#archer brown

A/n: Hey everyone! This will be my first fanfic posted here on Tumblr, and I am really excited to share both this idea and the story with all of you. I've been conjuring up this idea for a while now and thought it would be a great story to put up on this platform. I hope you enjoy what is to come for this story. I'll be updating as often as I can, and I would love to hear your thoughts along the way! As the story unfolds, I'd be thrilled to get some input from on a major question – should the reader end up with Archer or Coriolanus? Let me know what you think, and stay tuned for Chapter 1! 😊 Warnings: (As this story is still in the works warnings may change but this is just for reference) Violence, control, oppression, obsession, death, manipulation, angst, peacekeeper brutality, stalking, political corruption, abuse of power, public execution, dark romance, and she/her pronouns. Summary: Coriolanus Snow has now been elected as the new president of Panem at the age of 23, and his reign of authority is quickly making its presence felt across the districts, especially with the 15th Hunger Games looming ever closer. With fear gripping the hearts of many in the districts, Coriolanus's primary focus is on maintaining control, and power while quelling any sense of a possible rebellion. However, in the shadows of District 12, a spirited girl dreams of breaking free from the oppressive system that surrounds her and going where the wind takes her. Fueled by a longing for freedom, she yearns to escape with her best friend, Archer Brown, whom she has known since childhood.

A/N: I hope you enjoy the 5th chapter of Threads of Freedom—a 15th Hunger Games AU featuring Archer Brown x Fem!Reader! 🙌 In this chapter, Coriolanus Snow finally makes his grand appearance, and trust me, his presence is not going to make things any easier for our protagonist. 😈 Prepare for more tension, manipulation, and control as he takes centre stage in this chapter. I spent way too much time stressing over trying to come up with a cover for this chapter, but in the end, I decided to create my own quotes for it instead for Coriolanus 🤷‍♀️.

I can't wait for you to see how the story continues on—more twists are on the way. 💥 There will be another post in just a few hours or less, so stay tuned with a brand new AU being introduced for Billy the Kid... A Gladiator AU 🏛️💔. So stay tuned for more!👀

As always, thank you so much for reading and supporting me! 💖

Word Count: 5.5K

Warnings: Dark themes, control, abuse of power, intimidation, threats, manipulation, mentions of hanging, obsession, Coriolanus being Coriolanus, objectification, isolation, intimidation, possessiveness, coercion, dehumanisation, peacekeeper brutality, threats of violence, and grief.

As they led me through the darkened streets, the path to the Peacekeeper base felt endless. The streets were quieter than usual, the usual hum of District 12 silenced by the heavy air of tension. The flickering lights along the way cast distorted shadows, but it wasn’t the shadows that unsettled me, it was the Peacekeepers’ firm grip on my arms, their booted feet echoing with an unforgiving cadence on the cobblestones. My mind raced with frantic thoughts, trying desperately to keep my panic from surfacing. I had to remain calm. If they saw any hint of fear, it would only make things worse. I couldn’t afford to show them that I was scared, that I was about to crack under the weight of everything threatening to overwhelm me.

The sky above was cloaked in a thick blanket of clouds, the morning air unusually still, suffocating even. The darkness pressed in on me like a physical force, making it harder to breathe, and harder to think. 

We walked past the hanging tree. Its gnarled branches twisted like skeletal fingers, reaching toward the sky as if trying to escape the earth below or the district itself. The shadows it cast stretched long and unnaturally, dark tendrils creeping toward me. My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard, the weight of fear pressing down on me. The tree loomed like a silent witness to all the pain that had passed beneath it, its very presence a reminder of the Capitol’s unyielding control over us nooses hung along the main thickest branches.

The whispers of those who had met their end there seemed to echo in my mind. I could almost feel their souls lingering, the weight of their deaths heavy in the air. The tree mocked me, its presence a stark reminder of how little power we truly had. I tried to focus on my steps, but the fear bubbling inside me made it difficult to move. What if I didn’t make it out of this? What if the Peacekeepers didn’t believe my lies? The thought of being lost, forgotten, swallowed by that tree, made my stomach churn.

I forced myself to keep walking, my feet carrying me further from the tree, but its shadow remained, a silent reminder of the dangers that surrounded me. It felt as though my dreams of escaping, of freedom, were slipping further away with every step.

I swallowed harshly, trying to hold myself together. The sight of that damn tree of everything it represented was almost too much to bear. It was as though the air around me was thick with loss, and it weighed heavily on my chest. My thoughts turned to my father, and the way his health had worsened over the last few weeks, how he was now suffering from the same illness that had claimed my mother. The realization made my heart ache in a way I couldn’t put into words.

Regret gnawed at me like a slow poison. Why hadn’t I done more for him? Why hadn’t I spent more time easing his burdens, helping him carry the weight he’d been carrying for so long? I could have tried harder, I should have tried harder. Instead, I let myself get caught up in my own selfish dreams, the longing to escape, to leave District 12 and find something more. But I should have been here, by his side, making every moment count before it was too late. How could I have let myself get lost in my own desires, knowing how fragile he was? Now, the reality of his illness felt like a cruel reminder of the fleeting nature of time, and the more I thought about it, the harder it became to breathe.

The weight of my regrets settled heavily in my chest, a dull ache that only grew deeper with every step toward the base. The silence between the Peacekeepers felt suffocating as if the very air was pressing in on me, making it hard to breathe. I couldn’t help but think of Annie, her bright smile, and the laughter we shared that seemed so far away now. I longed for more moments with her, moments I had taken for granted. I wished I could turn back time, walk with her to the Hob like I used to, just to be near her, to enjoy the simplicity of our friendship. Instead, I had been so consumed with my desire to escape, to flee this painful place, that I had pushed her away without even realizing it. The time I could have spent with her now felt like a lifetime lost.

I regretted fighting with Archer—more than I cared to admit. Regretted the harsh words I’d thrown at him, the way I’d shut him out when all he wanted was to understand. I could still feel the weight of our last conversation, the anger and hurt hanging between us like a wall I couldn't tear down. I hadn’t given him a chance to explain, too wrapped up in my own frustrations to see what he was really trying to say. I had wanted to leave—wanted to escape this place and the suffocating weight of my life in District 12—but now, as I walked through the cold streets, it felt like those dreams were slipping away, dissolving into the night like smoke. The more the distance between me and the hanging tree grew, the more it seemed like I was running away from everything I wanted, everything I needed.

A part of me just wanted to turn around, run back, and throw myself into his arms. I wanted to feel safe again, to feel like I wasn’t carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I wanted to stay there, in the warmth of his embrace, and let everything else fade away. Because, if I was honest with myself, I cared about him more than I had ever let on. More than I had allowed myself to admit. He had become such a quiet constant in my life, someone who understood me in ways no one else could. And now, with the possibility of losing him hanging over me, I realized just how much he meant to me. How much I needed him.

In my heart, I knew that if I could just find the courage to go back to him, to apologize, maybe things could be different. Maybe we could have a chance at something more than just the unspoken tension that had started to build between us. But as I walked further away, my steps growing heavier, the idea of turning back seemed impossible stupid even. I had always wanted to leave District 12 behind, to run away and start fresh. But now, as I thought about him, I realized the truth—I didn’t just want to escape my life here. I wanted to escape with him; it was something I had to do. I wanted to build a life where the weight of the Capitol and the fear of the Games didn’t hang over us. And if I didn’t have him with me, then all those dreams of freedom felt hollow.

I had been so focused on the idea of escaping, but now, I couldn’t help but wonder if the only thing worth running toward was him.

I glanced up at the sky, the clouds thick and oppressive, and for a moment, I thought I saw the faintest hint of light breaking through, only for it to vanish as quickly as it appeared. The sunlight that was supposed to come with the morning was lost, swallowed by the swarm of clouds. It felt like a cruel joke, the dark clouds mocking my desire for freedom. It felt like everything I had dreamed of—everything I had hoped for—was fading away with the light. I had been foolish to think I could ever escape this place in the beginning.

"Get moving," one of the Peacekeepers barked, his harsh voice cutting through the whirlwind of my spiraling thoughts. His tone left no room for argument, and I nodded silently, biting down hard on my lip to keep the tears from spilling over. I couldn’t let them see me break not now, not when they were looking for any sign of weakness. Every step forward felt like it dragged me closer to my doom, and no matter how hard I tried, the knot of fear in my stomach only tightened.

The base loomed ahead, a towering, angular structure carved out of stone and iron. It seemed to absorb the faint light from the sky above, leaving it cold and lifeless. It wasn’t just a building; it was a warning, a reminder of the Capitol’s grip on us all. As the Peacekeepers marched me forward, their boots echoing against the cobblestones, I tried to steady my breathing. But with each step, the weight of my situation pressed harder on my chest.

Inside, the air shifted cool and sterile, with a faint metallic tang that reminded me of blood. The doors slammed shut behind me, the sound reverberating like a final verdict. The halls were dimly lit by flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly overhead, casting uneven shadows that seemed to move as if alive. The stone walls were damp in places, their surfaces scarred and worn as if they had witnessed countless horrors over the years. The further we went, the quieter the world seemed to become, the hum of machinery and muffled voices creating an eerie backdrop that only added to my unease.

As I was dragged further inside the building, I noticed the Peacekeepers stationed throughout the halls. Some glanced at me with open disdain, their expressions twisted in disgust as if I were something foul that had wandered in from the seams. Their cold, judgmental eyes felt like a weight pressing against my chest. Others, however, looked at me differently, their gazes predatory and hungry. Their eyes raked over me as though I were something to be devoured, their smirks unsettling and dripping with malice. I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my chest. The air grew heavier with each step, my stomach twisting with the realization that I was utterly alone here, a lamb among wolves.

I passed rows of heavy iron doors, each one marked with a number but no other indication of what lay behind it. From some, I heard faint sounds shuffling, the scrape of chains, or worse, muffled cries that sent a chill straight to my bones. The oppressive silence of the other doors felt even more sinister, as if they were holding their breath, waiting for something unspeakable to unfold.

"Move it," one of the Peacekeepers snapped, giving me a rough shove. I stumbled, barely catching myself before I hit the ground, and the cold sting of humiliation burned at the edges of my fear accompanied by the sting in my palms and cheek. I wanted to lash out but the icy knot in my throat made speaking impossible.

When we finally reached the end of the corridor, they pushed open a heavy door, its groan echoing like a death knell. The room inside was stark and barren, the walls a harsh, sterile white that seemed to amplify every sound. A metal table stood in the center, flanked by two cold, unwelcoming chairs. The surface of the table was scratched and worn, a silent testament to the countless people who had sat here before me, all of them helpless in the face of whatever judgment awaited.

They shoved me into the room, and I stumbled again, my legs trembling beneath me as though they were about to give out. My wrists were cuffed tightly to one another, the metal biting into my skin as I sank down into the creaky wooden chair, unable to stop my body from shaking. The air was thick, heavy with tension, and every breath felt like it dragged through my lungs. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the faint echo of my own unsteady breathing.

The walls seemed to press closer, enclosing me in a space that felt too small, too suffocating. My mind raced with the endless possibilities of what they might ask, of what they might do if my answers didn’t satisfy them. This wasn’t just a questioning; it was a reckoning. And as I sat there, staring at the scratched surface of the table, I knew there was no running from it. No escape. This was the moment when everything would change, and I couldn’t tell if I’d be able to survive it.

