable demeanor, and a paragon of academic excellence.

As he savored the final bites, he washed them down with a couple of glasses of water before preparing to depart once more. He made a firm decision that today would mark his final attempt to speak with Tigris. If she continued to evade him today, then he would implement the cuts, and her subsequent handling of the situation would be solely her responsibility.

Once again, Hedgehog presented him with his winter coat, and as he hastened down the stairs, he found himself hesitating once more in front of the Plinth Apartment.

No.

No.

No.

You're running out of time.

Don't go there.

Don't even try.

Caesar Highbottom, Tigris, financial constraints, President Ravinstill.

You have bigger concerns.

No.

No.

Don't even consider it.

Chances are she's not even there.

But where else could she have gone?

No.

Had she even taken any exams, or were the District students, the remaining two, exempt from them?

No.

Coriolanus Snow, NO.

His knuckles rapped against her door, the sound echoing through the corridor. When greeted with silence, he persisted, the urgency of his knocks intensifying with each repetition. Yet, he resolved to grant her another moment, a solitary minute, before continuing his journey. Perhaps, in the quiet of this pause, clarity would emerge. What purpose did he truly have in seeking Lucy Gray's presence now? Should he extend apologies for any inadvertent bruise upon her arm? Or dare he revisit the notion that she held the power to grant him absolution through the pull of a trigger? What discourse could transpire between them in this charged moment? Was there even room to apologize for Tisiphone—

The door swung open.

Had she just awoken from slumber? Her hair, tousled and unkempt, framed her face in a disarray of dark strands. Clad in an oversized sweater that cascaded down to her knees, she rubbed her eyes wearily before uttering in a faint voice, "What do you want? I presume you're not here to greet me with cookies in the neighborhood, are you?"

"Would you like some cookies?" he quipped.

"Who wouldn't want cookies?"

"I'm not particularly fond of cookies."

"You're not exactly normal."

"Normalcy is vastly overrated."

"And what brings you here, Coriolanus Snow?" Her tone conveyed a distinct lack of enthusiasm for conversation.

"I...uh..." he hesitated, grappling for words. What did he truly seek?

"Well?" she prodded, her gaze piercing. "Has the cat got your tongue? I thought as the golden boy of Capitol University, you'd possess some semblance of eloquence."

"How...how are you?" he ventured, his uncertainty palpable. Perhaps it was a feeble attempt to salvage the awkwardness.

"You want to know how I am?" Her eyebrow arched skeptically as she moved to close the door. But before she could shut him out completely, he intercepted, holding the door ajar with his hand.

"Let go of the door," she admonished sharply.

"I...I mean it. I just wanted to know how you're doing," he stuttered, his grip on the door tightening involuntarily.

"I'm fine, thank you." Despite her attempt to close the door once more, she found herself thwarted by his persistent presence. 

"I'm serious, Lucy Gray. If you need anything—"

"Then you'll be the first one I call, understood," she shot back swiftly, her tone laced with dripping sarcasm. "If that's all—"

"H-how's your arm?" he faltered.

She met his gaze head-on. "It's fine."

"I'm sorry. Truly. I didn't mean to grab you so hard, I..." He sighed, feeling foolish under her scrutiny.

"Yeah, you never mean to do anything wrong, do you? It just happens, doesn't it?" Her words were tinged with bitterness.

"Lucy Gray, I..."

"I'm tired. I need some rest. We'll probably run into each other soon anyway, so—"

"What do you mean?" he pressed.

She arched an eyebrow. "Well, Festus' party… aren't you...?" A flicker of regret crossed her face as she spoke.

"You're going?" His expression hardened.

She hesitated before admitting quietly, "Ah, whatever, you'll find out soon enough. I...I have to...I mean, I won't stay long, just until I've sung something."

"You have to?"

"Felix...he…is persistent, and given his role as my mentor...I am somewhat obliged...And as you're well aware, the Ravinstills aren't accustomed to hearing the word 'no.' As I mentioned, I'll just perform a quick song—I don't plan to linger any longer than necessary, so there's no need for you to go to any trouble..."

He only half-heartedly listened to her words, already set on his decision. "It makes sense for us to go together...considering… we're neighbors, after all."

As he observed Lucy Gray, he noticed the almost unnatural movement of the bones in her neck. "No need. Felix will be picking me up."

"Well, then I'll simply tag along," he responded with warmth, offering her a smile—though it went unreciprocated.

***

If Coriolanus had ever witnessed Felix in a fit of anger, the memory had eluded him. But now, sandwiched between Lucy Gray and his former schoolmate in the car, he couldn't ignore the palpable tension emanating from both sides. It made him wonder if he had grown numb to his own troubles, as the strain didn't faze him in the slightest. In fact, he found solace in the barrier he had intentionally created between Lucy Gray and Felix Ravinstill. Festus was hosting the party in his penthouse, conveniently located just a few blocks away from Coriolanus' (and Lucy Gray's) residence. Despite the short distance, the drive seemed to stretch out longer than usual.

The Creed family's penthouse had also undergone renovations, though it bore a simpler aesthetic compared to his own. The Creeds evidently hadn't managed to fully restore their former wealth. The furniture, while serviceable, hinted at its age and wear, failing to convincingly masquerade as new acquisitions. Coriolanus suspected that some pieces might have been sourced from a second-hand market. He couldn't help but wonder if any of the guests would recognize their own discarded furnishings here—a thought that filled him with a discomfort; the embarrassment was beyond his imagination. He didn't want to even contemplate it; he preferred to leave such thoughts to others, in this case, to the Creed family members.

Upon arrival, they were greeted by a throng of familiar faces, and Coriolanus, being more popular than Felix, found himself navigating a sea of greetings and embraces. His least favorite aspect of such gatherings was the persistent offering of alcoholic beverages. Despite his repeated refusals, the insistence of the hosts and other guests never seemed to wane. In an attempt to avoid the unwanted attention, he deftly filled a glass with water and added a slice of lemon, hoping it would pass as a sort of alcoholic beverage. Nevertheless, it was widely known that Coriolanus Snow abstained from alcohol consumption.

Meanwhile, Lucy Gray found herself besieged by guests eager to engage her in conversation—a predictable outcome given her charm and allure. Not so surprisingly, Felix, despite his illustrious lineage as the son of the most powerful man in Panem, appeared to garner little attention. His lackluster personality and absence of charisma relegated him to the sidelines, a stark contrast to Coriolanus' own magnetic presence. It was a reminder of the undeniable power of perception—a power Coriolanus was keenly aware of, and one he wielded with calculated precision.

For Coriolanus, the juxtaposition was striking. If he were in Felix's position, as the offspring of a president, the dynamics would be vastly different. "Coriolanus Snow, scion of a president, future leader," would command instant reverence and recognition—a truth etched in stone within the collective consciousness.

As Coriolanus engaged in conversation with Carmelia, who had completed the prestigious presidential internship the previous year, and probed her for insights into the program's workings, his eyes darted around the room in search of Lucy Gray. She had momentarily slipped from his sight when Carmelia approached him. Until then, he had kept a vigilant watch over her, but now his gaze swept across the expanse of the room, yet she remained elusive.

"Apologies, Carmelia, I'll just fetch another drink. Would you care for one as well?" he asked absentmindedly, his neck craning as he scanned the room.

"But you still have something in your glass..."

"Right…I fancy a change. I'll be back shortly." With a brisk nod, he navigated through the crowd, intent on locating Lucy Gray. However, she seemed to have vanished from sight, prompting a sense of unease to creep over him. He scoured the adjacent rooms, then ventured into the kitchen and dining area, and even dared to peek into the bedrooms, where encounters with quite busy guests had left him wary. Yet, there was no sign of Lucy Gray. Had she departed without informing him? The thought deeply unsettled him.

As he traversed the hallway, a hand descended upon his shoulder, and he turned to find a slightly flushed Felix Ravinstill. "Ah... there you are... my friend... the impeccable, i-i-impeccable Coriolanus S-S-Snow..." Felix mumbled, his speech slurred as he swayed unsteadily, a bottle clutched in his grasp. Coriolanus regarded him with a mixture of concern and irritation, well-acquainted with the burdens of dealing with Felix's inebriated antics, a duty thrust upon him solely by virtue of Felix's lineage.

"Felix, perhaps it's best if you take a seat," Coriolanus suggested dryly, relieving Felix of the bottle and guiding him towards a nearby sofa. The weight of Felix's intoxicated form leaned heavily against him as they made their way through the gathering, drawing amused glances from onlookers. "Coriolanus f-f-fucking S-S-S-Snow... you're a true savior…you….you per-fect son a of b-bitch…" Felix murmured, his words tinged with a hint of admiration and mirth.

Upon reaching the sofa, Coriolanus negotiated with the occupants to clear a space for Felix, their compliance hastened by the sight of the drunken scion. "Rest here for a while, Felix," Coriolanus instructed, a note of exasperation evident in his tone as he gently eased Felix onto the cushion.

As Coriolanus prepared to depart—still unable to locate Lucy Gray—he was assailed by Felix's melodious bellowing from behind: "Luuuuucy.... oh, you enchanting Luuuuuucy..." He halted momentarily, pivoting to face Felix and proffering the nearest bottle in a silent plea. Let Felix drown his sorrows in drink if it kept his lips from summoning his girl's name.

"Thanks... my friend... t-t-t-that's precisely... what I-I-I… need right now..." Felix chirped, seizing the bottle from Coriolanus' grasp and swiftly draining its contents. Coriolanus, on the verge of abandoning Felix Ravinstill to his own devices once more, was interrupted by another verse: "Luuuuucy... my loooovely, loooovely Luuuuucy..."

Coriolanus seethed inwardly. With Lucy Gray still nowhere in sight, Felix's serenade only grated on his nerves further.

"Luuuucy..."

If Felix didn't cease—

"Luuuuucy... my preeeetty Luuuuucy..."

Coriolanus turned back to Felix, gently guiding his hand—clutching the bottle—towards Felix's lips for another swallow. "I believe you might be slightly dehydrated, my friend," he murmured.

Felix chuckled, the sound tinged with intoxication. "Yeah, probably... drained everything out….w-w-w-with the pretty Luuuuucy..."

Coriolanus refrained from probing further, though his curiosity gnawed at him. "What do you mean?" he inquired, his temples pulsating with frustration.

Felix's grin widened, his gaze glassy. "Oh, you know..."

"No, I don't," Coriolanus retorted sharply, his patience wearing thin with each passing moment.

Felix erupted into manic laughter, his claps echoing like a demented applause as the bottle slipped from his grasp, sliding onto the plush carpet below. "She... bore witness to my... d-d-d-dehydration... if you…if you…g-g-grasp the implications...she... oh, she watched, you know... as I... if you catch my drift..." His eyes flickered with a deranged fervor, as though relishing the impending revelation. "That D-D-District scum… r-r-reveled in..."

"Reveled? In what, precisely?" Coriolanus' voice dripped with a chilling intensity as he knelt beside Felix on the carpet, his gaze piercing.

Felix lurched forward, teetering dangerously close to falling off the sofa, but Coriolanus seized him by the chest, fingers digging into fabric, compelling him to remain seated. "What are you insinuating?" he demanded, his words laced with venom.

Felix's laughter bubbled forth again, his breath a noxious cloud. "I... j-j-jerked off... before her preeetty eyes... and I am pretty sure… she really enjoyed being my... little…o-object of fantasy...I mean…I would never…ever…ever…ever…fuck a District girl….but…"

Coriolanus snatched the bottle from the carpet with a manic gleam in his eye, thrusting it forcefully into the mouth of his former classmate until a crimson, hot liquid spurted out.