I tried to steady my breathing, forcing myself to think clearly. I had to prepare. Whatever was coming, whatever questions they hurled at me, I couldn’t falter. The truth wasn’t an option. I'd been at the mines late at night, trying to find a way out of this godforsaken district, and if they found out, my fate would be sealed. The hanging tree loomed in the back of my mind, its gnarled branches like fingers curling around my thoughts, threatening to drag me to my end.

I had to lie. I had to convince them I wasn’t the one sneaking around. Every story I told as a child to escape punishment, every excuse I made to avoid suspicion, it had all led to this moment. Now, my survival depended on how well I could spin my tale. My heart hammered as I rehearsed what I’d say, the excuses I’d give, the innocent look I’d force onto my face. I needed to seem frightened but not guilty, confused but not suspicious.

Lying was my only chance to walk out of here alive. I couldn’t let my nerves betray me, couldn’t let my voice shake or my eyes darted around like I had something to hide. The Peacekeepers weren’t stupid they’d see through anything less than perfection. If I wanted to avoid swinging at the end of a rope, I needed to act like I had nothing to hide. I clenched my fists at my sides, my nails biting into my palms as I forced myself to focus.

This was it. My life depended on the story I’d weave in the next few moments. If I failed, the hanging tree would be waiting.

The metallic clang of the door opening made me jolt, my back snapping straight against the cold chair. I’d expected another Peacekeeper to barge in, maybe someone gruffer, someone who would demand answers with brute force. But the figure who stepped into the room was entirely different.

He carried himself with an air of authority that seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room. Every movement was deliberate, commanding attention without a word. He stood tall, well over six feet, his broad shoulders and lean frame exuding power. His iconic blood-red suit clung to him like it was made for no one else, the fabric pristine and untouched by the dirt of District 12. The color, so vivid and striking, seemed to symbolize both danger and dominance, as if he wore it to remind everyone of his control over their lives.

His blonde hair was slicked back meticulously, not a strand out of place, and his pale blue eyes—cold and calculating—locked onto mine with an intensity that made my skin crawl. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, caught in the quiet storm that was his gaze. It was unnerving, like a predator locking onto its prey. The sharp, almost clinical precision with which he studied me made me feel as though he were dissecting me, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally.

I knew who he was. Everyone knew who he was. His reputation had preceded him, as it did with everyone in the Capitol who wielded that kind of power. The mere mention of his name sent shivers down the spine of even the most hardened rebels. President Coriolanus Snow. The embodiment of fear, control, and manipulation. But seeing him here, in the flesh, was something else entirely.

And now, here he was, in front of me, like a storm closing in.

For a moment, I couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe. My body felt frozen, as if the air itself had turned to ice around me. 

Why was he here? 

The president of Panem, in this forgotten, crumbling district? It didn’t make sense. My mind scrambled for answers, each thought colliding with the next in a tangle of fear and confusion. This wasn’t some routine interrogation. It wasn’t about the mines, the Peacekeepers, or even the Capitol’s grip tightening around District 12.

Could it be about me?

The realization struck me like a blow, stealing what little composure I had left. But why? What could I have done to warrant his presence? The weight of his cold, assessing gaze made my skin crawl, and my heart pounded so hard I was sure he could hear it. I felt exposed, like every secret I had ever held was laid bare before him. My attempt to flee, my fight with Archer, even the forbidden dreams I kept hidden in the darkest corners of my mind—it was as if he already knew.

Panic twisted inside me, but so did an unsettling sense of curiosity. Of all the people in District 12, why had Coriolanus Snow chosen to face me personally? What did he see when he looked at me? And why did it feel as though he wasn’t here to deliver justice but something far more sinister, far more personal?

“Leave us,” Snow ordered sharply, his voice smooth and cutting all at once, like the edge of a finely honed blade. It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be; the authority in his tone was absolute. The two Peacekeepers flanking the door exchanged uncertain glances, their hesitation lasting only a fraction of a second before they stepped out, boots echoing faintly as they retreated.

The door closed behind them with a final, resounding thud that reverberated through the small room, sealing us in together. The silence that followed was deafening, pressing down on me like a physical weight. The absence of sound seemed to amplify everything else: the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance, the soft rustle of his blood red coat as he adjusted his stance, the steady rhythm of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

Snow’s gaze lingered on me, his eyes dark and intent, studying me with a look that made my skin prickle uncomfortably. His lips curved into a faint, predatory smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes, but somehow made the air feel heavier. Every movement he made was deliberate, calculated, as if he were savoring the moment.

He stepped further into the room, the soft click of his boots on the floor echoing with each measured step, his presence filling the space. It was as if time slowed down in his wake. He was in control of the room, of the situation, of me. He pulled out the chair across from me with deliberate care, the scraping sound of it against the floor loud in the stillness. As he sat, he folded his hands neatly on the table, his fingers interlocking with practiced precision. The way he settled into the chair was almost unnerving, as if he had done this a thousand times before, as if he had all the time in the world to break me down.

“Well,” he began, his voice smooth, like velvet wrapped around steel, every word dripping with an unsettling calm. “It seems we find ourselves in quite the predicament, don’t we?” His eyes never left mine, and there was something about the way he spoke—too measured, too controlled—that made my stomach churn.

I swallowed hard, the sound echoing in the silence between us, and tried to maintain some semblance of composure. But the weight of his gaze pressed down on me like a physical force, making it impossible to feel anything but exposed. Every inch of my skin felt like it was on fire under his scrutiny.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, his expression almost too calm, too patient. It was as if he were savoring the moment, playing some game with me I didn’t understand. He looked at me with genuine curiosity, as though he truly wanted to know what was going on in my mind.

I opened my mouth to speak, but my voice caught in my throat. My breath hitched, and I could feel the panic starting to rise, but I fought to keep it in check. He raised a single brow, as though waiting for me to speak.

“I—I’m not sure,” I finally managed, my voice barely above a whisper, the words feeling foreign and weak on my tongue. The vulnerability of it hit me all at once, and I immediately regretted saying anything at all.

“Not sure?” Snow leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed, but there was nothing casual about the sharp intensity in his eyes. His gaze never left me, as if he could see right through me. “You were seen near the mines last night. A curious place for a girl like you to be wandering about, wouldn’t you say?”

I could feel the pressure building in my chest, but I forced myself to speak with as much confidence as I could muster. “I wasn’t near the mines,” I lied quickly, the words slipping out before I could even think. My heart pounded so loud I was sure he could hear it, but I couldn’t let him see how much he rattled me. “I was at home. Asleep.”

A soft chuckle escaped him, low and smooth, though it lacked even the smallest hint of warmth. His lips twisted into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and the sound of it sent a shiver down my spine. “Asleep, you say?” He leaned forward then, his movements deliberate and slow, as if he were savoring the moment. His elbows came to rest on the table, and his fingers laced together, the tension in his posture making it clear he wasn’t buying my lie. “You don’t strike me as a very good liar, Y/n. But perhaps I’m wrong.”

The way he said my name sent an icy tremor through me. It was too familiar, too personal. My mind raced, trying to process how he knew it, why he knew it. It felt like an intrusion, like he had already dissected every detail of my life and was now toying with me, pulling at the threads to see how much I could unravel before I broke.

Snow studied me for a moment, his gaze sharp and calculating, as if he were weighing something far beyond the surface of our conversation. He didn’t speak immediately, allowing the silence to stretch, thick and suffocating, like a game he was letting me lose without ever needing to make a move.

Finally, he spoke, but the words came out slowly, almost as if he were choosing them with great care. "You intrigue me," he murmured, his voice softer, but it was no comfort. There was a subtle undercurrent to his words, like a predator circling its prey, and I felt every inch of that tension. “You remind me of someone... someone I once knew.”

His words hung in the air, and my pulse quickened as I tried to make sense of them. I stayed silent, unwilling to give him anything more than what he already had. The tension between us stretched, taut as a wire, and for a brief, terrifying moment, I thought he might break it with something that would shatter me completely.

"She was special, but no more than a means to an end," he continued, but this time, there was a flicker in his expression—something fleeting, almost disgusted, as though the thought of this 'someone' that repulsed him. The change was subtle but unmistakable like a shadow crossing his face. “But she lacked something. Something... I believe you so happen to possess.”

I felt a chill wash over me, and my stomach twisted in knots. I didn’t want to know what he meant, didn’t want to hear the unspoken things behind his words. But even as I refused to respond, I could feel his eyes on me—measuring, calculating, dissecting me in ways I couldn’t begin to understand. Whatever it was he saw in me, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

“You have potential,” Snow said, his voice smooth and coaxing, though his eyes narrowed slightly, studying me like a puzzle he was just about to solve. “But potential means nothing without control. Without loyalty.” He paused, letting the words linger in the air as if they were meant to sink into my bones.

I swallowed, trying to push down the knot of fear tightening in my chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, my voice steady, though I could feel the lie slipping from my tongue.

“Oh, but you do,” he replied, his smile widening, the corners of his mouth curling into something dark and knowing. He leaned in slightly, and the air between us seemed to thicken with each word. “You see, I don’t believe in coincidences. A girl like you, sneaking around the mines, dreaming of freedom…” His voice hardened, and the words became sharp, cutting into me. “Do you think you’re special? That you’re above the rules, above your place?”

His gaze bore into mine, demanding an answer, and I shook my head quickly, trying to swallow the panic that surged in my chest. “No, I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he interrupted his voice a blade, slicing through the quiet between us. “I can see it in your eyes. You think you’re different, don’t you? You want to escape, to run from this district, from your responsibilities. And for what? Some fleeting fantasy?” He leaned even closer, his gaze never wavering, never blinking. “What makes you think you’re entitled to more than this place? To more than the life you were given?”

The weight of his words crushed me, the reality of my situation bearing down like a vice. I could feel the tears threatening to burn behind my eyes, but I fought them back with all the strength I had left. “I’m not trying to escape,” I said, though the tremor in my voice betrayed me, revealing a crack in my carefully constructed facade.

He smiled again, but it was colder now, something calculated in the way his lips curled. “You’re lying to yourself, Y/n. And not only that you’re lying to me.” His voice dropped to a whisper, almost sweet, but it carried a chilling undertone. “I know exactly what you want. You want to be free, but more than that… you want to be wanted. To matter. You want someone to take notice, to see you for more than the girl who has her head up in the clouds and whos nothing but a dreamer.”

The words hit harder than I expected, and I tried to push them away, but they stuck, digging into my mind like sharp needles. My heart pounded, each beat echoing in my ears, and I could feel the walls of the room closing in around me. “That’s not true,” I whispered, barely able to find the words to defend myself.

“Oh, but it is,” Snow countered, his voice low and smooth, as if he were speaking a truth only he could understand. “You’re searching for something bigger than yourself. You dream of escaping, but not just the district. You want someone to take you out of this life, to pull you away from all this... mediocrity. But here’s the problem, Y/n…” He leaned in even closer, his face inches from mine, the intensity of his cerulean gaze trapping me. “You’ll never be truly free, because you can’t even control yourself. You can’t control your desires and your impulses. And that—” He tapped the side of my head lightly, a mocking gesture that made my stomach twist. “—is where you fail.”

I felt like I was drowning in the weight of his words, each one heavier than the last. He was breaking me down, piece by piece, and yet I couldn't find the strength to fight back.

Snow leaned even closer, his face now mere inches from mine. “Do you know what happens to those who try to defy the Capitol?” he asked, his voice low and chilling. “They end up swinging from that tree you passed on your way here. Do you want that to be your fate, Y/n?”

I shook my head again, swallowing the lump in my throat.

I tried to stay calm, to keep my composure, but his presence was suffocating. He leaned in even closer, his gaze intense, as if he were reading me, dissecting my every reaction. His eyes flicked to my hands, still trembling slightly on the table, before meeting my gaze again. Snow’s lips curled into a twisted smile, his eyes glinting with amusement and malice. He leaned forward again, his voice lowering to a taunting, almost mocking tone.

“Now, tell me, Y/n," he said, his words dripping with disdain, "Were you out last night, snooping around the mines, sneaking along the district fence like a pathetic little bunny, desperate to escape your cage?”

He paused, letting the insult hang in the air, his gaze never leaving mine. The words stung like a slap to the face, and I couldn’t help but flinch, but I held my ground, refusing to give him the full satisfaction of seeing me break.

“And don’t you dare lie to me,” he said, his voice low and quiet, almost too calm. “You were near the mines last night, and I know you weren’t there just for a stroll.” He let the silence hang between us, each second feeling like it dragged on forever. “But I’m not here to accuse you—no. I’m here to offer you a choice.”

My heart skipped a beat. A choice?

He stood, circling me like a predator with no rush, savouring the moment. “You see, Y/n, you could walk out of here today, and pretend like none of this ever happened. But if you dare try to escape again, if you dare think you can run from this district...” He leaned in closer, his breath cold on my ear. “I will personally make sure your father’s neck is snapped, your friends are dragged into the dirt, and as for that lover boy of yours,” he spat the words with disgust, as though the mere mention of his name left a bitter taste in his mouth, “Archer? Do you think he’s your protector? I’ll have him begging for mercy, just like the fool he is.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing as if searching for any sign of weakness. “I won’t be made a fool again by some silly district girl. You’ll stay in your place. Don’t think for a second that you have any real power here. I control everything. Everything.”

I shook my head, trying to hold back the tears, trying to swallow the lump in my throat that threatened to choke me. The weight of his threats hung in the air like a thick fog. I wasn’t sure if he truly meant every word or if this was just part of his game. But it didn’t matter. His eyes, his tone—everything about him screamed that he was in control, and he would make good on his promises if I dared to defy him.

“Good,” he said finally, his smile returning, though it was darker, more sinister than before. It made my stomach churn. “Because I think you could be...useful to me. If you prove yourself.”

I didn’t trust him. I couldn’t. But I had no choice. He was holding all the cards. I had to play along, had to pretend I was on his side, just long enough to stay alive.

“What do you want from me?” I asked, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to keep it steady.

He didn’t hesitate, his response sharp and cold. “Loyalty,” he said simply, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And obedience. You’ll find that I reward those who know their place. But cross me, and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

I nodded, the weight of his words sinking into my chest like lead. My body screamed at me to run, but my mind screamed louder—if I did, everything I loved would be destroyed. Archer... my father... Annie... all of them. I had no choice but to obey, for now.

“Good,” Snow said again, his voice almost pleased as he straightened his uniform. “Then we’ll see what you’re truly made of.”

He turned to leave, and the door opened as the Peacekeepers stepped back in, their expressions as cold and indifferent as always. Snow paused in the doorway, his hand on the handle. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes locking with mine one last time.

A/N: Hi everyone! I hope you enjoy Chapter 2 of Threads of Freedom, my 15th Hunger Games AU featuring Archer Brown. If you haven’t read the first chapter yet, make sure to check it out so you’re all caught up! This chapter is a bit longer compared to the last because I wanted to dive deeper into the family backstory and—excitingly—finally introduce Coriolanus Snow into the mix. I may have gotten a little carried away with the writing, but I hope it makes for an engaging read.

Also, if you’re enjoying this story, feel free to check out my new Coriolanus short story—it’s a little side project I posted earlier in the week, and I’d love to hear your thoughts on it too. Thank you for reading, and as always, feedback is more than welcome! Stay tuned for chapter 3! 😊 Word count: 4.5K Warnings: Violence, blood, illness, mentions of death, control, threats, mentions of hanging, physical conflict, harassment and themes of oppression Chapters: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

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The morning air in the Seam is sharp and biting, cutting through the thin fabric of my blanket as I shift from side to side, trying to hold on to the last bit of warmth. My eyes flutter open, and I stare at the beams above, their worn edges casting familiar shadows across the ceiling. I take a deep breath savouring the silence in the early hour. Outside, the first faint sounds of the district stirring can be heard—creaks of carts, low murmurs of voices, the rhythm of life in District 12. I know if I linger much longer, I’ll never get up, so I finally throw off the covers, swinging my feet to the floor.

My dress from yesterday is folded at the edge of my bed a soft baby blue once a more bright vibrant colour but now faded from the years of wear and scrubbing, its hem frayed and patched in a dozen places. I run my fingers over the familiar threads, tiny stitches my mother once sewed into each rip and tear with quiet patience.

Now, I am mending myself, but I’ve come to realise that my hands will never have the same gentle skill. There’s an ache in me, thinking of her soft touch, the way she would hum in the mornings as she tied my dress strings. Passing only as of last winter, her cough grew worse each day until it finally took her. Now that same cough rattles in my father’s chest, though he pretends it’s nothing but dust from the mines. His stubbornness is like a wall between us, keeping me out and locking him in.

I pull the dress over my head, tugging it into place as I catch a glimpse of myself in the small mirror propped up by the window. My reflection is a stranger—there’s something in my eyes that wasn’t there before, a hardness that's only becoming more common as time passes by. I glanced at my wild hair in the mirror, the strands sticking out in every direction from a night of restless sleep. With quick, practised ease, I began to work through the tangles, smoothing it down and fixing it up until it finally lay presentable. Once finished, I decided to leave it down, letting it fall freely around the back of my frame.

I couldn’t help but remember when Ma used to sit me on the edge of the worn wooden chair, her hands gentle as she worked through my hair. Her fingers would weave through the tangles, humming softly, making me feel safe as she pulled it back into neat braids or whatever style I desired on the day, the scent of her homemade lavender soap lingering in my hair long after she finished. I used to laugh when she’d ask me how it looked, always proud of her work.

With Ma gone, it's just me and him now. The kitchen is quiet when I step in, but I see his mug on the table, a reminder of his stubborn routine. He'll be up soon, insisting he's fine, brushing off the faint wheeze in his chest.

He won't admit it, but I see the sickness in him—the way he winces, the way his hand shakes slightly as he lifts his mug. And though he tries to hide it, I see Ma in him every day, a reminder of the ending that's coming for him too, unless I can do something. I don't know what yet, but I'm determined to find it. No matter what.

I am snapped out of my thoughts when I hear the familiar creak of the floorboards before I see him, my father slowly shuffling into the kitchen with that same weary, pained look in his eyes. It’s been like this for weeks now, his body worn down by whatever illness has taken hold of him, though he won’t admit it.

He’s determined to go back to the mine today, as he has every other day, despite the way his cough rattles in his chest. His hands tremble when he reaches for the bread I’ve set out, but he hides it well, pretending not to notice. It’s always this way—he’s too proud to show weakness, but I know better. I’ve seen the way his body gives out on him at night, how he sinks into sleep as if it’s the only escape he has left.

He coughs again, this time more violently, and for a split second, his eyes meet mine. I try not to show how worried I am, how terrified I am that if he doesn’t slow down, he’ll collapse before I have a chance to stop him. At first, I told him he couldn’t do it, that he wasn’t strong enough to take on everything and keep on going to the mines. 

He denied it and insisted, “I’m fine,” he said, his voice rasping with a cold that’s never quite gone away. “You’ve got your own life to think about.” 

But I don’t have my own life, not anymore. My world revolves around the seam, around him, around making sure we survive each day. I give him another glance worry still in my eyes. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he says, his voice rough and thick with that terrible cough, but his words are firm, insistent. 

He doesn’t meet my gaze when he speaks, and I know he’s hiding the truth. I want to argue with him, to shout and beg him to stay, but the truth is, I can’t. He’s my father, and he believes that going to the mines is the only way to provide for us. Even now, with his health slipping away, he won’t accept any other way of life. The mines are his life, and no matter how much I wish he would change his mind, I know it’s not that simple.

Reluctantly, I agree, silently praying he’ll stay warm on his long journey to the mines and, maybe—just maybe—make it through the day without worsening his condition. He grumbles as I try to help him put on his jacket, but doesn’t push me away this time. He lets me adjust his collar and smooth down the creases in his sleeves, his shoulders sagging under the weight of decisions he can't bear.

I wonder if he sees how much I’m trying to take on for him, how much I want to shield him from the suffering he refuses to acknowledge. But no matter how hard I try, I know I can’t stop him from going to the mines—or digging his own grave.

Once he’s ready, I walk him to the door, my heart heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. I want to tell him to stay home, to take care of himself, but I don’t. I want to tell him I can handle the work here, that I can manage, but I know the truth—that we both need him to work.

He’s all I have left, even if he’s slipping away from me. He places a hand on my shoulder before stepping out, his fingers cold against my skin. "You’ll be all right, girl," he mutters, his voice muffled by the weight of his illness. "Just take care of the house, and we’ll get through it." His arms wrap around me in a hug enclosing my body for a moment then pressing a small kiss to the top of my head then gently releasing me.

I close the door behind him, the sound of his footsteps echoing faintly as he disappears into the morning mist. My chest tightens, and for a moment, I just stand there, listening to the silence he leaves behind. I know he won’t be back until late, and even then, he’ll likely be too weak to move by the time he returns. I can already hear the rasp in his breath, the way he tries to hide the pain. But it doesn’t matter. I have to carry on, to keep the house running, to try and make things easier for him, even if he refuses to see how much he’s hurting himself. I have to be strong for him, even if it means sacrificing a little bit of myself in the process.

The first task of the day is always the most overwhelming. I gather the basket of laundry, the fabric stiff from the cold, and begin sorting through it—my fingers numb as I work. The water is icy, but I don’t mind. It’s just another part of the day I have to push through. The soap is almost gone, so I ration it carefully, making sure to scrub harder on the clothes that have the most dirt. I can’t help but think of my mother—how she used to do this with such ease, humming a tune while she worked. 

Once the laundry is done, I move on to sweeping the floors. The dust is always thicker than I remember, creeping in from the seams of the house like it’s a part of the air itself. I sweep methodically, sweeping each corner, each crevice, even though I know the dirt will be back before the sun sets. The broom handles are worn smooth where my hand's grip, the fibres fraying at the edges.

It’s not the kind of work that feels rewarding, but it has to be done. With every stroke, I think of how little time I have left before the next chore begins and before the day slips away. The dust seems endless, just like everything else.