Chapter Text

"Mr. Hop... please, I beg of you... there has to be some recourse... something I can grasp onto..." His words trembled, desperation etched in every syllable, his eyes pleading for a glimmer of hope amidst the encroaching darkness.

Mr. Hop, his brow furrowed deeply, exhaled a heavy sigh before addressing Coriolanus in a measured, professional manner, a seasoned lawyer imparting sobering counsel to a client facing dire circumstances: "Coriolanus, my dear boy, I must be candid with you. I cannot offer false assurances or suggest that I possess a silver bullet solution. It is not within my modus operandi to provide false hope. Despite any circumspect language employed by my legal colleagues, I have always adhered to a policy of unvarnished truth. In light of your candor, I reciprocate with honesty.

Felix Ravinstill, scion of Panem's most influential dynasty, son of the most powerful man in Panem, succumbed to mortal wounds early this morning. The official cause of death, as documented in the coroner's report, was exsanguination resulting from a laceration to the carotid artery. Presently, all available evidence points toward you as the prime suspect. Your sobriety at the time of the incident, corroborated by forensic analysis, complicates matters further for you. The charge levied against you is: murder. Murder, stemming from the utilization of a glass bottle as a lethal weapon. Murder, arising from the infliction of fatal injuries upon an inebriated peer. While I am committed to exhaustively exploring every conceivable legal avenue and scrutinizing all pertinent details, I must caution you: the prevailing circumstances do not bode well for your expeditious release from confinement." 

Coriolanus found himself ensconced in a dimly lit room, the neon glow casting an eerie ambiance. His gaze lingered on the old lawyer before him, noting the weathered lines etched around his eyes. Were they marks of a life well-lived, or simply remnants of the relentless march of time? Coriolanus couldn't help but wonder.

"At the party... the sheer number of witnesses leaves no room for doubt," Coriolanus stated, his tone nonchalant, yet tinged with resignation. "And, Mr. Hop, you know as well as I do, I lack the means to secure competent legal representation." A hollow chuckle escaped his lips, bitterness seeping into every syllable. "Not that it would make a difference now. My mentor, Dr. Gaul, is gone. She was perhaps the only one who could have thrown me a lifeline in this storm."

Mr. Hop let out a weary sigh, his expression betraying a mix of sympathy and resignation. "Coriolanus, out of deference to your father, I'll arrange for a skilled defense attorney on your behalf. Your defense shall not falter for want of proper representation. As for the expenses... we'll address those in due time. You're not destitute yet—"

"I'll rot away in prison," Coriolanus muttered, his gaze drifting to the handcuffs adorning his wrists. "There's... death penalty... for murder."

"Coriolanus—"

"Especially when the dead victim is someone as prominent as Felix Ravinstill."

"My dear boy, I understand—"

"Especially when there were witnesses, plenty of them, who watched as I viciously smashed a wine bottle into his mouth, then his throat and neck area, again and again."

Mr. Hop let out another resigned sigh. "Coriolanus, why—"

"When I was younger, my cousin Tigris would warn me incessantly about the perils of fixation, the dangers of obsession. Yet, here I am," he remarked bitterly. "And to think, I once harbored aspirations of becoming president. I succumbed to pressure, surrendered to my obsessions. I should have silenced her. I should have ended her life in the woods. I should have... left her to perish in the arena."

"I can't keep up with you, Coriolanus—"

"You don't need to. I can hardly keep up with them myself, and they're my own thoughts."

***

Two or maybe three days had drifted by since his last encounter with Mr. Hop, the aged confidant of his late father, who once navigated the intricacies of the Plinth sponsorship on his behalf. Back then, in the somber confines of the lawyer's office, life felt like a macabre jest, a twisted reverie from which he longed to awaken. It had been a matter of dwindling financial resources then, a struggle he knew he could endure. Poverty and hunger were familiar adversaries, battles he could eventually overcome.

But now, standing accused as the murderer of the President's son, the narrative had shifted drastically. No longer was he merely grappling with financial woes; now, he faced a fate far more dire. He was shunned by society, condemned to a solitary existence haunted by unfulfilled potential. As the final scion of the Snow lineage, his legacy teetered on the brink of oblivion. Like Sejanus before him, he stood poised to conclude a familial saga with his own demise, a victim of Panem's merciless judgment.

Returning to the dimly lit room, shackled and beleaguered, he pondered whether Mr. Hop would present him with an invoice for his services rendered. Though the visit purportedly stemmed from a gesture of friendship toward his late father, the exorbitant costs associated with maintaining such legal counsel belied any notion of altruism.

Before he could dwell further on these grim thoughts, the door creaked open, revealing not the familiar visage of the seasoned attorney, but that of his cousin. With eyes sunken and lips trembling, she bore the weight of impending doom, her face etched with a grim resignation as she settled into the chair opposite Coriolanus.

Silence enveloped the room, thick and suffocating, as neither dared to break the oppressive stillness. Coriolanus found himself unable to meet her gaze, fixating instead on the drab expanse of the table between them.

"Tell me what to do," Tigris' voice shattered the silence, a rasping plea tinged with desperation, as though wrested from a throat long parched.

Coriolanus offered no immediate response, his head shaking imperceptibly as he wrestled with the weight of his predicament, the gravity of their shared plight hanging heavy in the air.

"Coryo..." Tigris' voice rose again, this time infused with a steely resolve, her gaze piercing through the veil of despair that clouded his vision, "What can I do?"

"There's nothing you can do," Coriolanus murmured softly, his gaze meeting his cousin's after what felt like an eternity. Yet instead of her usual sparkling blue eyes, framed by blonde lashes, he found himself staring into two dark chasms devoid of life, devoid of joy. It was as though the vibrant essence of Tigris had been drained away, leaving behind only a shell of the woman he once knew.

Her breathing grew labored, each inhale echoing loudly in the stillness of the room. "I... I won't accept that," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. Her hands clenched tightly, knuckles turning white from the pressure.

"But you must," he insisted, his own voice barely above a whisper. His heart ached at the sight of her pain, but he knew there was no escaping the harsh reality of their situation.

"No. No, Coryo... No. Just no." Tears streamed down her hollow cheeks, tracing paths of sorrow and despair. The vulnerability in her expression was palpable, a stark contrast to the strength she had always exuded. He had never found his cousin particularly pretty, but now, as she trembled before him, her gaze vacant and desperate, he couldn't help but wonder if he had simply never truly looked at her before. How could he have overlooked her beauty for so long?

"You look beautiful, Tigris," he murmured gently, reaching out to brush away a stray tear with his cuffed hand. The clinking of metal against metal seemed deafening in the silence that enveloped them. "I should have... told you that... more often... earlier."

"Save it, Coryo," she retorted sternly, her voice wavering slightly. "Don't you dare..." Her words trailed off, her throat constricting with emotion. She struggled to maintain her composure, to find the right words to convey the depth of her anguish.

"I... I just want you to get out of here. You don't belong here," she pleaded, her voice breaking on the last word. Her eyes pleaded with him to understand, to grasp the gravity of their predicament.

"Oh, but I do, Tigris. That's exactly where I belong." Coriolanus' voice was heavy with resignation, the weight of his actions pressing down upon him like a suffocating blanket. "Do you know, I've killed five people? Bobbin... Mayfair... Sejanus Plinth... Casca Highbottom... Felix Ravinstill... and actually, I had planned to add Caesar Highbottom to that list too... and for a brief moment, Lucy Gray was also on that list."

Now it was Tigris who lowered her gaze, unable to meet his haunted stare. "That... that..."

"What? Doesn't matter? Five dead people don't matter to you, dear cousin?" His words were tinged with bitterness, his frustration bubbling to the surface.

"I didn't mean that." Her response was barely a whisper, so quiet that Coriolanus almost didn't catch it.

"What then?" he asked gently, his voice softened by a pang of remorse. "I'm a murderer, Tigris. But I think you knew that... for a while. Well, now you know for sure." 

Once more, they descended into silence, enveloped in the weight of their suffering. Then, it was Coriolanus who gently pierced the stillness. "Tigris, do you recall the eve of your 18th birthday? It wasn't a grand affair. Just the three of us— you, Grandma-am, and I—gathered around a modest cake, its slices crumbling beneath our eager fingers."

"Coryo, please..."

But Coriolanus pressed on, his voice tender yet laden with remorse. "That night, I got quite a fever, remember? But you remained steadfast by my side. Even though it was your birthday, you stayed up all night looking after me. I rested my feverish head upon your lap, and you told me about your parents, and all you could remember. Your childhood toys, the chocolate that was served on saturdays... that's what turned saturdays into 'Cocoa Soaked Saturdays' in your family... the many dresses your mother sewed for you..."

"Coryo..." Tears cascaded down her cheeks like crystalline rivers.

"I remember it vividly. I dreamt of a future where we, in opulence and maturity, would establish our own 'Cocoa Soaked Saturdays' tradition, where home would be a sanctuary of warmth and sweetness. I never once thought that we wouldn't be together every day. It just never crossed my mind. I thought it would always be like that, you and me."

He listened to her broken sobs, each one a melody of pain and longing, and for the first time, he truly felt the weight of his failings.

"I wish... oh, how I wish I hadn't disappointed you so grievously. I wish I had been better. At least for you, Tigris." And in that moment, amidst the tears and heartache, Coriolanus Snow's words were not mere echoes; they were an earnest plea from a soul laid bare.

In a rare moment, perhaps unprecedented in his lifetime, he shed the cloak of formlessness that had long shrouded his essence. No longer did he endure the nebulous boundaries that defined him, no longer did he masquerade as a chameleon, seamlessly assimilating into the hues of those around him. Gone was the sensation of being an enigmatic entity, one capable of conjuring empathy at will, only to let it dissipate like mist once the curtains closed on his performance. No longer was he a shapeless echo, a mere Snow draping himself over the contours of others, ensnaring them in his icy grasp.

Perhaps for the first time ever, he did not feel like a formless, spineless creature; he did not feel his lack of definable contours; he did not feel like a peculiar entity, one that effortlessly adjusted its form to mimic those around him; he did not feel like a strange deformity that—if the occasion called for him to display heart or compassion—would promptly conjure a heart within itself, preserving it until the theatrical performance concluded, allowing it to revert to its amorphous state. 

The days of puppeteering his personas were over, no longer did he choreograph his identity to match the audience he faced. Gone were the days of assuming the facade of a genteel confidante with Clemmie, or the facade of scholarly diligence in academic circles, or even the facade of unyielding ambition with Dr. Gaul. The once protean nature, bereft of genuine substance, had faded into oblivion.

Now, he felt the solidity of his form, the palpitations of his heart reverberating within him. For the first time, he sensed the rhythm of existence aligning with the beat of his own heart. And in this newfound clarity, he confronted the raw agony of his heart, a testament to the authenticity he now embraced.

For the first time, he experienced the raw pain of his fucking bleeding heart.

Ah, bless you, Sejanus Plinth. Bless your freedom to be, to exist, to live, to think, to speak, to develop one's own form, to have a heart that could fucking bleed. 

***

A complete week had elapsed since his arrival in this desolate place, yet he had partaken of no sustenance. The solitary confines of his cell, once alien and foreboding, now bore the imprint of his presence, becoming strangely familiar with each passing moment. Amidst the solitude, Coriolanus found himself grappling with a disquieting thought: had he, on some subconscious level, harbored the expectation of this inevitable fate for far longer than he dared admit? The revelation that it was Felix Ravinstill who had sort of orchestrated his descent into this abyss came as an unexpected twist in Coriolanus' crafted narrative.