By the time the fire needs tending, the sun is dipping low in the sky. I keep a steady pace, but my body grows weary. The firewood is stacked neatly. Each log is heavy but I push through. I’ve learned to hide the ache in my bones, to act like it doesn’t hurt. It’s what my father would do, and even though he’s not here, I know he’ll need the fire hot when he returns. There’s no room for weakness. So, I light the fire, watch the flames grow, and hope I can hold it all together until he’s home. Finally, I let out a sigh of relief as I finished the last of the chores and collapsed onto the small couch, exhausted.

The moment I remembered, my heart sank. I was supposed to meet Annie at the Hob bar tonight, the one place where we can forget about everything—where the weight of District 12 doesn’t hang over us like a dark could. It’s not like I’d forgotten; it’s just that the chores always take longer than I expect. My father was so insistent on going back to the mines this morning, and I couldn’t make him stay.

I try to shove aside the worry gnawing at me and focus on the task ahead. I take one last look at the house—quiet and still like it’s waiting for my father’s return. Then, I ushered to the bathroom cleaned my hands and pulled my boots on at the front door exiting the house, determined not to be late.

The wind bites at my face as I step outside. The Seams look the same—quiet, desolate, dust swirling in the air like it’s part of the ground. The dirt paths are packed hard, and the mines loom in the distance. I hurry through the narrow streets, weaving between the barely standing houses. Each step feels like I’m moving farther from what I know, but I don’t mind. The Hob is close enough that I can hear faint laughter, clinking mugs, and live music—reminding me of a life outside the hard work, a world I want to belong to, even if just for a few hours.

The noise of the Hob greets me as I step inside—the chatter, the clink of glasses, bursts of laughter filling the air. I shake off the chill from outside scanning the room for Annie among the crowd of miners, traders, peacekeepers, and young women. I finally spot her, her eyes already on me. Without a word, I hurry over and pull her into a tight hug. It's a brief moment of comfort, a reminder that there's something beyond the harshness of the seams. Pulling back, I smile as she gestures to the empty seats next to her. We make our way to the corner table, the worn wood creaking under the weight of our conversation.

As we sit down at the table, the warmth of the fire flickering nearby, I lean in, eager to hear how Annie’s day went. 

“So, how was it today? Any trouble with the bakery?” I ask, my voice softer now, trying to shake off the tension of the day. 

Annie chuckles, clearly used to the chaos. “You wouldn’t believe it,” she begins, “I tripped over and nearly dropped the tray of bread, and I almost lost a whole batch.” She laughs, but I can hear the exhaustion beneath it, the weight of her responsibilities weighing heavily on her small shoulders. Still, she’s got that spark in her eyes, the same warmth she’s always had, and it’s comforting to see that.

I nod sympathetically, but then the conversation turns to me, and I sigh, running a hand over my face. “It’s been... a long day,” I admit, glancing around the room, avoiding her gaze for a moment. "I had to get Dad out the door for the mine again. I tried to stop him, you know, but he won’t listen. He still thinks he can work like he used to." 

Annie’s expression softened, and I could tell she understood the frustration in my words. "I know it’s hard," she says quietly. "But you’re doing the best you can. He’ll come around when he’s ready." 

I nod grateful for her support. We sit in silence for a moment, just being in each other’s presence, two girls who understand the weight of the world, but still find time for moments like this.

The music from the front stage begins to swell, a lively and infectious rhythm that vibrates through the air, making everyone’s feet tap in unison. The band, The Covey, plays with an energy that fills the dimly lit room, the sound of banjos, guitars, and a steady drumbeat reverberating against the walls. Maude Ivory, the new lead singer, has a voice that commands attention, her presence magnetic as she sings with a sharp edge of confidence that both captivates and stirs the crowd. 

Blonde wild wavy locks flowing just past her shoulders, for a moment, I wonder what it must have been like to witness Lucy Gray's legendary performances before she vanished. There’s a hush of reverence when Maude sings, but no one dares to speak of Lucy’s disappearance her legacy already fading into the trees, the whispers still faintly present—how she had been accused of murdering the mayor’s daughter and her ex-boyfriend, Billy Taupe. Some say she’s dead; others swear they saw her vanish into the woods. But now, with Maude at the helm, The Covey was relit.

Annie leans toward me, her voice barely audible over the music as she grins mischievously. "Come on, let's go dance. You need to get out of your head for a bit." She reaches for my hand, tugging me toward the makeshift dance floor. 

I hesitate, but Annie doesn’t give me a chance to refuse. She pulls me into the crowd, laughing as she twirls me around, the infectious energy of the music slowly starting to seep into my bones. I can't help but smile, the tension in my shoulders easing just slightly as I follow her lead. It's easy to lose myself in the rhythm, in the carefree joy of the moment. For a brief second, the world outside the Hob fades away, and all that matters is the beat of the music and the warmth of Annie's friendship.

But then, Annie’s gaze shifts and I can feel her attention snap to something—or rather, someone. I follow her gaze, only to freeze as I spot him: the peacekeeper from yesterday. The one I had seen in the alley, lying on the ground with his bruised jaw and the look of someone who had been dealt a heavy blow. His presence now is more subdued, as though the physical pain lingers beneath his uniform. His posture stiff, but there's a softness in his eyes when they meet Annie’s. 

Without a word, Annie steps toward him, her hand outstretched. He hesitates, the conflict clear in his eyes, but when their fingers brush, it’s like an unspoken agreement. His hands are tentative as he places them on her shoulders, their movements slow at first, both of them adjusting to the moment. As the music swells, they begin to dance, lost in the chaos of the crowd.

I watch them, a knot of unease growing in my stomach. I can’t shake the feeling that Annie is somehow tangled in whatever trouble he’d been caught in. Despite the warning in my gut, I let it go, deciding for once to let her enjoy the music, the dance, and the fleeting happiness of the moment.

The music swirls around me, a vibrant wave that fills the air when I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turn, and there stands Archer Brown, a nervous smile tugging at the corners of his lips, his eyes flickering with uncertainty. His usual bravado is gone from yesterday, replaced by a shy hesitance that makes my heart skip a beat. 

"Care to dance?" he asks, his voice quieter than usual, almost as if he's unsure I’d say yes. But the warmth in his gaze and the slight curve of his lips ease the unease in his posture, making the offer all the more genuine.

My heart gives a little leap, and this time, I don’t hesitate I never did when it came to him. I place my hand in his, feeling the pulse of his fingers lightly tremble as they wrap around mine gently. Without another word, he pulls me toward the rhythm of the crowd, and as we fall into sync with the music, a rare sense of peace settles over me. For the first time today the weight of everything lifts, and it's just us moving together, lost in the simple joy of the moment.

As we dance, the world around us blurs, and it's just the two of us, moving in time with the music. Archer’s hands are warm against my back, a gentle anchor, and though he’s just come back from the mines, with the dust and grime still clinging to his skin, none of that matters. 

His presence is comforting, his closeness something I’ve craved. His eyes, a usually grey-blue now a stunning sapphire blue under the lights despite the tiredness in them, hold a quiet intensity as he looks at me, a tenderness that makes my chest tighten. The scent of sweat and earth is faint, but it only grounds me further, reminding me of the life we lead and the bond we share. We sway slowly, our movements in perfect harmony as if we’ve been doing this forever.

Our moment is shattered when Brayden steps into view, a sneer on his face. He stands a little too close, his gaze sharp as he sizes up the space between Archer and me, his eyes cold with jealousy. 

"Well, well, look who’s dancing with the dreamer," Brayden sneers, his voice dripping with mockery. 

He looks at me then at Archer mockingly. "You really think you're going to escape this place? You think someone like you," he points at me, "and you," his finger shifts to Archer, "are going to make it out of District 12? You're nothing but a pair of hopeful fools."

Archer stiffens beside me, his earlier warmth replaced by the tension of Brayden's taunting. I feel my stomach churn, a tight knot of hurt settling in as Brayden’s words sink in. His mocking tone echoes in my mind, I can't help but feel his words cut deeper than they should. 

"You’re a dreamer," Brayden continues, his eyes narrowing, "and dreamers like you don't get to leave you can trust me on that." His words hit hard hung in the air like a challenge. 

I feel Archer’s hand on my back, his silent support grounding me.

Brayden’s voice drips with disdain as he continues, "Your dreams are pathetic. Maybe you should focus more on taking care of your dying father instead of trying to escape, or you and him might as well both swing from a rope the way you’re heading." His words full of venom in leaves a bitter taste in the air stunning me into silence.

Archer’s land leaved my spine, then suddenly he’s lunging forward, grabbing Brayden by the collar shoving him back with enough force to tip a table over. The two crash into the wooden furniture, sending tankards clattering to the floor as Brayden stumbles, his sneer twisting into a snarl as he rights himself. 

"Take it back," Archer growls, his voice low and dangerous, but Brayden just laughs—a cold, mocking sound that only fuels Archer’s anger. They collide again, fists swinging and elbows jabbing, each trying to overpower the other boiling over into chaos.

Hob erupts as if a spark has hit dry kindling. The commotion seems to give everyone an excuse to let loose, people everywhere are shoving, wrestling, voices rising into a cacophony of shouts and jeers. Chairs scrape against the floor, tables overturn, and the once-joyful music is drowned out by the sounds of fists and angry yells. I back away, my heart racing as I try to keep my distance from the brawling crowd, my eyes glued to Archer as he grapples with Brayden, determined like he’s fighting for more than just an insult.

The fight escalates, each blow landing with raw intensity. Brayden manages to land a hard punch to Archer’s nose, and I see blood trickle down, staining his face. Archer doesn’t falter, though. His focus narrows, his moves sharper and more forceful. With a fierce shove, Archer throws Brayden back against the table, forcing him down with an unyielding grip, and for a moment, it’s clear—there’s no question who’s won.

Breathing heavily, Archer straightens, his chest rising and falling as he looks down at Brayden with a cold resolve. He lands a final kick to Brayden’s stomach, leaving him groaning in pain on the floor. Then, as if shaken from a trance, Archer’s gaze lifts, and his eyes meet mine. The intensity in his expression softens, his jaw still clenched, but there’s a flicker of something deeper—relief, concern, maybe even pride he takes a step toward me.

I gaze up at Archer, my heart racing with a mix of alarm and worry. Without a word, he takes my hand, his grip careful but urgent, and we slip through the back exit, leaving the chaotic brawl behind. Once outside, I can’t hold back the questions or the concern that spills out, but he only shakes his head, quiet, as we make our way back to my place.

At home, he sits on the edge of the kitchen chair, his head down, letting me tend to him. I gently dab at the blood trickling from his nose, the bruise already forming. My touch lingers as I clean his knuckles, rough and raw from the fight. Standing between his legs, I feel his steady breath, the anger slowly fading as I work. His hand reaches out to rest against my waist, grounding both of us in the quiet that now fills the room. The fierceness from before is gone, replaced by a vulnerable silence, and I’m struck by how much he’s willing to defend me. 

I pause, cloth still in hand, and meet his gaze, the question slipping out softly, “Why did you do it, Archer?” My voice is barely above a whisper, but the weight behind it fills the room. 

He holds my stare for a moment, then looks away, his jaw tightening before he answers. I can see the conflict in his eyes, the rawness of what just happened, and I wonder if he even knows why he snapped like that.

Archer exhales, glancing down at his bruised knuckles before meeting my eyes again. “Because… I couldn’t stand him talking to you like that,” he murmurs, his voice low but fierce. “The way he belittles your dreams throws your pain back at you… you don’t deserve that.” His fingers graze mine, hesitant, as if afraid of overstepping, but he holds on, grounding himself in the contact. “You’ve been through enough. And you deserve someone who’ll fight for you, not tear you down.” He swallows, his gaze searching my face, almost as if he's bracing himself for what I might think of him now.

I take his hand gently, feeling the roughness of his bruised skin beneath my fingertips. "Archer," I whisper, struck by the rawness in his eyes, the fierceness of his words echoing in my mind. For the first time, I see just how much he cares, the depth of his loyalty laid bare between us in this quiet, tender moment.

I smile softly, my fingers brushing lightly against his cheek as I speak, "I don't mind being called a dreamer. It just means that I still have hope." My voice is barely above a whisper, but the warmth of my words lingers in the space between us. "Thank you, Archer," I add, my touch gentle as I stroke his cheek. Leaning down, I press a light kiss to his forehead, the weight of my gratitude settling between us in the silence in the night.

-Back In The Capitol-

In the dim light of his Capitol office, Coriolanus Snow sat poised, his expression unreadable as a peacekeeper captain stood before him, his face tight with tension as he delivered the report. "Sir, a brawl broke out at the Hob in District 12. Three fatalities, numerous injuries, and significant property damage. It began with a dispute between two young men—over a girl, apparently—and escalated into chaos." Snow listened in silence, his gloved fingers steepled beneath his chin, his piercing gaze giving no hint of emotion.

When the report concluded, he leaned back, his mind already calculating. “Increase restrictions,” he said coldly, his voice like steel. “Expand curfews. Double the presence of Peacekeepers. Make it clear that lawlessness will not be tolerated in my districts. If they can’t govern themselves, we’ll do it for them."

For a fleeting moment, as the the captain left, Snow leaned back in his chair, Snow’s mind flickered to another time, years ago, when he had caused a brawl himself. The dusty air of the Hob, the feel of his fist colliding with Billy Taupe’s jaw as he defended Lucy Gray and the wild chaos that followed. He quickly dismissed the memory, disgust curling in his stomach at the memory of her.

A/N: Hey everyone! I hope you enjoyed Chapter 3 of Threads of Freedom (15th Hunger Games AU) featuring Archer Brown x Fem!Reader! 💖 As always, your feedback and opinions are greatly appreciated—feel free to share your thoughts on the story so far! Apologies for the late post, life got a little hectic, but I’m so thankful for your patience! 😊✨ Thank you for reading! Word Count: 5.1K Warnings: Tension/conflict, emotional strain, themes of guilt, internal conflict, political control, mentions of violence from the previous fight, oppressive government control, threats, arguments and themes of rebellion. Chapters: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 ----------------------------------------------------------------------

The early morning light filtered through the cracks in the worn shutters of the small room, casting long shadows across the floor as Y/n and Archer sat across from each other, the tension thick in the air. The sound of the peaceful hum of District 12 was muffled, as though the world itself was holding its breath. Archer had stayed the night, unwilling to face his family with bruised knuckles and the story of a fight at the Hob.

He didn’t want to see the worry in their eyes or deal with the questions that would undoubtedly follow. Here, in the safety of Y/n’s home, he could gather his thoughts, though the weight of the night before still pressed heavily on his chest.

It hadn’t been an easy night. After the fight, Y/n had led him to her small home, her touch as steady as her resolve despite the tension clinging to them both. Archer sat on a worn chair by the fire while she cleaned his wounds, the warmth of her hands and the light from the hearth a stark contrast to the chaos they’d left behind. At some point, exhaustion claimed him, and she convinced him to stay, settling him on a makeshift bed on the floor near the fire.

He remembered the quiet knock of her father returning home late from the mines. Archer stirred but stayed silent as Y/n greeted her father at the door, her frame briefly silhouetted by the faint moonlight. Her father’s voice was gruff but tinged with concern when he asked what had happened. 

“Everything’s fine,” Y/n reassured him, her tone gentle but firm. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

When she stepped away to fetch water for them both, Archer caught the faint sound of her father’s voice as he said, “You know, I really like that boy.” Archer’s heart skipped a beat, and he felt his cheeks flush as the words reached him. “He’s good for you. You’re better together than apart.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Y/n replied softly, and Archer could hear the warmth in her voice. 

The moment lingered in his mind long after she returned with two chipped cups of water, sitting beside him and handing one over with a small smile and resting her head lightly on his shoulder. Her father had let the matter drop after that, offering Archer a firm but understanding nod before retiring for the night. Archer knew Y/n’s father had always liked him, but hearing those words filled him with a quiet determination, a sense that maybe, despite everything, he was doing something right.

Now, in the stillness of the morning, Archer shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze darting toward the window. “You think your dad’s mad I stayed?” he asked, his voice low.

Y/n shook her head, a soft smile tugging at her lips accompanied by a laugh. “Not at all. He’s always thought highly of you. He trusts you.”

Archer’s throat tightened at her words. The trust of her father—and Y/n’s trust—meant more to him than he could express. Yet, the weight of what had happened the night before—the fight, the disturbance at the Hob, the Capitol's growing presence—made it hard for him to fully appreciate the fleeting comfort.

“I just didn’t want them worrying about me,” Archer muttered, glancing down at his bruised knuckles. “My family’s already got enough to deal with. They don’t need to know about me throwing punches at the Hob.”

Y/n leaned forward, her eyes meeting his. “You were defending me, Archer. And I’m not going to let you carry all the blame for it. We’re in this together, okay?”

Her words settled something in him, a small balm to the guilt that gnawed at his insides. Together. That word meant everything. Even in the face of the Capitol’s tightening grip, the whispers of rebellion in their hearts still burned brightly.

Archer’s eyes drifted to the faint morning light pooling at the edges of the shutters, his thoughts tangled in worry. The fight had been reckless, and he knew it. But the way her ex had sneered, the cruel words meant to tear her down—it had been too much to ignore.

Yet now, with the weight of her father’s approval still lingering in his mind, Archer wondered if his impulsiveness had only painted a larger target on both their backs. He reached for her hand, his fingers brushing against hers in a silent promise to stand by her, no matter what was to come.

Y/n glanced up at him, her lips parting as if to say something, but the words never came. Instead, her gaze shifted to the small room around them, the peeling paint on the walls, the uneven floorboards that creaked beneath even the softest steps. This was their world—a fragile, imperfect place where survival meant walking a fine line between submission and defiance. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the line was growing thinner with every passing day.

“Do you think they’ll come for us?” Y/n asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She fiddled with the hem of her dress, the fabric worn and threadbare from years of use, but there was no comfort in the familiar touch not now. Her mind raced through a thousand possibilities, each darker than the last.

Archer’s jaw tightened, and his eyes, usually so steady and calm, were clouded with frustration. He ran a hand through his messy hair, the usual tousled look replaced with something more akin to exhaustion. 

“I don’t know. I never should’ve let it get that far,” he muttered, the guilt heavy in his words. “I should’ve just ignored him, but—” He paused, glancing down at his hands as if they betrayed him, “I couldn't just stand there and let him mock you or belittle you.”

Y/n’s heart clenched at the sincerity in his tone. She could feel the weight of his guilt, but part of her knew that it wasn’t entirely his fault. Her ex had crossed a line, and the fiery emotions that followed had burned a path through everything they had worked so hard to protect.

“He knew what he was doing when he pulled that stunt it isn't our fault,” Y/n replied softly, her gaze unwavering. “But now... the Capitol's not going to let it slide.” She swallowed hard. “The Hob’s going to be under their watch. I wouldn't be surprised if it meant no more dancing or music. We’ve brought trouble down on everyone no matter how unintentional it was.”

Archer let out a frustrated sigh, standing up abruptly and pacing across the room the floorboard groaning with each step. He had always been the cautious one, the one who kept his head down, worked hard, and stayed out of trouble. Now, for the first time, it felt like the ground beneath him was crumbling, like he was being pulled in a direction he didn’t understand. A direction that led straight into danger.

The sounds of footsteps echoed from outside, and Y/n tensed, a wave of dread washing over her. Archer turned toward the window, peering through the gap in the boards. His face grew grim.

“More peacekeepers,” he muttered, half to himself. "They’re increasing the patrols around here. This can’t be good.”

Y/n stood and walked over to join him, her heart pounding in her chest. Through the crack, she could see the usual peacekeeper presence, but today it seemed even more intense. There were more of them, and they weren’t just walking the streets—they were scanning every corner, watching every face that moved.

-Later that day- Y/n and Archer walked through the dusty streets of District 12, the weight of the recent events heavy on their shoulders. The air seemed suffocating, filled with hushed conversations and wary glances as the townsfolk exchanged fearful looks. The usual hum of daily life had been replaced with an underlying tension, a sense that the fragile peace they once took for granted was unravelling.

"You hear about what happened at the Hob?" one woman muttered to another, her voice barely audible. "Peacekeepers are gonna come down hard on us now. We’ll all pay for that little stunt at the hob."

Archer’s posture stiffened at the words, his gaze flicking toward the source of the conversation. The resentment was evident, but what cut deeper was the undercurrent of fear. Fear that their small act of rebellion would bring down even harsher punishments, not just on them, but on everyone in the district.

Y/n spotted a group of men from the Hob up ahead, their faces drawn tight with worry. One of them, a tall, gangly man named Eamon, locked eyes with her and quickly approached, his expression tense.

"Did you two start that fight?" he demanded, his voice gruff and full of frustration. "Because if you did, you've just made life harder for all of us. We don’t need the Capitol’s eyes on us any more than they already are."

Archer opened his mouth to retort, but Y/n stepped forward, placing a calming hand on his arm silencing him. She turned to face Eamon, her voice even but laced with strain. "We didn’t start it," she said quietly. "But I understand your concerns.” Eamon’s gaze sharpened, his lips curling into a tight line. "You’re dam right, girl," he said, his tone low and heavy. "It’s District 12. If the Capitol tightens its grip here, we’re all gonna feel it. Everyone will."

Y/n nodded slowly, her chest tightening with the weight of his words. Y/n took a deep breath, her gaze softening as she looked at Eamon. She could feel the tension between them, the weight of the situation pressing down on both sides. This wasn’t her fault, but she knew the impact of their actions had already begun to ripple through the district. She needed to ease the moment, for Eamon’s sake as much as hers.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, her voice sincere, yet laced with the regret she carried. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. We’re all just trying to survive, but... I never wanted to put anyone else at risk.”

Eamon’s eyes flickered with something—maybe understanding, maybe resignation—but he didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he gave a sharp nod, the lines on his face deepening as he sighed.

"Just... be careful," he muttered, his voice a mix of caution and frustration. "This place isn’t as forgiving as it used to be we’re all on thin ice."

Y/n gave him a small, apologetic nod, her heart heavy with his words. Without another word, she turned, her hand quickly finding Archer’s. She squeezed his fingers gently, the quiet comfort of his touch grounding her as they continued walking through the town.

"Good day, Eamon," she called over her shoulder, her voice firm yet polite, as she kept moving forward. She didn’t wait for a response. There was nothing left to say, not here, not now. They had their own path to follow, and the weight of their journey felt heavier with every step.