Gazing up at the monotony of the gray concrete ceiling, a wry smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he contemplated Dr. Gaul's hypothetical reaction to his current plight. He envisioned her launching into one of her characteristic diatribes, expounding upon the intricacies of human nature and the inexorable grip of vulnerability. Perhaps, in a twist of fate, she might extend her hand to extricate him from this abyss. Yet, deep down, he knew it was inconsequential.

He would be left to hang.

His potential? Meaningless.

His future? Meaningless.

His ambitions? Meaningless.

All the sacrifices he had made? Meaningless.

Coriolanus Snow? Meaningless.

***

What becomes of it lies within your grasp.

Similarly, the course of your life now rests in your hands alone, without my interference. Your discontent in the Capitol is palpable to all but the most oblivious, yet within its confines, many turn a blind eye, their gazes averted, their minds closed. But how could I ever look away from the depth of your gaze?

You were enticed here under false pretenses, swayed by deceitful promises. Yet, despite it all, you endure, Lucy Gray. You have weathered the storm, and you will continue to do so. You are not merely a survivor, but a victor, Lucy Gray—never let that truth fade.

Perhaps a part of me regrets not capturing you in the woods all those days ago. Yet, even amidst my own tribulations, another part of me holds fast to the hope that you, at least, will find freedom.

You and I—we have never truly tasted freedom. Neither in the gilded halls of the Capitol, nor amidst the humble streets of District 12. And even now, true freedom remains elusive.

And yet, if I were granted a single wish for you, it would be that you find the freedom you deserve.

It would have been nice to meet you under different circumstances.

With all my affection and with what I define as love,

Coriolanus"

***

Today marked the final encounter with Mr. Hop, a moment tinged with anticipation and uncertainty. As he entered the well-known room clad in his somber grey uniform, shackles clinking with each step, he found himself greeted not only by Mr. Hop but also by an unexpected presence. Seated beside his usual interlocutor was a woman in her mid-forties, her dark brown, almost black looking hair falling in a sleek cascade to her chest, her features a study in refined elegance, with angular cheekbones framing eyes of vivid emerald—an undeniable embodiment of natural beauty.

"Coriolanus, allow me to introduce you. Your defense attorney," Mr. Hop declared, his gesture encompassing the captivating woman at his side.

Coriolanus, momentarily taken aback, regarded the woman with a mixture of curiosity and recognition. Why did she stir a sense of familiarity?

Before her name could be spoken, realization struck him. Yes, there could be no mistaking it.

"Mr. Snow," the beautiful woman began, a gentle smile gracing her lips, "I am—"

"Caelia Highbottom," Coriolanus interjected, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place with sudden clarity. This woman was unmistakably the sister of Casca Highbottom, mother of Caesar Highbottom.

— Part 2 (Charade) End —

Chapter Text

A More In-Depth Summary of Parts 1 and 2:

At the heart of this story lies Coriolanus Snow, a figure of privilege and ambition whose journey through the halls of Capitol University serves as a microcosm of the power struggles and moral compromises endemic to the Capitol.

A. Part 1 (Prelude)

Part 1 introduces us to Coriolanus, a charismatic and cunning young man whose veneer of charm masks a ruthless ambition. As a recipient of the Plinth scholarship, Coriolanus revels in the privileges of wealth and power. However, beneath his polished exterior lies a brewing sense of discontent. Coriolanus finds himself grappling with the weight of expectations thrust upon him, compounded by an unsettling feeling of unease as he is incessantly reminded of his past.

He holds the esteemed title of top student and basks in the adoration of his peers. Despite maintaining the facade of a loving relationship with girlfriend Livia Cardew, a scion of wealth and influence, their bond lacks genuine affection. Instead, it is nothing but an obligation: Livia must uphold appearances by dating a respectable Capitol gentleman destined for success, while Coriolanus seeks to enhance his standing by aligning himself with her prestigious lineage.

At times, he dutifully visits Ma Plinth, whose demeanor has visibly diminished since the loss of her son, Sejanus. Though he finds her feeble appearance and incessant lamentations about Sejanus' passing repulsive, he compels himself to make these visits. His sole motivation is to secure greater sponsorship funds, leading him to awkwardly request a larger allowance from Ma Plinth despite his discomfort and disdain for her fixation on her deceased son.

Coriolanus harbors lofty aspirations for the prestigious Presidential Internship scheduled for the following year. (Meanwhile, a presidential campaign is underway, featuring two prominent candidates, one of whom is the incumbent President Ravinstill. However, Ravinstill's popularity appears to be waning as an increasing number of constituents grow weary of his reliance on "old campaign tactics." In contrast, the opposing candidate pledges to usher in a new era, appealing to a demographic hungry for change. As the campaign progresses, this challenger gains momentum, steadily garnering support and eroding Ravinstill's once unassailable lead.)

I. The Arrival of Five "District Students" at Capitol University

The arrival of Lucy Gray, a District 12 outsider and his former mentee during the 10th Hunger Games, thrust into the rarefied air of Capitol society, serves as a catalyst for Coriolanus' inner turmoil; her arrival sets off a chain of events that will test Coriolanus' loyalties and force him to confront the darkest corners of his own soul.

Initially repelled by Lucy Gray, Coriolanus begrudgingly begins to feel a reluctant attraction towards her. As she struggles to assimilate into a society that views her with disdain, he finds himself drawn to her resilience, despite his own lingering prejudices, as she navigates the challenges of fitting into a society that regards her with contempt, akin to an unwelcome insect devouring the beauty of their meticulously cultivated garden.

Nevertheless, he brushes aside any inklings of attraction, choosing instead to view Lucy Gray as a liability due to her knowledge of his previous violent deeds and her ability to unsettle him more than he'd prefer. Concerned about preserving the secrecy of his past life as a Peacekeeper in District 12, he contemplates eliminating her by administering poison into her food. 

Lucy Gray is not alone in her arrival at the Capitol; she is among five young individuals from diverse districts who have been selected to participate in the "Plinth mentorship program." This initiative offers five talented teenagers from the Districts the opportunity to pursue studies at the esteemed Capitol University. 

The presence of District students within Capitol society is met with disdain and hostility, perceived as an affront to the prestigious Capitol University. As tensions rise, the District students begin to meet untimely ends at the hands of their Capitol peers, leaving only two survivors, one of whom is Lucy Gray. Despite the prevailing animosity, Lucy Gray finds unexpected allies in Tigris, whose lavish couture transforms her into a fashion icon, and Marcia Plinth, who provides both financial and emotional support.

Under the mentorship of Felix Ravinstill, the President's son, Lucy Gray endeavors to assimilate into Capitol University life. She adopts Tigris' fashionable attire and cultivates friendships, notably with Clemensia Dovecote, the President of the Journalist Club. Through interviews orchestrated by Clemensia, Lucy Gray navigates the complex social landscape, showcasing her charm and attempting to win over her skeptical Capitol peers.

Meanwhile, Coriolanus continues to grapple with conflicting emotions towards Lucy Gray. Despite his outward ambivalence, he finds himself drawn more and more to her magnetic presence, even as he acknowledges the potential threat she poses to his carefully constructed facade. As Coriolanus reflects on his seemingly perfect life, including academic success, social status, and a relationship with the affluent Livia Cardew, he is unconsciously plagued by the specter of his past mistakes and vulnerabilities. Despite his efforts to rationalize his attraction to Lucy Gray, Coriolanus cannot escape the unsettling realization that she represents a dangerous temptation, capable of unraveling the perfectly woven fabric of his privileged existence. 

II. The Bombing Attack on Grand Heavensbee Hall

During the grand Opening Ball at the newly renovated Grand Heavensbee Hall, a shocking tragedy unfolds as the venue becomes the target of a devastating bombing. Before the bombs are set off, a vicious gas is released from the ceiling of the hall. While the attendees remain unaware of the danger, Coriolanus, who had previously interned under Dr. Gaul, the esteemed Head Gamemaker of the Hunger Games, immediately recognizes the distinct scent and yellow hue of the gas. Drawing upon his internship experience, he swiftly springs into action, guiding Lucy Gray (with Clemmie in tow) to safety outside the hall before the full force of the explosion is unleashed.

III. The Interview with Lucky Flickerman 

Amidst the unfolding investigations and the imposition of a curfew in the Capitol, Coriolanus, despite Dr. Gaul's caution about the gas during his internship last summer, finds himself drawn to Lucy Gray's apartment mere hours after the bombing. Instead of seeking guidance (and information) from his mentor, he succumbs to the pull of his lingering attachment to Lucy Gray, even as he grapples with the conflicting urge to distance himself from her to safeguard his career prospects.

In a calculated move to reassert control over her life, he fabricates a narrative suggesting that the District students will likely be blamed for the attack, regardless of their actual involvement—after all, details mattered little to the populace in their search for a scapegoat. He convinces Lucy Gray that to shield her from potential backlash, he has arranged for her to be interviewed by Lucky Flickerman. This interview, he assures her, will allow her to establish an alibi and garner sympathy from the Capitol populace by portraying herself as a victim of the bombing.

At Lucky Flickerman's studio, Coriolanus meticulously orchestrates Lucy Gray's interview, ensuring every detail aligns to present her as a sympathetic figure. With her innate charm and acting prowess, Lucy Gray seamlessly plays the role, eliciting empathy from the viewers as she recounts her harrowing experience. As the interview airs, Coriolanus observes with satisfaction, confident that his efforts will shield Lucy Gray from suspicion and bolster her safety in the Capitol.

Consumed by a sense of triumph, Coriolanus luxuriates in the belief that Lucy Gray now perceives him as her savior once more. The fabrication of implicating the District students fades into insignificance in his mind as he wholeheartedly embraces its plausibility, reveling in the idea that Lucy Gray has returned to his grasp. By positioning her as a "Capitol darling" through his orchestrations, he secures her safety in the perilous Capitol environment.

A surge of exhilaration floods Coriolanus as he envisions Lucy Gray's reliance on him, evoking memories of their intertwined past during the 10th Hunger Games. He persuades himself that she is bound to secrecy regarding their shared history in District 12, confident that her dependence on him will ensure her obedience. Consequently, he finds justification in abandoning his scheme to eliminate her by poisoning her food.

In his mind, Lucy Gray's newfound dependence on him erases any threat she may have posed. She has become "his girl," his possession, over whom he exerts complete control. The stirring of attraction he may feel towards her no longer holds consequences for his future aspirations. With Lucy Gray securely under his influence, Coriolanus believes he has eliminated any potential risks to his ambitions.

IV. Coriolanus' Incarceration

After concluding the interview, Coriolanus, fueled by a newfound possessiveness over Lucy Gray, abruptly recalls his obligation to visit Dr. Gaul. Aware of her prior knowledge regarding the gas released before the bombing, he anticipates that his mentor may have had insight into the impending attack. Despite the curfew, he sets out for the lab to seek answers regarding recent events.

However, before reaching his destination, he is intercepted by three sentinels. Despite his belief in his superiority over curfew regulations, Coriolanus finds himself unable to bribe the sentinels due to depleted funds, having already expended his resources visiting Lucy Gray's apartment and later Lucky Flickerman's studio. His arrogant demeanor only serves to exacerbate the situation, leading to a confrontation in which the sentinels deploy a poisonous gas, rendering him unconscious.

Upon awaking in a prison cell, Coriolanus finds himself in a feverish, hallucinatory state induced by the gas. In his delirious state, he experiences hauntingly vivid hallucinations. He behaves erratically, shouting, crying, begging, threatening: Like a frenzied madman, he shouts threats into the empty cell, injuring himself in the process as he pounds his head against the metal confines, causing wounds to his forehead and hands. Yet, in his distorted reality, he remains oblivious to the pain, consumed by his inner turmoil.