As Archer and I continued to walk through the streets of District 12 the sudden sound of a loudspeaker crackled to life and rang through District 12 like nails on a chalkboard, the voice of the District 12 commander booming over the loudspeakers, instructing all citizens to report immediately to the reaping area. 

The air grew thick with unease as the crowd began to gather, murmurs of confusion and fear rippling through the streets. People exchanged nervous glances, wondering why, with two weeks still to go before the official reaping ceremony and why everyone in 12 was suddenly called into the reaping area like a herd of sheep.

The tight-knit community, usually accustomed to their own quiet routines, was now filled with a sense of dread, the unknown weighing heavily on each of them. Y/n’s breath hitched as peacekeepers moved swiftly through the crowd, their stern expressions cutting through the tension like knives.

It wasn’t just the gathering of people that had everyone on edge—it was the fact that a Capitol official had arrived so early, and no one had any idea why on earth a man of that position would be here. Surely the hob fight wasn’t the cause of a Capitol official entering District 12.

As the crowd pressed in around her, Y/n felt Archer’s hand find hers, his grip tight and steady, grounding her in the chaos. They were pushed forward, forced into the reaping area, their bodies pressed uncomfortably against the others. The space was cramped, the air thick with the stench of sweat, smoke, coal and fear.

Archer’s fingers tightened around hers as if trying to shield her from the overwhelming anxiety that seemed to vibrate in the air each pile of nerves ricocheting from one to another like waves. They were no longer just a few familiar faces in a community—they were now part of a captive audience, herded like livestock. Every step felt like it carried the weight of their lives, with the Capitol’s watchful eyes now trained on them, ensuring no one would escape.

Despite the growing panic, a small sense of relief washed over Y/n when she spotted Annie pushing her way through the crowd her ginger hair standing out like a sore thumb amongst the crowd. She made her way toward Y/n, squeezing in beside her just as the peacekeepers began to line the walls, their sharp eyes scanning every face with cold precision.

Annie, though visibly shaken, managed a faint smile before the weight of the moment sank in again. With peacekeepers lining every exit, the tension in the air was suffocating. They were trapped, not just physically but in the reality that the Capitol was tightening its grip on them, and they had no choice but to wait for what would come next.

The Commander of District 12 stepped forward, his sharp uniform cutting through the crowd’s growing restlessness. He cleared his throat, raising his hand to silence the murmurs. The peacekeepers around the area shifted, their eyes watching everyone with unwavering intensity. The crowd fell into uneasy silence, and all eyes turned toward the commander.

"Everyone, quiet down," the Commander called out, his voice carrying over the sea of people. "We’ve been asked to gather here today by a representative of the Capitol. Though President Coriolanus Snow is unable to be here in person today, he’s sent someone in his stead to address us."

Y/n’s stomach churned at the mention of the President’s name. She knew, of course, that Coriolanus Snow now ruled Panem, but hearing his name felt like a weight pressing against her chest.

With that, the Commander stepped aside, and a tall, impeccably dressed Capitol official made his way to the front. The man’s sharp features and slick, perfectly styled hair marked him immediately as someone who had spent years grooming himself for the role of servitude to the Capitol. His voice was high-pitched and annoyingly posh, as though each word had been carefully rehearsed and delivered with the precision of a trained performer.

"Citizens of District 12," he began, his voice amplified by the loudspeaker, making the words echo through the reaping area. The sound of his voice grated against Y/n’s nerves immediately. It was as if each syllable had been dipped in condescension, a tone meant to remind them all of their place in this wretched society.

“It is an honour to address you on behalf of President Coriolanus Snow, who could not make this meeting in person. As you are all aware, the Capitol keeps a close eye on all of its districts, ensuring that order and peace are maintained across the nation. The President has sent me here to personally address some matters of great importance.”

Y/n felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise, the sound of his voice like nails on a chalkboard, sending a shiver through her. She could see people around her shifting uncomfortably, their eyes narrowing as they listened to his every word.

"I know you may be wondering," he continued, his voice too smooth, "Why such an early visit? And why, with two weeks to go before the reaping ceremony, have we gathered you all here?"

His grin widened, and Y/n cringed as the smugness in his expression reflected in his words. "The President wants to make one thing clear today—there are no exceptions. District 12 will be monitored closely. There is no tolerance for disruptions, no room for rebellion."

Y/n’s teeth clenched at his words, the mockery in his tone almost unbearable. She couldn’t stand the way he spoke, as though they were nothing more than pawns to be moved around.

The Capitol official's gaze swept over the crowd, his eyes narrowing slightly as though sizing everyone up before he continued, “And as for the recent disturbance at the Hob…” He paused for a moment, letting the words hang in the air like a weight.

“The Capitol is well aware of the events that transpired. The defiance, the unrest, the blatant disregard for order—it cannot and will not be tolerated. Let me make this very clear: the Hob, along with any gatherings like it, will be shut down until further notice. Any further incidents, any more of this... disorder,” he spat the word as if it were venom, “will be met with swift consequences. District 12 will be made an example of. The Capitol will not hesitate to enforce the law.”

The crowd shifted uncomfortably, whispers of anxiety rippling through the mass. Y/n could feel the tension in the air, the suffocating pressure of knowing they were all being watched, their every move under the Capitol’s microscope. She clenched her fists at her sides, trying to keep herself steady, but the words stung. The Hob—the last place in District 12 where people could escape, even for a little while, from the oppression—was being taken from them.

Archer squeezed her hand tighter as if sensing the same unease. The Capitol official’s voice droned on, a false calm in his tone, but all Y/n could hear was the pounding of her heart in her ears. The Hob had been a sanctuary, a place where people came together, even if just for a fleeting moment. Now, that small defiance was being extinguished, and the air in the reaping area felt colder, heavier, as though a part of their already fragile lives had been stolen away.

As the Capitol official finished speaking, the crowd slowly began to disperse, their anxious murmurs growing louder as they filed out of the reaping area. The weight of his words lingered in the air like a shadow, casting a pall over the entire district. 

Y/n, still trying to process the sting of the Hob’s closure, turned to Annie, who stood beside her, looking equally unsettled. "I’ll see you later," Y/n said, offering a strained smile, but Annie only nodded, her face pale with worry. Y/n could sense the unease in the air, the oppressive weight of the Capitol’s presence hanging over them, but there was little more to say. They were all in this together, but it didn’t feel like enough anymore.

With one last glance at Annie, Y/n turned to Archer, who was already waiting for her, his expression a mixture of quiet determination and the same unease that had settled in Y/n’s chest. His grip on her hand tightened slightly, a silent reassurance that they were still in this together.

They exchanged no words; there was nothing more to say. They simply started walking side by side, moving through the narrow, winding streets of District 12, their footsteps muffled on the dust-covered road. The usual hum of life in the district felt distant, swallowed up by the heavy weight of the tension in the air. The oppressive silence between them mirrored the tightening noose around the district.

The peacekeepers’ presence seemed amplified today—standing on every corner, patrolling the alleys, their eyes constantly scanning, as if searching for any signs of rebellion or disobedience. Even the air felt heavier, weighed down by an unspoken fear that clung to the edges of every conversation and every glance exchanged.

As they passed by the Hob, Y/n’s heart sank, her steps slowing instinctively. It was as if the world had paused in that moment, the sight of the boarded-up building sending a wave of dread crashing over her. The Hob had always been more than just a meeting place; it had been a sanctuary of sorts, a place where the people of District 12 could breathe, where they could share whispered conversations about change and dream of a life beyond the Capitol’s reach.

It was their small act of defiance, their last bit of rebellion against the crushing weight of their lives. But now, as they stood there, looking at the building, the familiar wooden door was completely sealed shut, covered in rough, hastily nailed planks. 

The windows were dark, the dim light that had once filtered through was now blocked off completely. It felt as if the heart of the district had been ripped out. The guilt of the disturbance—the fight that had sparked this crackdown—washed over Y/n, even though she knew, deep down, it wasn’t entirely their fault.

They hadn’t asked for this. But it didn’t matter. In her mind, they were the catalyst for the crackdown, the ones who had given the Capitol a reason to crack down harder on the district. And now, the Hob, the one place that had still offered some sense of hope, was silenced. 

The weight of that loss settled on her shoulders, making her feel as though they had contributed to something irreparable. Even Archer, usually so steady, walked with a tense posture, his eyes fixed ahead, avoiding the sight of the Hob, but Y/n could see the guilt written all over his face too. It was a shared burden, and though neither of them had asked for it, it was theirs to carry.

As they continued walking in the direction of Y/n’s home with Archer insisting he walk her home after a while they now reached the fields. Archer’s hand stayed firmly wrapped around mine as they walked through the fields, the tall grass brushing their ankles with each step.

The open expanse before them should have felt like freedom, but the weight of the Capitol’s looming presence hung heavy in the air. Y/n could feel it—every step they took, every breath they shared, was tainted by the fear of what was coming next. The window for escape was closing. They both knew it.

“I think we need to make up our minds soon,” Y/n said softly, her voice breaking through the silence that had settled between them. She glanced at him, her heart aching. “The Capitol won’t give us much longer. We have to leave before it’s too late. Before they tighten their grip even more.”

Archer’s pace faltered for a moment, and he looked away, his jaw clenched. She could see the conflict in his eyes—the hesitation that had always been there, the fear that had held him back from truly considering escape. She understood his hesitation; leaving meant risking everything. But she wasn’t sure how much longer she could wait.

“We can’t wait forever, Archer,” she continued, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’m not saying it’s easy, but we have to make a choice. The longer we wait, the harder it will be to get away.”

Archer’s steps grew more forceful, and suddenly, he stopped, whirling to face her with an expression that was both frustrated and exhausted. "I know what you're saying," he snapped, his voice sharper than she had expected. 

His hand dropped from hers, and he ran it through his hair, clearly stressed, trying to push the weight of everything out of his mind. “But every time you say it, it's like you think I don’t understand the urgency. You think I don’t get it?" 

His eyes burned with frustration, the tension in his broad shoulders evident. "I’m just trying to figure out how we don’t get caught, alright? I’m not ready to have a Capitol official at our door. And I don’t need you pushing me to make decisions when all I can think about is how the hell we’re going to survive."

Y/n took a step back, feeling the sting of his words. He didn’t mean it. She knew he didn’t. But the pressure of their situation, the fear of the unknown, had made it harder for him to process everything, and she had pushed too hard. She swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing herself to nod, though she still felt the sting of his anger. He was stressed, and she knew better than to push him further, not right now. Still, the worry gnawed at her—time was running out, and they couldn’t afford to wait much longer.

Archer’s shoulders were tense, his frustration mounting with every passing second. Y/n could feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating. She had pushed him too far, and he was cracking under the weight of it all. His fists clenched at his sides, and he took another step closer to her, his voice now low and tight with anger.

“Why can’t you just understand?” Archer’s words were like a whip, sharp and biting. “I don’t have an answer yet! You want me to make a decision on the spot, but I’m not going to risk everything for some dream of getting away, not without knowing how it will end. It’s not that simple!”