Amidst the swirling visions of his fevered mind, Coriolanus is confronted by haunting images of his parents and Dr. Gaul, their disapproving gazes piercing through the haze of his delirium. Their silent condemnation serves as a stark reminder of his failure to meet their expectations, adding to the weight of his self-doubt.

But it is the memory of Sejanus that cuts deepest. In the recesses of his mind, Coriolanus recalls their childhood encounters, vividly contrasting Sejanus' authenticity with his own carefully crafted facade. While Sejanus exuded genuine humanity, unbound by societal constraints, Coriolanus sees himself as nothing more than a hollow shell, devoid of true emotion and genuine connections: He recalls the innocent days of their childhood, when Sejanus's authenticity filled the air with a strange joy that seemed foreign to Coriolanus, trapped as he was in the confines of his own ambition and the expectations as a Snow heir.

In a rare moment of clarity amidst the feverish chaos, Coriolanus grapples with his feelings of envy towards Sejanus' ability to live and to breathe authentically. In a world where everyone wears masks and plays their part, Sejanus dared to be himself, unapologetically and unreservedly. He recognizes the stark contrast between Sejanus' vibrant individualism and his own calculated existence, governed by societal expectations and the relentless pursuit of power.

As the realization sinks in, Coriolanus is forced to confront the emptiness within himself, laid bare by the brilliance of Sejanus' humanity. It is a bitter pill to swallow, acknowledging his own shortcomings in the face of Sejanus' authenticity. Yet, in this moment of clarity, Coriolanus finds himself drawn to the light of Sejanus' genuine humanity, longing for the freedom and authenticity that seems so elusive to him: Sejanus embodied a freedom that Coriolanus could only dream of—a freedom to feel deeply, to love unconditionally, to exist without the weight of expectation bearing down upon him.

As the fever rages on, Coriolanus spirals into madness when faced with a revelation that strikes at the very core of his being. This shocking truth forces him to confront the harsh reality of his own existence and the profound emptiness that looms ominously, threatening to engulf him entirely.

V. First Encounter with President Ravinstill

In the midst of his feverish rage, President Ravinstill unexpectedly appears before Coriolanus' cell, seemingly alarmed by the self-inflicted wounds Coriolanus has sustained in his delirium. Rather than transporting him to the nearest hospital in the Capitol, President Ravinstill opts to bring him to his own residence, where a makeshift hospital room is prepared for Coriolanus' treatment. Over the course of several days, as Coriolanus recuperates, he engages in conversations with President Ravinstill, during which significant revelations come to light.

• It is disclosed that the concept of the "Plinth sponsorship program," aimed at selecting five District students to study at Capitol University, did not originate from the Plinth family as previously believed, but rather from Dr. Gaul. Her scheme involved assimilating these five students into Capitol society to mold them into "true Capitol denizens." Following this, Dr. Gaul planned to conscript the remaining students into the pool of tributes for the next Hunger Games, intending to demonstrate to Panem that even the most intelligent and promising District individuals would revert to primal instincts despite the opportunities afforded to them by the Capitol (serving as a demonstration of the innate nature of District residents, despite any attempts at social engineering or better upbringing).This revelation exposes Dr. Gaul's twisted agenda, wherein the Plinths were unwittingly manipulated and forced into lending their name and financial support to her scheme.
• Additionally, it is revealed that Dr. Gaul had passed away a few days before the bombing attack, purportedly due to her advanced age. However, unofficially, it is suspected that she was poisoned by the same gas she had developed, which was subsequently used in the bombing attack. This gas, initially intended for military and police applications, was designed as a poisoning agent to be deployed against rebels and other enemies of the Capitol. The three sentinels, in their official report, cited Coriolanus' erratic (arrogant and suspicious) behavior (during the curfew) following the bombing attack, indicating their prior use of the gas against him.

President Ravinstill engages in a psychological game with Coriolanus, oscillating between threats and retractions, leaving Coriolanus uncertain of the man's true intentions but keenly aware of his danger. Amidst their tense exchanges, another revelation emerges.

• It becomes apparent that President Ravinstill faced challenges during his re-election campaign. Many Capitol denizens grew weary of his tenure, associating him with the traumatic memories of the Dark Days and the rebellion's aftermath. An opposing candidate promised a brighter future, free from the shadows of the past. As Ravinstill's support waned, he recognized the need to remind the populace of the ongoing threat posed by rebels. The bombing, orchestrated as a reminder of the Capitol's vulnerability, served as a strategic move to emphasize the necessity of a strong leader like Ravinstill, whose familial ties to the Dark Days instilled a sense of security.
• Moreover, the gas deployed during the attack, the same substance used against Coriolanus by the sentinels, carries significant implications. Its effects induce paranoia, stress, and fever, exacerbating the already heightened fear among the populace in the aftermath of the bombing. This heightened state of anxiety plays into Ravinstill's favor, as it influences voters to gravitate towards the candidate they perceive as best equipped to defend against rebel threats.

Though President Ravinstill does not directly disclose these revelations, Coriolanus pieces together the puzzle during their conversation, shedding light on the intricate web of political maneuvering and manipulation at play.

Finally, President Ravinstill confides in Coriolanus, who is still bedridden, about an idea of his: President Ravinstill proposes that Lucy Gray, the most revered District student and a current fashion icon on campus, should enter into a relationship with his son, Felix Ravinstill. Felix, despite being unpopular and academically challenged, would benefit from the association with Lucy Gray, assigned to him as a mentor under the "Plinth Sponsorship Program." President Ravinstill hopes that Lucy Gray's popularity and status would divert attention from his son's shortcomings.

Though Coriolanus listens calmly, inwardly he is horrified by the idea. Just days earlier, he had seen Lucy Gray as his own possession after rescuing her, only to now be compelled to relinquish her to Felix. Unable to oppose the President's directive without revealing his own feelings for Lucy Gray, Coriolanus cautiously agrees that the proposal may have merit and feigns indifference towards Lucy Gray when asked for his opinion.

Upon recovering his health, Coriolanus is discharged and sent home. A few days later, following President Ravinstill's re-election, President Ravinstill approaches Lucy Gray and instructs her to enter into a relationship with Felix, to form an IT-couple.

B. Part 2 (Charade)

Coriolanus is deeply troubled by the prospect of Lucy Gray being romantically involved with Felix Ravinstill. He fears that Felix, being the President's son and possessing greater influence, status, and wealth than himself, will become Lucy Gray's new benefactor, savior and owner. Despite trying to convince himself that it might be for the best to relinquish Lucy Gray to someone else, given her origins from the districts, his possessiveness overrides his logic. He cannot bear the thought of Lucy Gray being under Felix's care, becoming his possession, his girl.

Seeking to intervene in the situation, Coriolanus visits the President under the guise of expressing second thoughts about the proposed relationship between Felix and Lucy Gray. He argues that such a union could prove detrimental to the Ravinstill family, particularly in light of Lucy Gray's district origins and the recent bombing incident (Grand Heavensbee Hall) involving individuals from District 9 (random scapegoats). Coriolanus suggests that rather than being a distraction from Felix's shortcomings, the arrangement might exacerbate tensions and reflect poorly on the Ravinstill family.

However, the President responds to Coriolanus' concerns with amusement, revealing that the idea was merely a jest, just a joke to toy with Coriolanus Snow. He dismisses the notion of his son, the Ravinstill heir, dating a girl from District 12, emphasizing the potential negative implications for his son and his family.

Feeling manipulated, humiliated and deceived by the President's response, Coriolanus realizes that his concerns may have been exploited to gauge his feelings for Lucy Gray. He is puzzled by the President's apparent interest in his relationship with Lucy Gray and questions the motives behind the supposed joke.

Following his encounter, he finds himself pointing an accusatory finger at Lucy Gray for his misfortunes: blaming her for the profound humiliation he now faces. In his retrospective musings, Coriolanus envisions a scenario where, in the absence of Lucy Gray's influence, his priorities would have remained steadfastly fixed on his career advancement and the assurance of his future prospects. Instead of being entangled in her affairs, he would have dedicated his energies to climbing the ladder of success.

He imagines himself refraining from the impulsive decision to visit her apartment, orchestrating the interview with Lucky Flickerman, and subsequently finding himself incarcerated. Without Lucy Gray's presence to complicate matters, he envisions a path unmarred by scandal and upheaval, where he would have avoided the precarious situation that ultimately led to his imprisonment and subsequent rescue by the President.

Without her influence, he wouldn't have inadvertently disclosed to the President—whose favor determines selection for the prestigious Presidential Internship—that he harbors feelings for a girl from the Districts: so deep is his regret that he even ventured to the President's office, seeking to sway him from the idea of arranging Lucy Gray's romantic involvement with someone else.

Coriolanus regrets his impulsive actions and the emotional vulnerability he displayed, realizing that they may have jeopardized his chances of being selected for the prestigious Presidential Internship. Fueled by a mixture of anger and regret, he contemplates whether it would have been wiser to distance himself from Lucy Gray from the moment she arrived in the Capitol as a District student. He wonders if his life would have unfolded differently if he had chosen to get rid of her early on, sparing himself the pain and complications that her presence has brought into his life.

II. End of the Plinth Sponsorship

Ma Plinth tragically takes her own life, casting a somber shadow over her farewell gathering. In a stunning turn of events, Mr. Plinth announces the revocation of Coriolanus' sponsorship during the event, offering no explanation for his abrupt decision. Desperate for support and possibly legal recourse, Coriolanus seeks assistance from his father's longtime friend, a seasoned lawyer who had previously aided him in matters concerning the Plinth Sponsorship.

However, instead of finding solace and guidance, Coriolanus is met with the harsh reality of Mr. Plinth's sudden disappearance: After bidding farewell to his deceased wife, Mr. Plinth vanishes following his return journey to District 2 via train, leaving Coriolanus utterly bereft and (financially) abandoned.

Adding to his distress, a cutting last letter from Ma Plinth arrives, attacking Coriolanus' character and casting doubt on the circumstances surrounding her son's death. Stricken by both financial ruin and personal injury, Coriolanus attempts to shrug off Ma Plinth's hurtful words, but finds himself deeply affected by her portrayal of him as inherently cold and devoid of humanity.

The burden of his sudden financial downfall presses heavily upon Coriolanus as he comes to terms with the full scope of his predicament. Stripped of his sponsorship, he is left to grapple with the daunting challenge of meeting the expenses tied to his penthouse, daily living, and university fees. Overwhelmed by the weight of these responsibilities, he finds himself besieged by anxiety and plagued by panic attacks, confronting the stark reality of his precarious financial circumstances. In this moment, he is transported back to the uncertainties and anxieties of his teenage years, facing once again the specter of financial instability.

III. Lucy Gray's Inheritance: The Plinth Apartment

Lucy Gray receives an unexpected inheritance: the Plinth apartment, conveniently located directly beneath Coriolanus Snow's penthouse. However, she hesitates to accept the inheritance, feeling conflicted about the proximity to Coriolanus and the revelations about Marcia Plinth's true intentions regarding the sponsorship program. Learning from President Ravinstill that Marcia Plinth was not the benevolent figure she believed her to be, but rather a pawn in Dr. Gaul's scheme, Lucy Gray grapples with feelings of betrayal and disillusionment. She mourns the loss of a sort of mother figure she once trusted and wonders if she could have prevented Marcia Plinth's suicide by offering more support or reaching out to Strabo Plinth about his wife's well-being, about her deteriorating mental health. The burden of guilt weighs heavily on her conscience.

In the midst of her turmoil, Strabo Plinth urges Lucy Gray to take up residence in the apartment, citing practicality and necessity. Despite her reservations, Lucy Gray reluctantly acquiesces, finding herself ensconced in a space haunted by secrets and sorrow. The walls seem to echo with the whispers of past deceit and manipulation, casting a pall over her every step.

Feeling like she's trapped in a place tainted by tragedy and deception, Lucy Gray struggles to reconcile her conflicting emotions. She sees occupying the same space where Marcia Plinth took her own life as a form of poetic justice, a reminder of the betrayal she feels and the guilt she carries. For Lucy Gray, it feels like a form of twisted retribution, being forced to inhabit the same space where she believes she may have failed to support Marcia adequately. Unable to bear the weight of her thoughts within the confines of the apartment, Lucy Gray seeks solace by sleeping outside during the night, where she can be alone with her grief and memories.

IV. Lucy Gray's (Nocturnal) Encounters with Filly (Avox of Coriolanus Snow)

During her nightly ritual of seeking refuge outside the walls that once housed Marcia Plinth's tragic demise, Lucy Gray crosses paths with Filly, the Avox formerly assigned to Coriolanus Snow. Filly's former occupation as the Avox of Livia Cardew, who perished in the Grand Heavensbee bombing, weigh heavily on his heart as he grapples with the loss of his beloved. Despite the constraints of his role as an Avox, Filly finds solace in the brief reprieve of the night, venturing outside to breathe in the cool air and take respite from his duties.

Initially hesitant to engage with Lucy Gray, Filly soon finds himself drawn into her orbit as she persists in her efforts to connect with him. Both outsiders in the Capitol, they share a sense of kinship born from their status as societal outcasts. Lucy Gray's curiosity about Filly's feelings toward the Capitol elites prompts deeper conversations, revealing the pain and resentment he harbors beneath his stoic exterior.

As their nightly encounters become more frequent, Lucy Gray discovers Filly's hidden talent for writing, expressing his emotions through poignant and heartfelt prose. Through his words, she glimpses the depths of his grief and the profound love he once shared with Livia. United by their shared experiences of loss, Lucy Gray and Filly forge a bond rooted in empathy and understanding, finding solace in each other's company amidst the darkness of the night. All the while, their burgeoning connection remains a secret from Coriolanus, unaware of the clandestine meetings unfolding just outside his doorstep.

(Side Story: Filly and Livia Cardew's Love)

Filly was once Avox of Livia Cardew, whose initial treatment of him was cold, cruel and dismissive. At the outset, Livia's interactions with Filly were marked by disdain and indifference, reflecting her privileged upbringing and the deep-seated insecurities instilled by her family. However, a pivotal moment occurred during one of Livia's episodes of binge eating when Filly, instead of recoiling in disgust as she anticipated, responded with unexpected compassion. In a gesture of kindness, he embraced her, offering comfort and understanding in the face of her struggles.

This act of empathy transformed Livia's perception of Filly. As she witnessed his unwavering care and compassion, she began to thaw the icy walls she had built around herself. Gradually, she found herself drawn to Filly's gentle nature and genuine kindness, recognizing in him a rare source of warmth and acceptance that had been absent from her life.

Despite the societal barriers that stood between them, Livia's feelings for Filly deepened as she experienced the profound connection they shared. In Filly, she found solace from the pressures of her family's expectations and the harsh judgment of her peers. His steadfast presence provided her with a sense of belonging and acceptance she had never known before.

However, their burgeoning relationship faced opposition from Livia's sister, who viewed Filly's influence as a threat to their family's reputation. In a cruel twist of fate, Filly was abruptly removed from the Cardew household, torn away from the woman he had grown to love. Through a combination of manipulation and bribery, he was transferred to the household of Coriolanus Snow, where he would encounter Lucy Gray and continue his journey as an Avox, forever marked by the bittersweet memory of his time with Livia.)

V. Third Encounter with President Ravinstill: Murder of Caesar Highbottom

Coriolanus finds himself grappling with his financial woes, sinking deeper into distress as he suffers a panic attack, retching inside the elevator on his way to his penthouse. His humiliation is compounded when he is discovered in this vulnerable state by Lucy Gray who helps him back to his apartment. Upon regaining consciousness, he is both touched and unsettled by Lucy Gray's presence, realizing that she bore witness to his moment of weakness.

In the midst of this turmoil, President Ravinstill arrives unannounced, revealing a sinister request: he demands that Coriolanus carry out the murder of Caesar Highbottom, without divulging the reasons behind his directive. Threatening to implicate Coriolanus in the deaths of both Caesar (who will, in case Coriolanus fails, be killed by someone else) and his uncle, Casca Highbottom (an information obtained by maybe Dr. Gaul, once mentor of both President Ravinstill and Coriolanus Snow), President Ravinstill coerces him into compliance. In exchange for carrying out the deed, President Ravinstill offers Coriolanus the promise of friendship and the coveted internship.

The motive behind President Ravinstill's vendetta against Caelia Highbottom, Caesar's mother, remains shrouded in mystery. Despite her efforts as former Minister of Justice to advocate for the rights of Avoxes, Caelia faced backlash and scrutiny from the public, who were resistant to her initiatives and critical of her allocation of funds toward Avox-related projects. President Ravinstill's desire to harm Caelia indirectly through her son raises questions about the depths of his animosity and the lengths he is willing to go to achieve his objectives.

Coriolanus is perplexed by the President's insistence on involving him in the matter of Caesar Highbottom. Moreover, he struggles to comprehend why Lucy Gray's name is brought into the conversation, knowing that the President is already leveraging enough pressure without needlessly implicating someone Coriolanus has perhaps feelings for. The President's motives and the choice to pursue an indirect route to harm the Highbottoms instead of directly targeting Caelia Highbottom remain enigmatic, adding to the complexity of the situation and raising further questions about the President's intentions.

Despite the perilous nature of the President's request, Coriolanus discerns a significant opportunity: the potential for a friendship with the most influential figure in Panem and a secure path to the prestigious Presidential Internship. Thus, despite the inherent risks involved, Coriolanus is determined to carry out the task of eliminating Caesar Highbottom.

Meanwhile: Lucy Gray and Caesar Highbottom's Growing Connection

Caesar Highbottom, typically aloof and disinterested in most things, seems to find himself intrigued by Lucy Gray. Despite his usual indifference, Caesar becomes actively involved in Lucy Gray's life, often coming to her aid in challenging situations, such as protecting her from physical attacks and unwelcome advances. With his tall stature, striking green eyes, dark hair, and subtle sense of humor, Caesar exudes a mysterious allure that captivates Lucy Gray.

Despite his loner persona and disdain for conformity, Caesar's concern for Lucy Gray's well-being reveals a softer, more compassionate side beneath his aloof exterior and witty banter. Despite not being well-liked by his peers due to his arrogance and disinterested demeanor, many are drawn to him because of his striking appearance.

Caesar's flirtatious exchanges with Lucy Gray inject a playful energy into their interactions, though his attitude remains ambiguous toward her status as a District student. He teases her about her interviews, where she feigns enthusiasm for Capitol life, perhaps as a commentary on the superficiality of Capitol society or as a critique of Lucy Gray's fake persona, a consequence of her survival instincts in the face of adversity.

Despite his enigmatic nature, Caesar's fondness for sugary treats (might or might not include a sweet someone) adds a touch of whimsy to his character, highlighting a more lighthearted aspect of his personality amidst the complexities of their relationship.

VI. Coriolanus' Desperate Proposal for Redemption

Amidst the chaos of his crumbling life—financial woes, the daunting task of eliminating Caesar Highbottom without a trace, his ambiguous feelings for Lucy Gray, and the looming specter of upcoming exams—Coriolanus feels the weight of expectation bearing down on him like a suffocating burden.

In a desperate bid to alleviate at least one of his mounting problems—the unresolved tension stemming from his past attempt on Lucy Gray's life—he concocts a reckless plan. Both have skirted around the issue, tiptoeing around the elephant in the room: Coriolanus' failed murder attempt in the forest; in his mind, the true hinderance between them. 

Lucy Gray has kept silent about the incident, fearing Coriolanus' reaction if she were to confront him with the truth. Instead, she has pretended ignorance, even going so far as to apologize for her supposed cowardice in fleeing that day. But Coriolanus, consumed by his turmoil, proposes a startling solution to atone for his past actions.

In a moment of madness or genuine desperation, he suggests that Lucy Gray should hunt him down in the forest, armed with a firearm, and take a shot at him—preferably non-lethal. In his distorted logic, this act of retribution would allow him to pay the price for his past sins, paving the way for a fresh start for both of them.

As he lays out this audacious plan, Lucy Gray can't help but wonder if Coriolanus' mind has been consumed by madness or if this proposal is simply a symptom of his ongoing panic attack.

VII. Tisiphone's Pursuit and Coriolanus' Struggle with Desire

Since Livia's demise, Tisiphone, one of her former friends, has become increasingly assertive in her attempts to seduce Coriolanus Snow. Her advances escalate during the Second Ball, and she eventually takes the bold step of visiting Coriolanus' penthouse the next day with the intention of initiating a sexual encounter. Coriolanus, still a virgin and grappling with his own sexual identity/desires and the complexities of his feelings for Lucy Gray, finds himself ill-equipped to rebuff Tisiphone's advances.

As she makes an aggressive move toward him in his penthouse, Coriolanus is flooded with memories of his interactions with Lucy Gray during the 10th Hunger Games. He begins to question the authenticity of their past encounters, wondering if Lucy Gray's affection for him was genuine or merely a survival tactic. The possibility that their intimate moments were driven by necessity rather than genuine desire leaves Coriolanus feeling disillusioned and betrayed. He realizes that he may have projected an idealized version of Lucy Gray onto their interactions, blinding himself to the possibility that their connection was built on deception.

So, in the midst of Tisiphone's advances, he grapples with the unsettling realization that he may have never truly known Lucy Gray and that his feelings for her may have been based on a false perception. The uncertainty surrounding his own desires and motivations leaves him vulnerable and confused.

Perhaps he had been blinded by his own desires, projecting onto Lucy Gray an illusion of affection that never truly existed, maybe he had been chasing after a mirage, a figment of his own imagination. Maybe he cannot expect anything genuine, since he does not possess the ability to truly connect. 

The of whether Coriolanus succumbs to Tisiphone's advances remains unanswered.

VIII. Tragedy Strikes at Festus Creed's Party: Killing of Felix Ravinstill

Amidst the tumultuous storm raging within his mind, Coriolanus initially seeks out Tigris, intending to discuss their shared financial struggles stemming from the revoked sponsorship. However, his plans take an unexpected turn upon learning that Lucy Gray is slated to attend Festus Creed's celebratory gathering marking the conclusion of exams.

Accompanied by Felix and Lucy Gray, who is set to perform at the event, Coriolanus finds himself at the party amidst the revelry. However, the atmosphere takes a dark turn as Felix, in a drunken stupor, carelessly reveals a disturbing incident involving himself and Lucy Gray. Shocked and enraged by Felix's lewd confession (masturbation in front of Lucy Gray), Coriolanus' simmering emotions boil over.

In a moment of unbridled fury and without pause for rational thought, Coriolanus unleashes a violent assault on Felix, wielding a glass bottle as his weapon. Each blow lands with brutal force, inflicting mortal wounds upon Felix as the chaos of the party descends into chaos. Tragically, Felix succumbs to his injuries. 

IX. Coriolanus Snow, Murderer of Felix Ravinstill

It becomes glaringly evident that Coriolanus is culpable for the death of Felix Ravinstill, who succumbs to fatal blood loss at the party. Coriolanus finds himself hollowed out, a mere echo of his former self, as the grim reality sets in that he is headed for the gallows with no lifeline in sight. Instead of grappling with the task of eliminating Caesar Highbottom, as per the President's orders, he has committed the unthinkable act of killing the President's own son.