Y/n’s heart raced, the pressure of everything collapsing around her. The uncertainty, the danger, the mounting expectations—she couldn’t take it anymore. She had been patient, understanding, but the constant back-and-forth, the constant hesitation—it was draining her.

“You think it’s easy for me?” she snapped back, her voice loud with the anger that had been building inside her for days. “You think I’m not terrified too? You think I don’t know the risks?” She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but the words came out sharp, like a weapon she didn’t mean to wield.

“I’m not asking you to have everything figured out, Archer. I’m asking you to make a choice. To do something instead of standing here, paralyzed by fear. If you don’t want to leave, then fine! But don’t keep dragging me through this if you’re not ready to make a move.”

Without waiting for his response, Y/n turned away, her chest tight as she walked off, her footsteps heavy on the ground. She didn’t look back, even though every part of her wanted to. She needed space, to breathe, to think. The last thing she needed was more hesitation, more indecision. She didn’t have time to waste, and it felt like Archer was running out of it just as much as she was.

As Y/n walked away, the weight of her words settling in, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of uncertainty deep in her chest. This was harder than she had ever imagined. She wanted to leave with Archer, she really did—more than anything. But the doubts lingered, gnawing at her. She had hoped that, in time, he would come around, that they could make the decision together. But as the days slipped by, the window to escape was closing, and she wondered if she would have to make the final move on her own.

-Archers POV- 

As Archer walked through the fields, his thoughts were a tangled mess of frustration and guilt. He had always been the cautious one, the one who kept his head down and his mouth shut, doing what was necessary to survive. But ever since Y/n had come into his life ever since they were little, everything had changed. 

His feelings for her, fierce and overwhelming, drove him to act in ways that went against everything he had been taught. At the Hob, when he’d seen that man disrespecting her, all his careful plans and the restraint he had spent years perfecting had been forgotten in a heartbeat. The anger had erupted from deep within him, and for the first time, he had lashed out, not just to protect her, but because something inside him couldn’t bear to see her hurt.

But now, walking alone, the weight of his actions felt heavier than it ever had before. He had snapped at her—Y/n, the one person who always understood him, who had been by his side for so long. 

And for what? Because he was scared? Because he didn’t want to take the risk of everything falling apart? He felt selfish for dragging her into this, for making her feel like she was alone in this fight. He wanted to leave, to run with her, but the thought of it—of being caught, of endangering her—paralyzed him. Archer knew it wasn’t just fear of the Capitol that held him back; it was his own inability to fully trust in their escape, in their dream of freedom.

As he arrived home, the familiar sight of his mother waiting for him in the kitchen made his chest tighten. She could always tell when something was wrong, and tonight, he knew she would ask. 

After a long pause, he sat down at the table, feeling her gaze settle on him. "What happened?" she asked softly, her tone more curious than concerned. 

Archer let out a heavy sigh and leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "I snapped at Y/n," he admitted quietly, his voice laced with regret. "We argued about leaving. I don’t want to drag her into this… but at the same time, I can’t stand the thought of losing her. Everything’s changing, Ma. The Capitol’s tightening their grip, and it feels like the window to leave is closing."

Warnings: Mentions of hanging, violence, peacekeeper brutality, swearing, oppression, mentions of death, political corruption, abuse of power, and public execution. A/N: I hope you enjoy the first chapter of Threads of Freedom! I’d love to hear your thoughts below, as your feedback will really help me understand what you think of the story so far. Please let me know if you think future chapters should be longer or shorter. I apologise if this isn’t perfect—it’s my first fic—but I’m committed to improving as I go along. Thank you for reading!!

New A/N: Hey everyone! Just a quick update to let you know that I’ve gone back and edited Chapter One. After re-reading it, I realized there was room to add a bit more detail and make some improvements for you all to enjoy. There are a few adjustments, but nothing too drastic—just polishing things up to enhance the story. Also, Chapter 2 has been uploaded! Thank you for your support, and I hope you enjoy both the updated Chapter One and the new chapter! 💕 Word Count: 3.6K Chapters: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

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The crunch of worn shoes on gravel echoed through my ears as I walked through the centre of District 12, which was reaching its peak hour of activity for the afternoon, considering how the reaping of the 15th Hunger Games would commence in about two weeks. The sun's glare painstakingly reached my eyes as the tall man I was walking closely behind on purpose to shelter away from the heat veered off to the right to continue their way to wherever they may have been heading this afternoon. 

I sighed, raising a hand to shield my eyes from the sun's harsh glare again, squinting against its intensity. The heat pressed down on me, heavy and relentless, but I pushed through it, determined to reach the bakery. As I walked, the familiar rhythm of my feet against the cracked pavement seemed to ground me. The air was thick with the usual scent of dust and sweat that lingered around District 12, but there was something different today. As I neared the bakery, the familiar scent of fresh bread slowly began to wrap around me, warm and inviting, cutting through the stale air like a breath of life. It was the comforting scent that had greeted me since I was a child, and it never failed to make me feel just a little lighter.

The smell of flour and yeast mingled with the sweetness of cinnamon and sugar, creating an almost tangible warmth in the air. It was a welcome contrast to the metallic tang of the factories that choked the atmosphere around the markets, where coal and smoke hung like a thick fog. The ever-present stench of sweat and soot was a constant reminder of the mines and the harsh reality of life here, but as I drew closer to Mellark’s Bakery, the mood shifted.

For once, the typical gloomy aroma of the town felt as though it was lifted, replaced by the soft, comforting scent of freshly baked goods, a rare reprieve from the ever-present heaviness of District 12. I inhaled deeply, letting the smell of bread and pastries fill my lungs, savouring the moment of peace it brought. The small corner shop, with its cozy windows and the soft sound of the bell above the door, was a tiny oasis amidst the chaos of the district.

My feet were unintentionally picking up speed as I weaved through the crowded streets, maneuvering between the hunched figures of coal miners, market vendors, and children lugging baskets of goods. I barely noticed the small glances of annoyance and disapproval I earned as I brushed past them, but their glares lingered in the corners of my vision. I could feel the heat of their stares, but it didn't matter. The promise of fresh food, the familiar comfort of warm loaves of bread, pushed me forward, and I focused solely on that. I quickened my pace, my breath coming in small bursts, until my feet were practically dancing over the uneven cobblestones. 

A slight skip now punctuated my steps, a quiet defiance to the heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the district. It was one small rebellion against the grinding reality that we lived under, and for a moment, it felt almost freeing. As I neared the bakery, the tantalizing smell of fresh dough, golden and soft, wafted toward me, making my stomach growl in anticipation.

My hand reached for the worn brass handle of the door, and just as I pushed it open, the soft jingle of the bell above rang out, its light tinkling sound cutting through the din of the streets. The moment I stepped inside, the cozy warmth of the bakery wrapped around me like a blanket. There, behind the counter, I spotted Annie Mellark, the owner's daughter and one of my best friends. Her familiar face was the beacon of comfort I had been longing for, and I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face. I hastily entered, the bell ringing once more as I made my way to the counter, eager to greet her and take in the warmth of the bakery that felt like home.

Her head immediately sprung up from one of the wooden racks where she had been carefully lining up fresh loaves of warm, golden-brown bread. Her warm brown eyes, always full of life and kindness, crinkled at the corners as they locked onto me, a wide grin spreading across her freckled face the moment she saw me. The light in her expression was impossible to miss—her presence radiated a kind of warmth that seemed to chase away the cool gloom of District 12. Before I could even respond, she let out a joyful squeal of delight that echoed through the small bakery, causing one of the startled customers to jump and glance over, a mix of surprise and amusement on their face. Annie, completely oblivious to the minor disturbance, rushed toward me, her movements quick and graceful. 

As she hurried past the counter, her flour-dusted apron—once pristine but now a canvas of white smudges—flapped at the edges, and I couldn’t help but notice the dab of flour on her left cheek, just beneath her eye, a mark that only added to her charm. Her ginger hair, straight and fiery, framed her face with a tousled bounce, the strands just past her shoulders blowing gently in the soft breeze from the open window. It was a striking contrast to the usual Mellark family appearance—where blonde and brown hair dominated. Annie’s fiery locks were like a flame in a place that often felt perpetually covered in ash, adding to her distinct presence. She was always so full of energy, a beacon of light in the dreariness of our everyday lives.

“Y/N!” she cried, her voice bright and unmistakable, cutting through the low hum of the bakery. The warmth of her tone made my shoulders relax, the tension from the day starting to melt away. Without missing a beat, she immediately abandoned her work, her flour-dusted hands leaving faint marks on the countertop as she hurried over to me. She pulled me into a tight, comforting hug, her arms enveloping me like a shield against the weight of the world. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the familiar sensation of her warmth chase away the weariness that had been clinging to me all day.

“Hey, Annie,” I said, unable to hold back a grin. Her energy was infectious, like a spark of light in the otherwise dull routine of our lives here in District 12. I could feel her enthusiasm radiating from her, bright enough to momentarily banish the heavy thoughts weighing on my mind.

“Let me guess,” she said with a mischievous glint in her eye, hands on her hips. She leaned in, her gaze playful but knowing. “Two loaves of sourdough for you, and one for the Browns?”

“Impressive,” I teased, laughing softly. “How do you always know?”

She chuckled, her laugh as light as the breeze that occasionally slipped through the bakery's open door, vanishing briefly behind the counter to retrieve two paper bags. Her movements were fluid and confident, as if she had done this a thousand times, which, knowing Annie, she probably had. Each bag was carefully labelled in her neat handwriting. One bore my family name, the other “Brown,” the letters almost perfectly aligned.

“Magic,” she replied, her voice laced with playful mystery, as she placed the bags on the counter in front of me. Her eyes sparkled, and she was already anticipating my response. I reached for my coin pouch, ready to pay, but before I could even touch the leather, she swatted my hand away with a lighthearted but firm gesture.

“Oh, don’t even think about it, Y/N,” she scolded softly, her voice teasing but carrying a hint of protectiveness beneath the playful exterior. “This one’s on the house.”

“But, Annie—” I began, but she was already pushing the bags into my hands, her grin widening into something daring, as if she knew I wouldn't win this one. Her insistence was endearing, and I didn’t have the heart to argue.

“Go on,” she said, her voice softer now, urging me to leave, but with that same spark in her eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the Hob! And tell Archer I said hi and to stop working himself to death.” She waved me off with a final, radiant smile, her eyes following me as I reluctantly turned to leave, the bags a small comfort in my hands as I stepped back into the sunlit street.

Laughing at her antics, I wave both her and her father goodbye, offering a subtle ‘Thank you’ to Annie as I exit the bakery. The warm, familiar chime of the bell behind me fades into the background, blending with the cacophony of the bustling streets of District 12. The momentary feeling of comfort vanishes as I step back into the crowd, the noise of the district swallowing me up again. I glance around, my eyes scanning the faces of the workers, traders, and children weaving between them. The weight of the day presses on me, and I start walking back in the direction I came from, my steps slow and measured as I make my way toward the seams.

As I walk, a gnawing unease settles in the pit of my stomach. The tension in the air is thick, almost suffocating. I notice the small, subtle signs of fear in the people around me: mothers clutching their children’s hands with a desperation I’ve never seen before, their gazes darting nervously toward the looming Capitol billboards and the distant, foreboding figure of the Justice Building. It’s as if the entire district knows that in just two weeks, their children could be chosen—ripped away from them, sent to a new arena to fight for their lives.