He's bewildered by his own actions, as if driven by an impulse beyond his control, the whole ordeal feeling surreal and detached from reality.

Mr. Hop, his legal advisor, offers little solace, only promising to procure a competent defense attorney.

As days pass in confinement, awaiting the obvious outcome of the police investigation, Coriolanus receives an unexpected visit from his cousin Tigris, with whom he's had a strained relationship. He confides in her about the cruel truth of his deeds, lamenting his failure as a cousin and the dashed dreams they once shared as children.

In a moment of raw honesty, Coriolanus pens a letter to Lucy Gray, endeavoring for the first time in his life to eschew hollow pleasantries and speak from the depths of his (now beating, bleeding) heart. Aware of his impending demise, he longs to shed the facade and offer Lucy Gray the truth she sought back in District 12. He expresses his fervent desire for her to find the freedom they both yearned for, acknowledging that their lives had been ensnared by societal constraints and political machinations. He hopes that Lucy Gray might find a semblance of liberation, even if it means being untethered from him. Perhaps true freedom is unattainable with someone like him, who only knows how to bind and confine, who only knows how to chain her up, how to suffocate her in his own prison. 

His own actions, driven by ambition, fear, and a desire for control, have only served to confine him within his own self-imposed prison, rendering him unable to break free from the chains of his own making.

Finally, the identity of his defense attorney is revealed: none other than Caelia Highbottom. 

Chapter Text

— Part 3: Atonement — 

In the depths of the night,
Where stars twinkle bright,
My heart beats with a longing so deep,
For a love that makes my soul weep.

Silent whispers of pain and desire,
Echo through the flames of my burning fire.
A heart that bleeds with each passing beat,
Seeking freedom from the chains of defeat.

Suffering in the shadows of the night,
I yearn for a love that feels just right.
A love that heals, a love that's true,
A love that sets my soul free, too.

As snowflakes fall, soft and pure,
I feel the ache, the need to endure.
For in the cold, amidst the frost,
Lies the warmth of love, never lost.

Through the icy winds, I search and seek,
For a heart that's brave, yet also meek.
A heart that knows both joy and pain,
That dares to love, despite the strain.

So let the snow blanket the ground,
As my heart's desires resound.
For in this winter's frozen hold,
I find the courage to be bold.

To seek a love that's worth the fight,
To thaw the ice, to see the light.
In the depths of the night, I'll tread,
Longing for a love that warms instead.

With every beat, my heart shall bleed,
For a love that fills my every need.
In snow and longing, I'll persevere,
For a love that's true, sincere, and dear.

For it's in the breaking, in the letting go,
That true love blossoms, in the ebb and flow.
So here I stand, stripped of all pretense,
Ready to love with fierce intensity, immense.

With a heart that can fucking bleed,
I'll shatter the barriers, fulfill my need.
In the rawness of emotion, I'll find my way,
To a love that's real, where I'll forever stay.

No more masks, no more lies,
Only truth in love's fiery eyes.
For in the depth of pain, passion will feed,
From a heart that's raw, that can fucking bleed.

— Coriolanus Snow to Lucy Gray Baird

Chapter Text

To Coriolanus Snow 

From Lucy (Gray) Baird 

- SENT AND RECEIVED -

Dear Coriolanus, 

I found myself torn between reading and burning your letter, the decision weighing heavily upon me. Yet, amid the unsettling reports of recent events and whispered rumors from that gathering, I couldn't bring myself to dispose of it entirely. Consequently, it lay untouched for a full day until an undeniable urge led me to finally open it. As I write this, I'm unsure if my words will ever reach you; circumstances may delay or prevent their delivery entirely.

I refrain from dissecting your words for two primary reasons. Firstly, The complexity of our predicament renders me incapable of formulating a suitable response. Secondly, I harbor reservations regarding my ability to compose a reply that does not lay bare my innermost self. The irony is not lost on me; it seems you have become the pursuer of truth, while I remain unable to provide it. You are correct in recognizing the importance of trust to me, yet how does one prioritize something so intangible, so ephemeral that it teeters on the edge of fantasy rather than tangible reality?

The only thing I wish to convey is this: Do you recall when I inquired about the three, back then, in the woods? Your response revealed more than you intended, evidenced by the subtle flush of your ears. It's funny, isn't it? Despite the persuasiveness of an answer, observation often reveals what may be unbeknownst to the speaker.

Your hair has always intrigued me, beautiful blonde locks especially when it serves a function beyond framing your ears, concealing them from view.

Perhaps I'll come to rue this decision.

Most definitely, I'll come to rue this decision.

With regret

With regards

With kind regards

Your

— Lucy Gray 

To Lucy Gray Baird

From Coriolanus Snow 

- NOT SENT -

My Dearest Lucy Gray,

As I hold your letter in my trembling hands, I'm overcome with a rush of emotions that words struggle to capture. It's as though you, yes you, leap off the page and envelope me in a warmth I've long forgotten. Your response, unexpected yet cherished, feels like a beacon of light piercing through the darkness that seems to absorb me.

I cannot help but marvel at the depths of your kindness, for in reaching out to me, you have bestowed upon me a gift beyond measure, and I am not talking about my ears.

Yet, amidst the gratitude that fills my heart, a question lingers: Why now, Lucy Gray? Why did you reach out? What prompted this exchange in the wake of all that has transpired? Was it a fleeting impulse or something more profound? Was it out of the kindness that resides within you, a testament to the goodness that flows through your veins? Or perhaps it was something else? Whatever the reason, know that your gesture has touched me in ways I cannot adequately express.

Lucy Gray, if only I could turn back the hands of time, to relive those fleeting moments before our paths diverged. And you, Lucy Gray, which moment would you choose to revisit? I can almost hear the echo of your thoughts, whispering of a time before the Reaping, before our fates were sealed by forces beyond our control.

— Coriolanus

P.S. I understand that I have no right to plead for another letter from you. You are under no obligation to respond or write anything further. However, I vow to treasure every word you have penned as if they were the very essence of life itself.

To Lucy Gray Baird

From Coriolanus Snow 

- NOT SENT -

My Dear Lucy Gray,

As I sit here, my thoughts drift inevitably to you. 

Lucy Gray.

Lucy Gray.

Lucy Gray.

Lucy Gray.

Lucy Gray.

Lucy Gray.

What a beautiful, beautiful name.

There was a time when I questioned the existence of my heart, a hollow cavity within my chest. Yet, in your presence, Lucy Gray, I have discovered that not only does it exist, but it sings with a melody only you can compose.

Oh, how I resent you, Lucy Gray, for awakening this dormant heart of mine. I could have endured the emptiness, the void that once resided within me, that once defined me. But now, you have infused it with a vitality so overwhelming, it leaves me gasping for breath beneath the weight of its newfound fervor. Like a drowning man reaching for air, I am suffocating under the intensity of the beating rhythm, longing for the simplicity of the void I once knew.

Is this your revenge, Lucy Gray? To haunt me not as a ghost, but as my heart that now beats, that suffers, that bleeds? If so, then what sweet and cruel retribution it is.

With each rhythmic throb, with each fervent pulse of this revitalized heart, I am reminded of you.

Am I in love with you, Lucy Gray?

So deeply, so fucking hopelessly that even now, you are all I can think of? How else could I explain the persistent presence of your name in my thoughts, lingering like a haunting melody?

With all my love

With all my love

With every ounce of affection and longing

With every ounce of affection, love and longing

Yours in a tumult of torment and adoration

— A pathetic, PATHETIC, pathetic and dying Coriolanus Snow, struggling to compose a romantic letter to a girl who probably regards him with nothing but disgust

P.S. You are cruel, Lucy Gray. Cruel because you made my heart bleed, yet you deny it the healing it so desperately craves.

To Lucy Baird

From Coriolanus Snow 

- NOT SENT -

Lucy Gray,

Do you realize the gravity of the situation I find myself in, Lucy Gray? Whose life do you think I attempted to safeguard, Lucy Gray? It was you, Lucy Gray, who ignited this within me. I implored the president himself, pleading for your protection, Lucy Gray, begging for the chance to leave you be. I entertained the idea of erasing you from my existence, with your vivid rainbow dresses, your interviews, your feigned compliments, your fake smiles. Perhaps this remorse will haunt me as I walk the path to the gallows.

It's all because of you, Lucy Gray.

And that foolish, foolish Sejanus Plinth.

I swear, nothing but trouble comes from entangling oneself with District people.

I despise you for it. I despise Sejanus Plinth for it.

And yet, amidst the loathing, I find myself missing you, Lucy Gray.

Though I can't say the same for Sejanus.

— Coriolanus Snow 

To Lucy Gray Baird

From Coriolanus Snow 

- NOT SENT -

Lucy Gray,

Do you believe you can slip away from me? Do you dare to believe that you can evade my grasp?

Perhaps it was fated for a Lucy Gray to become a ghost, but let me assure you—

In every passing moment, my presence will loom over you.

I will be your ghost, Lucy Gray. 

In every heartbeat, I shall linger, haunting your thoughts.

Just as you haunt mine.

— Coriolanus Snow

To Lucy Baird

From Coriolanus Snow 

- NOT SENT -

Lucy Gray,

May you find yourself with Caesar Highbottom. May you walk down the aisle with him. May your final breath be taken beside him.

All the while understanding he was never destined for you.

For we are the ones meant to be—it's written in the stars, remember, Lucy Gray?

What do you imagine your beloved stars would whisper, seeing you alongside Caesar Highbottom?

I bet they would steadfastly withhold their light from you, Lucy Gray.

— Coriolanus Snow

To Lucy Gray Baird

From Coriolanus Snow 

- NOT SENT -

My Dearest Lucy Gray,

I want to write you a poem since you love poetry so much. Here is my humble attempt: 

You are as pretty as a rose,
And I really wish we were close.

I miss you a lot,
And I am glad you were not caught.

Lucy Gray,

Words fail, what can I say?

So let me cherish your beauty rare,
For you are beyond compare.

— Coriolanus Snow, a complete failure

To Lucy Gray Baird

From Coriolanus Snow 

- NOT SENT -

My Dearest Lucy Gray,

In shadows cast, my heart will bleed,
Yet in your love, it finds its need.
Not bound by self-interest or necessity,
Our hearts beating as one, forever free.

Through echoing winds and rustling leaves,
Love's pure heart never deceives.

— Coriolanus

To Lucy Gray Baird

From Coriolanus Snow 

- NOT SENT -

My Lucy Gray,

Have you ever pondered what might have unfolded if we had chosen to flee together back then? Perhaps, in all likelihood, we would have met our demise amidst the unforgiving wilderness. Or perhaps, just maybe, I would be kissing your neck at this very moment. It would have been only you and me, enveloped in the sweet embrace of freedom.

Yet, perhaps I was never destined for such liberation. Perhaps I grew accustomed to my own confinement, lost within the confines of my own self. Maybe my prison is simply me, a shadow that I cannot outrun, hands that I cannot escape, thoughts that relentlessly plague me.

And so, by releasing you, I want to offer you a glimpse of the alternate reality that could have been ours.

So do not answer me.

Forget me, Lucy Gray. 

— Coriolanus

To Lucy Gray Baird

From Coriolanus Snow 

- NOT SENT -

Dear Lucy Gray,

What compelled you to journey to the Capitol? Was it solely due to Ma Plinth Mrs. Plinth? Was it because of the deceitful allure of the "Plinth Sponsorship Program"? Did you harbor hopes of attending university in a place that reveled in the prospect of your demise? A place that savored each step you took closer to death? A place that treated you as nothing more than a mere spectacle, for their own entertainment? A place that tore you from your home, subjected you to humiliation, and inflicted wounds that will forever mar your spirit?

Why, Lucy Gray?

You could have persevered in District 12. I have no doubt about it.

You are a victor. You are a survivor. You have endured more than most could fathom.

So why, Lucy Gray?

Why subject yourself to the very place you despise? Why attend the same university where you encounter the boy who nearly committed the unthinkable against you?

Why, Lucy Gray?

— Coriolanus

To Lucy Gray Baird

From Coriolanus Snow 

- NOT SENT -

Lucy Gray.

Lucy Gray.

Lucy Gray.

Lucy Gray.

Lucy Gray.

Lucy Gray.

Lucy Gray.

How will you manage without me, Lucy Gray?

Who else will protect you, if not me, Lucy Gray?

To Lucy Gray Baird

From Coriolanus Snow 

- NOT SENT -

Dear Lucy Gray,

Today, I found myself confiding in someone who might offer a glimmer of hope amidst this tangled web of uncertainty. It's a convoluted situation, to say the least. I attempt to temper my expectations, wary of the impending disappointment that threatens to engulf me. Yet, in the face of imminent demise, how long can such caution really endure?

What course of action should I pursue, Lucy Gray? What to do, Lucy Gray?

I cannot help but ponder if this is akin to the sense of helplessness you experienced, a mere pawn in a game whose rules elude comprehension. It's a wretched sensation, Lucy Gray.

Do you think you'll miss me? Will thoughts of me flicker through your mind?

Perhaps it's best not to dwell on such thoughts. But if, by chance, you do remember me, envision me as the boy who shared his heartache over losing his mother, as the boy who yearned for a simpler connection with you, as if we were merely strangers meeting in a bar…. You sing, I admire. So easy. So natural. And yet, so far away.

Maybe in another lifetime, Lucy Gray? 

— Coriolanus

To Lucy Gray Baird

From Coriolanus Snow 

- NOT SENT -

Lucy Gray, 

What penance can I offer to ease this ache within me? I am desperate, consumed by a relentless craving to mend what once was shattered. If you demand it, I shall beg until my voice grows hoarse and my knees bruised from the unforgiving ground. Should words of apology be your requirement, then I shall compose them with every fiber of my being, crafting each syllable with the rawness of my remorse. I will utter "sorry" a thousand times over if that's what it takes to convey the depth of my regret. If it is pain you seek to inflict upon me, then I shall bear it willingly, offering myself as a willing sacrifice upon the altar of your wrath. Bind me in chains, let the weight of my transgressions weigh heavily upon my soul. I am yours to command, Lucy Gray. Whatever you ask of me, I shall do without hesitation. I cannot die, not before

Yours, now and forevermore,

Coriolanus

To Lucy Gray Baird

From Coriolanus

- NOT SENT -

Dear Lucy Gray,

What is love, Lucy Gray?

A symphony of contradictions? Something between between truth and deception, desire and despair?

Imagine the mentor ensnared by affection for his designated tribute, defying societal constraints. Envision a scion of the Capitol ensnared by the charm of a district girl, defying convention. Picture the tributeconsumed by an intoxicating adoration for her mentor, navigating treacherous betrayal. Conceive of the district girl ensnared by love for a Capitol scion, defying expectation.

Such a tale, my dear Lucy Gray, would surely captivate the hearts and minds of all within the Capitol—spreading like wildfire, igniting conversations and sparking rumors. Lucky Flickerman would pursue every whisper, every hint of forbidden passion, weaving a narrative of illicit ardor—a romance suspended delicately between adversaries, a saga of defiance and transcendence. And oh, Lucy Gray, just imagine the poetry that would flow from such forbidden love—poems spun from the very fabric of passion and conflict…beckoning to be immortalized in verse and prose.

Yet, truth is a cruel, withholding the nuances and complexities that lend substance to this romantic tale.

Hence, Lucy Gray, beyond the facade of romantic dalliance lies a truth devoid of glamour or grandeur. We were not star-crossed lovers defying the odds, but players in a sordid game of exploitation and self-interest, were we not? The mentor, a puppeteer pulling the strings of his unwitting charges; the tribute, a pawn in a game she scarcely comprehended. Our dalliance, if one dares to call it such, was not born of pure passion but from the cold calculus of survival—a pragmatic alliance forged in the crucible of necessity. 

But Lucy Gray, tell me, amidst the self-preservation, the cruel machinations and societal divide, did not our hearts, just for a second, beat as one? Was there not, even for the briefest of moments, a shared language spoken between us, understood by none but ourselves?

For me, it was as if I navigated storm-tossed sea with nothing but a compass, pointing steadfastly toward you. Can love not coexist with deceit? Can desire not mingle with despair, and truth with deception?

— Coriolanus

To Lucy Gray Baird

From Coriolanus Snow 

- NOT SENT -

Dear Lucy Gray,

What am I to do with you, Lucy Gray? Please, tell me. What course of action do you suggest?

Should I seek forgiveness? Should I beg for your response? Or perhaps...?

I ought to heed Tigris' counsel. I shouldn't plunge further into the abyss of my fixation.

But how can I not be consumed by this obsession? It's written in the stars, right, Lucy Gray?

To Lucy Gray Baird

From Coriolanus Snow 

- SENT AND RECEIVED -

Dear Lucy Gray,

Your letter holds a significance that surpasses my ability to articulate. I am profoundly grateful for your words.

Forgive me for asking what I probably shouldn't. I know I don't have the right to seek answers, but I find myself compelled to ask just this once, before the opportunity vanishes forever: Was it real? Was there truth in what we shared… before that day in the woods?

I understand if you cannot provide an answer, for I offered you no honesty in return that day. Yet, in my selfishness, I cannot silence the nagging question that lingers in my heart. Even as death looms near, I find myself unable to cast it aside. 

— Coriolanus

Chapter Text

"Alright, alright, alright, all you night owls and insomniacs, strap in for a wild ride with Nighttime featuring your not-so-friendly neighborhood host, Lucky Flickerman!

So, what's the hot gossip keeping the city awake this week? Well, forget tributes, folks, because our zoo has reopened with a brand-new cast of characters. Some say there ain't much of a difference, it's the same old song with a different dance partner. Leading the pack is Bobby the Baby Bear, the cuddly sensation of our beloved zoo. And let me tell you, it's like a reality show in there. Our star Bobby the Baby Bear…so cute! But, forget about your exes and your drama, Bobby's antics are where it's at. Despite losing Mama Bear just days ago, I know, I know, oooooh….this little fuzzball has become the city's sweetheart, milking every bit of sympathy and attention from the visitors. Ain't that just adorable? The charm of Bobby the Baby Bear—cuteness overload!

But wait, don't drift off into dreamland just yet. Behind all that cuddly chaos lies a darker plot, folks. Picture this: a bright young thing from a fancy Capitol family, top of the class, living the high life. But oh, how the mighty have fallen! Remember Coriolanus Snow? Yeah, that guy. Used to charm the socks off everyone, even yours truly. But now? Well, let's just say his halo's slipped a bit. Rumor has it he pulled off a real thriller move, turning against his childhood buddy in the most brutal way possible. Bloodshed, betrayal, you name it—Capitol's finest, ain't they classy?

Panem's left trembling—what in the Capitol's twisted name led Coriolanus Snow to betray his beloved childhood friend in such a grotesque manner? A buddy who stuck by him through thick and thin, until Snow decided to go all psycho killer on him. The bloodshed, the audacity—it's like a sick joke in the grand circus of Capitol madness.

Was it jealousy, dear Coriolanus, when Felix Ravinstill stole your spotlight? Was it envy that twisted you, dear Coriolanus, when Felix Ravinstill, the President's spawn, outshone you? Or did puppy love turn into a full-blown horror show when Felix didn't feel the same way? Maybe your feelings for Felix got slapped with a big fat 'no'? Rumor has it, there was something more than friendship brewin' between you two. Did love turn sour, leading to this dark and twisted tale? Questions are piling up, folks, and only yours truly, Lucky Flickerman, can dish out the answers. Tonight, we'll be diving into exclusive chats with old teachers, classmates, and cronies, hoping to shed some light on this sordid affair. Oh, the drama! The drama! Yours truly's here to dissect it all! Because when it comes to uncovering the dirt, Lucky Flickerman's got you covered.

As the night deepens and the shadows grow darker, let's peel back the layers of this fetid onion, shall we? So buckle up, dear viewers, for a journey into the heart of darkness, where the lines between friend and foe blur like smudged ink on a page. Our first guest is Festus Creed who…"

"Mr. Snow, your defense counsel is here."

With a final glance at the screen in the corner, Coriolanus rose, following the guard to another room. The clink of handcuffs echoed with each step—a sound he'd grown accustomed to, though never comfortably so.

The door buzzed as it opened, revealing Caelia Highbottom, his attorney. As he settled opposite her, the guard secured his restraints to the table. Caelia's focus was unwavering, her green eyes dissecting him with precision. Despite their numerous meetings, he still found her inscrutable—a trait that gnawed at him, especially during his sleepless nights.

As the guard exited and the door closed, Caelia wasted no time. She never did. Coriolanus watched as she produced three photos from her folder, each depicting a familiar face.

"Mr. Snow, I've located the three sentinels. Before proceeding, I need confirmation."

He studied the images, recalling each individual vividly. "Yes, those are the ones. But I fail to see—"

"Thank you for confirming. Now, is there anything you haven't disclosed?"

Coriolanus met Caelia's gaze. Her dark hair, meticulously coiled, framed her face, save for a stray strand that danced with her movements. It was a detail he'd noticed, one that seemed insignificant yet oddly captivating. And when she absentmindedly toyed with that strand, it stirred memories he'd rather forget.

"No, nothing more comes to mind," he replied, opting for honesty—albeit selective—as advised by Mr. Hop. 

"Very well. That concludes our discussion for now. I simply required your confirmation regarding the identities of these three individuals who sprayed you with poison following the bombing of the Grand Heavensbee Hall during the curfew and subsequently incarcerated you," responded Caelia Highbottom in a composed manner as she carefully returned the photos and dossier to her spacious bag. "Please accept my apologies for summoning you here in the dead of night."

"Mrs. Highbottom, I still fail to grasp the precise role—"

"Ms. Highbottom," she interjected softly, rising briskly and collecting her belongings. "Exercise some patience, Mr. Snow. I must first fully comprehend the situation, particularly in a case of this magnitude—regardless of the intense public interest. It is imperative that I scrutinize every detail meticulously before extending comprehensive legal support. That was our agreement, was it not?"

"Yes, I recall. However... I find it rather challenging to simply acquiesce at this juncture." Coriolanus cast a glance downward, his hands ensconced in cold metal restraints.

"Mr. Snow, you must muster strength. The allowance of considerable time, the prolonged detention... it's all part of their strategy. They anticipate your complete surrender of hope and reason—"

"Which I have already done." He maintained his focus on his hands, sensing her lingering figure before him, her substantial bag in tow. "With every tick of the clock, the chorus of accusations branding me a murderer grows louder." The words slipped out involuntarily, regret seeping in instantly. Silence thickened around them, suffocating in its weight. Unable to withstand the oppressive stillness any longer, he murmured, "A murderer deserving nothing less than the hangman's noose."

He heard her sigh heavily, followed by the soft creak of her sinking back into the chair opposite him. The weighty thud of the bag hitting the ground echoed in the chamber. "Mr. Snow... Coriolanus, look at me."

Reluctantly, he lifted his eyes. Her countenance, typically impassive and scrutinizing, now bore a crease of concern between her brows.

"Mr. Snow, unfortunately, emotional support has never been my forte. My expertise lies in meticulous analysis, strategic planning—anything to benefit your case. But I am not your confidante, nor your caretaker. However, I am pragmatic. The time at our disposal needn't be solely detrimental. Should you require psychological assistance, I can endeavor to arrange a meeting promptly. I cannot guarantee success, but I do possess certain connections, albeit significantly less influential than the President's, of course. Perhaps—"

"Absolutely not." His voice reverberated through the room, each syllable striking the walls with a force he hadn't intended. Yet, the prospect of baring his soul to another person seemed inconceivable in his current state of turmoil. Observing her surprise, he swiftly tempered his tone with a touch of diplomacy: "I simply mean... I prefer to direct my energies towards factual analysis, rather than dwell on the superfluous."

Caelia Highbottom regarded him anew, her scrutiny unsettling him deeply. It felt as though her gaze possessed an almost invasive quality, capable of dissecting every nuance of his being. Coriolanus Snow was accustomed to the scrutiny of others, to being the object of fervent gazes, but never before had he encountered such penetrating eyes.

"Very well," she responded with a cool detachment, rising gracefully from her seat to retrieve her bag from the floor, "inform me should you reconsider. Otherwise, we shall reconvene in two days' time."

Coriolanus nodded in acquiescence, but as Caelia Highbottom prepared to depart, a sudden impulse seized him: "Mrs... I mean, Ms. Highbottom... whilst awaiting our meeting, I chanced upon Lucky Flickerman's broadcast... might I have access to the recordings? I am eager to ascertain the nature of..." His voice trailed off, cheeks ablaze, as he averted his gaze to the restraints encircling his wrists. How absurd, he thought, to feel a pang of embarrassment now, amidst the direst circumstances he had ever faced. Shame lingered as a costly indulgence, one he ought to have relinquished in the distant past. In the expanse of his existence, aboard the vessel of survival, he knew he must jettison any weight not essential to his endurance. For if he failed to tread carefully, the burden of opulence would pull him inexorably into the murky depths of the lake, where he would be swallowed by its abyssal embrace, never to rise again.

"Mr. Snow, I must advise against such a course of action—"

"Please," he interjected, a tinge of desperation creeping into his tone. Yes, he resolved, shame must be cast aside without delay. "I refuse to idle away the hours in futile speculation. I must know what is being said of me, that I may prepare accordingly. I too... I too am a pragmatist." Except when it comes to the taking of life, he added bitterly in his thoughts.

The swift confirmation of Caelia Highbottom's influential connections came the following day: a screen materialized within his cell, affording him access to the latest broadcasts featuring Lucky Flickerman. The stark absence of loyalty on Lucky's part—despite Coriolanus orchestrating an exclusive interview with Clemmie and Lucy Gray in the aftermath of the bombing, an interview that had propelled ratings to unprecedented heights—was, regrettably, predictable. Lucky transformed him into a spectacle. While Bobby the Baby Bear may have enchanted the masses at the zoo, within the confines of the Capitol, the sole subject of discourse appeared to be Coriolanus Snow and the sinister depths of his psyche. Lucky wasted no time in weaving his insinuations, tantalizing viewers with the promise of unveiling the enigmatic darkness shrouding former golden boy Coriolanus Snow. The litany of interviews commenced, featuring erstwhile mentors from the Academy who, once lavishing him with accolades, now recollected the subtleties of his demeanor: "Coriolanus Snow always... exuded an aura of peculiarity," "Despite his pristine academic record and impeccable facade, there was an air of caution surrounding him," "For all his charm and charisma, Coriolanus Snow remained aloof... perhaps concealing something truly abhorrent." Their words etched a sinister portrait of a man concealing unfathomable secrets beneath a veneer of perfection.

Furthermore, a handful of neighbors were summoned for interrogation, individuals who had hitherto overlooked Coriolanus Snow's existence, now purportedly possessing intimate knowledge of his life: "We knew him more intimately than one might think," "Certain peculiarities did not escape our notice," "We were acquainted with his parents on a personal level." The latter revelation struck a particularly disquieting chord. The notion that they would sacrifice his family's honor for fleeting notoriety was a wound that festered, poisoning his already fragile psyche. Should the specter of the gallows loom closer, he harbored a dark fantasy: regretting only his restraint in not unleashing havoc upon the entire housing complex, drowning their perfidy in a deluge of destruction.

Each broadcast served as a macabre reminder of his descent from golden boy to vilified pariah, the echoes of accusations reverberating within the confines of his cell. The twisted fascination with his supposed malevolence fueled a morbid curiosity, drawing in viewers like moths to a flame, eager to bear witness to his unraveling.

In the midst of reaching for the final recording—featuring Festus Creed as a guest—he halted, tension etched upon his visage. His knuckles, stark against the pallor of his clenched fists, seemed to whisper of unseen struggles. It was as if the very essence of his anguish had manifested in the physicality of his being. Within the confines of his cell, he often found himself besieged by panic's relentless grip. Its tendrils, insidious and unyielding, would ensnare him in a vice-like hold, driving him to seek solace upon the frigid floor. There, in the embrace of cold stone, he would curl into himself, knees drawn close, arms encircling his trembling form. Minutes would melt into hours, days even, until the callous summons of the outside world would once again breach his solitude. His appetite waned, a mere shadow of its former vitality. Each morsel, when attempted, would provoke a violent revolt, casting forth bile-tainted remnants of his meager attempts at nourishment. The acrid taste of regurgitated bile scorched his throat, a cruel manifestation of his physical decay. He bore witness to the gradual revelation of his own skeletal frame, a testament to the erosion of his corporeal form. Yet, amidst the desolation, a solitary comfort prevailed—the knowledge that Lucy Gray was shielded from the grotesque spectacle of his degradation. For her sake, he sought to spare her the burden of his affliction, to preserve the memory of his former self untainted by the ravages of despair.

Thoughts of Lucy Gray, however, served only to exacerbate the tumult within his tortured being. He found himself oscillating between fervent desire and abject loathing, between visceral impulses: the urge to throttle her with his bare hands, to administer poison like a venomous antidote to his torment, to rain down upon her with brutal force until she lay motionless; and yet, paradoxically, the longing to envelop her in an embrace, to bask in the warmth of her presence, to draw in the intoxicating essence of her scent, to savor her taste upon his lips, to taste her, to kiss her, to hold her, to be with her, to be in her. In her, he saw both salvation and damnation. 

Amidst this maelstrom of passion and self-reproach, he couldn't help but entertain the notion that perhaps there was truth in the whispers of his own deviance. A wry acceptance crept into his thoughts, a cynical acknowledgment of his own perceived aberration. Was this inclination, this tumult of conflicting desires, a fundamental flaw etched into his very being? Did it originate from the depths of his psyche, an inherent defect that had always lurked within him, or had it been sculpted and refined by the harsh hands of circumstance and experience? Such introspective musings flickered momentarily within his consciousness, only to be swiftly extinguished by the specter of Dr. Gaul and the insidious teachings she had imparted. He dared not dwell on the genesis of his inner turmoil, lest it unveil truths too unsettling to confront. With a determined effort, he banished these unsettling thoughts from his mind, burying them beneath the weight of his internal tumult. 

As he labored to regain a semblance of composure— if such a state could even be claimed— he compelled himself to confront the ultimate recording. Throughout the viewing, he engaged in a relentless inner mantra, a desperate attempt to shield himself from the impending onslaught of Festus Creed's treachery. Each repetition reinforced his conviction that his antipathy towards Festus Creed had always been deeply ingrained, a sentiment shared among the other guests who shamelessly reveled in their roles within this orchestrated smear campaign against Coriolanus Snow. Yet, despite his efforts to fortify his resolve, he found himself trembling with a mixture of dread and resigned acceptance as he braced for the forthcoming barrage of insidious, deceitful, and disloyal accusations that he knew would assail him.

Upon the conclusion of the interview, he unleashed a primal surge of bitterness, venting his torment against the unyielding solidity of the cold, unforgiving wall. Each impact reverberated through his skull. In that fleeting moment of brutal catharsis, he was forced to confront the realization that his hopes, however fervently clung to, had been dashed against the jagged rocks of harsh reality. Festus Creed's damning words had dealt a fatal blow, piercing through the fragile veneer of Coriolanus Snow's facade with surgical precision. "Coriolanus Snow," Festus Creed's damning indictment echoed hauntingly in his mind, "always struck me as the type who... well... like someone who would do anything to get ahead, even... when others would never... go that far." Each syllable carved deep furrows of anguish within his psyche, a relentless assault on his fragile sense of self. He was acutely aware of the weight of Festus Creed's accusations, each word laden with the unmistakable resonance of truth.

Festus Creed had without a doubt dealt a devastating blow with his words, burying Coriolanus Snow beneath the weight of his accusations. While others who had criticized him were mere acquaintances—old teachers, distant neighbors—Festus Creed's betrayal cut deeper. Their history was intertwined, from shared experiences at the Academy to University days and mutual friendships. Yet, it wasn't merely the familiarity of their past that struck Coriolanus to his core; it was the raw authenticity with which Festus Creed spoke his truth.

The raw vulnerability that colored Festus Creed's demeanor served only to amplify the gravity of his testimony—the measured cadence of his speech, the careful selection of words, the tense posture, the flushed complexion, the tremor in his gaze directed squarely at the camera. In that pivotal moment, Festus Creed transcended the role of a fleeting fame-seeker; he emerged as a wounded old friend, bearing the burden of his own revelations with a gravity that was palpable.

His words resonated with an undeniable weight, infusing them with an unwavering conviction that struck at the very foundation of Coriolanus Snow's identity. Festus Creed's obvious reluctance to embrace his own accusations, his cruel words, only served to deepen the wound, as he still chose to wield his accusations as a weapon of destruction, driving Coriolanus Snow further towards his inevitable demise. While Festus Creed could have easily assumed the role of executioner, tightening the noose around his own neck, he instead opted for a more insidious approach, allowing the populace of the Capitol to serve as unwitting accomplices in his former friend's downfall. It was a cowardly act of manipulation, one that laid bare the depths of Festus Creed's moral bankruptcy, while condemning Coriolanus Snow to a fate orchestrated by the very hands of those he once called allies.

"And this evening, we have a special guest! A surprise guest! A guest whom you all know very well by now, dear audience! Allow me to present: the exquisite, captivating, charming Miss Lucy Baird!"

With a heart that skipped beats and eyes ablaze, Coriolanus immediately redirected his focus to the screen, where Lucy Gray stood beside Lucky Flickerman, draped in a resplendent rainbow-colored gown. It had been some time since he had beheld her in such attire, yet it wasn't the dress that seized his attention.

"Miss Baird, what are your sentiments regarding the current situation?"

He ceased to breathe. Time seemed to fluctuate, both hastening and decelerating.

"Well, Lucky, I can't claim to be unfamiliar with Coriolanus Snow. After all, he served as my mentor during the 10th Hunger Games, and upon my return to the Capitol, our paths crossed repeatedly... As for my stance on the matter... A pertinent inquiry, indeed...."

He remained breathless. Only the searing ache of his heart against his chest persisted.

"Well, Lucky, I can impart one insight: Coriolanus Snow harbored envy towards unfortunate Felix. Regrettably, I am aware of Coriolanus' longstanding…fixation...Coriolanus easily becomes fixated on things and...people."

Breathless. Heart silent.

"Miss Baird, if Coriolanus Snow were privy to your words, what message would you convey to him?"

"I would convey to him that...You know, Lucky, trust has always been the most important thing to me. I once told Coriolanus that he could trust me. Unfortunately, trust, like many things, is easily lost. Nevertheless, I would reassure him that he can still place his trust in me. Just as I had placed mine in him."

The absence of poison in her beloved cookie haunted him with regret.