The thought is enough to make me shiver, my mind briefly racing with the dark possibility. Even the usual teenage troublemakers who typically roam the streets causing havoc seem quieter, their boldness tempered by an undercurrent of fear. They walk with their heads down, glancing nervously at the peacekeepers who now patrol the streets with even more vigilance. They know the rules have changed. No one wants to be noticed. No one wants to attract attention in case they too find their names drawn from the reaping bowl.

I feel a chill creep down my spine at the thought that I could just as easily be one of them, one of the unlucky ones, dragged from the safety of District 12 to fight in the Hunger Games. My stomach lurches at the dark thought, and I instinctively grip the paper bags in my hands tighter, the familiar crinkle of the packaging grounding me as I keep walking. I try to shake the fear away. Stop it—you’re fine, I remind myself, though my mind doesn’t listen. The oppressive heat of the sun is a constant reminder of how the world feels right now—too hot, too heavy, too tense. Sweat beads on my forehead, mixing with the apprehension that clings to me like a second skin. I swallow hard, forcing myself to focus on my steps, on the mundane task of getting home, even as I know deep down that the reality of the reaping is always just one slip away.

The longer I walked the further out of the central town I got. The already poorly structured buildings and shops progressively worsened as smoke and dust re-entered my lungs but it was nothing new to District 12. This place was never as fully advanced as the others with it’s materials and almost always smelt of smoke from the factories, coal mines and the train station, it seemed as though it was the first thing you breathed when you entered the world. Adjusting to the changes in the air like a second nature just like how the new President and all of the presidents before himself expected us to adapt to life in these broken districts like birds trapped in a cage and told to soar.

I was snapped out of my raging thoughts as the sound of fractured muffled sobs was heard from presumably a man further up the path, I tensed hesitating to walk further but pushed through not wanting to take the longer way home, I continued walking ahead the sound of broken cries becoming louder and louder than a ‘thwack’ was heard one that could only suit the sound of a baton no doubt being used by a peacekeeper on a poor district citizen.

I wince as it only gets louder knowing that I can’t do anything but continue walking past and continue with my day, but when walking past the alley where the beating was occurring I can’t help but look and glance down the alleyway calling it curiosity or plain stupidity. I felt my heart stop for a moment the young man probably no older than 22 left at the mercy of the peacekeeper above him. And he was not holding back his fist pounding down on the young man repeatedly. The peacekeeper snaps “Maybe this will teach you a lesson to stay away from the filthy district scum here. I’m not going to keep protecting you Rowan you’re lucky I'm the one doing this and not the others! You’re training to be a peacekeeper for Christ's sake! There is no time to be fooling around with that girl in town! No girl is worth swinging from a rope for!”

The sickening crunch of bone echoed through the alley, forcing me to look away, but my gaze betrayed me, glancing back as horror and anger simmered beneath my fear. Another punch landed squarely on his nose, making me suck in a sharp breath. The peacekeeper froze, his eyes scanning until they locked onto mine. Shit, I thought, turning and rushing down the path that was quickly giving way to the familiar dirt road leading to the Seam.

After a 15-minute walk, I find myself surrounded by the familiar landscape of the Seam as I head toward the Brown family’s home to deliver their loaf of bread. Archer, his father, and his youngest brother Oliver, who’s only 14 but already following in their footsteps, are busy working in the mines. This leaves just his mother and 12-year-old sister Jane alone in the house. Bringing them a little food is the least I can do for a family this large—and I'd do anything for Archer, knowing he’d do the same for me.

Soon enough their house came into view that was conveniently only a 5-minute walk from mine. I knocked on the door softly to hear the sounds of shuffling feet soon enough the front door swung open revealing Jane looking up at me with a toothy smile her brown locks tied away in a low ponytail and a blue dress custom-made from her mother on her birthday. 

“Hey, Jane, mind if I come in?” I ask with a gentle smile, clutching two brown paper bags filled with sourdough.

Without a word, she hastily pulls me inside by the fabric of my dress, causing it to sway slightly where it flares out past my waist.

“You can come in anytime! Don’t even bother knocking,” she beams, her excitement evident as we step into the cozy room. I greet her mother with a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek before handing her one of the bags. 

Jane and I settle at the rickety wooden dining table, its surface scratched and faded from years of use. She’s practically bouncing in her seat, eager to recount the day’s events, her words tumbling out in a rush. I listen, smiling, as she talks animatedly about the little things—the funny interactions at work, a new recipe she tried at the bakery, and the minor mischief she’d gotten up to. Her excitement is contagious, filling the space around us with a sense of ease.

Just as she’s finishing a story, a soft knock sounds at the door, and Jane’s breath catches. We turn our heads to see the rest of the Browns entering, calling, “We’re home!” Their tired faces tell of a long day in the mines, and my heart aches as I watch them kick off their dusty boots and set their belongings aside.

"Hey, Archer!" I call out with a soft smile, my voice a gentle thread in the room. His head snaps up at the sound of my voice, and I catch the brief flicker of surprise in his eyes before it melts into warmth. He stops untying his shoes, his hands pausing mid-motion. The corners of his lips curl into a smile, and without a second thought, he pushes himself up and rushes toward me. I can’t help but laugh softly as he nearly stumbles in his haste, his long strides carrying him quickly to my side. He scoops me up from the wooden chair, the motion fluid and sure, and pulls me into a big hug. His arms wrap tightly around me, enveloping me in his familiar, comforting embrace. The warmth of his body against mine is grounding, his gentle squeeze holding me for a moment longer than necessary, as if he’s savoring the connection. “How were the mines today?” I ask looking up at him and noticing the dirt and grime decorating his face and hands as he pulls back from the hug I see that some of that dirt is now scattered across the top of my dress clinging to the fabric. I let out a laugh, catching the look on his face as he started to stammer out a thousand apologies. Quickly, I cut him off.

“How about a walk?” I question him tilting my head faintly to the side as I glance up at him a smile forming on my lips. 

I greet his father and brother as we leave his home, offering a smile that feels natural in their presence. Archer’s hand finds mine almost instinctively, the warmth of his touch grounding me as we make our way through the familiar path that winds through the nearby fields. The tall grass rustles around us, swaying in the gentle breeze as we walk, our footsteps light against the earth. We chat casually, exchanging stories about our days—small talk that feels comforting against the backdrop of the vast, open land. The sun is beginning its descent, painting the sky in warm hues, but the weight of the day lingers in the air. 

As we draw closer to our spot, a peaceful quiet begins to settle over us, the kind that only comes when you are surrounded by nature’s stillness. The sound of the distant birds, the whisper of the wind, and the occasional rustle of the grass underfoot are the only things that break the silence. Archer’s presence beside me eases my worries, stilling my racing thoughts, if only for a moment. My hand in his is a reassurance, a promise that, for this time, everything feels right. 

I glance up at the sky, where mockingjays soar freely above, their wings cutting through the air with effortless grace. They are unbound by fences, unburdened by the constraints of the world below. I watch them for a moment, and a pang of longing tugs at my chest. If only, I think silently, my heart aching at the thought of freedom. I’m pulled from my thoughts as we reach our destination, the sight of the swing hanging from the weathered post pulling me back to the present.

Archer leans against the worn wooden post of the swing, his arms crossed loosely over his chest as he watches me with a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His gaze is soft, the setting sun catching in his hair, casting a halo-like glow around him. The ropes creak softly as I sway back and forth, the sound mingling with the distant chirping of crickets and the rustle of the wind in the trees. The evening air is cool against my skin, a welcome relief from the heat of the day.

 The sky is awash in soft shades of blue and purple, the sun casting a warm glow over the land as it begins to sink below the horizon. My bare feet brush against the blades of grass with each swing, the coolness of the earth beneath me grounding me in the moment. My shoes are abandoned in a small patch of dirt, forgotten for now as I lose myself in the rhythm of the swing. My gaze drifts across the open fields, where the horizon stretches on, an endless sea of green and brown. Beyond District 12, the world feels both vast and unreachable, a reminder of the freedom that seems so far away. But here, in this small corner of the world, with Archer beside me, everything feels momentarily perfect.

“I have to get out of here, Archer,” I murmured, my voice low but laced with urgency as i beak the silence. “Before the 15th Hunger Games. I can’t stay here any longer. What if our names are next? I want to be free—away from all of this.” The thought weighed heavily on me, a desperate longing for escape that seemed impossible.

As I spoke, a vivid flash of a young man being beaten by peacekeepers crossed my mind, a haunting reminder of the brutality that loomed over us like a dark cloud. The sound of his cries echoed in my ears, a chilling reminder of the power they wielded over our lives, and I shivered at the thought of what awaited us if we stayed. I turned to Archer, searching his eyes for understanding, for the courage I needed to convince him to join me in this dream of freedom. “I can’t just stand by and wait for my name to be drawn. We have to leave before it’s too late.”

A pang of admiration and sadness tightened in Archer’s chest. You had always dreamed beyond the dusty smoke-filled streets and fields, your spirit too restless for the confines of District 12. He pushed off the post, stepping closer to you. Kneeling beside the swing, he rested a hand on the chain, meeting her eyes with a steady resolve yet a softness in his azure blue eyes.

“One day, we’ll be free,” he promised, his voice low, as if speaking it too loudly might shatter the fragile hope between them. “I swear it just… just give it some time.”

A/N: I hope you all enjoy Chapter 4 of Threads of Freedom (15th Hunger Games AU) featuring Archer Brown x Fem!Reader! 😱✨ The tension is definitely escalating, and things are about to get even more intense as we move forward! As for Coriolanus, he will be making his return very soon in the series, so get ready for more drama! 😏🔥

Also, just a heads up – I'm working on another series called Pleasantries of 'Love' (18+), which is going to explore some very steamy and complex moments. 🌹💋 So stay tuned for that, too! Thank you all for your continued support, and I can't wait to see what you think of what’s coming next! 💕 Word Count: 5.4K Warnings: Tension/conflict, emotional strain, themes of guilt, internal conflict, political control, anxiety, oppressive government control, threats, arguments, interrogation, illness, threat of arrest, illusion to hanging and mentions of death

Chapters: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 ----------------------------------------------------------------------

I avoided Archer for three days. Three whole days. Wherever I went, I made sure to steer clear of him, keeping my distance even in the cramped streets of District 12. If we crossed paths, I refused to meet his gaze, my heart clenching every time I felt his eyes linger on me. The sting of our argument was still fresh, his harsh words replaying in my mind. The memory of his reluctance to even consider leaving, the dismissiveness in his voice, made my blood boil.

He didn’t understand—he couldn’t. Every day that passed brought us closer to losing our chance, closer to being trapped in this suffocating district forever.

I tried to throw myself into work, but it didn’t help. At Annie’s bakery, I kneaded dough so forcefully my hands ached, frustration leaking into every motion. Annie noticed my tension but didn’t push—yet. The repetitive rhythm of baking should’ve been comforting, but it only gave me space to think. Was I too harsh? Should I have let Archer’s words slide? Every time I thought about it, my pride won. If he truly cared, he’d come to me first. I couldn’t make the first move this time.

The nights were the hardest. Alone in my room, staring at the cracked ceiling, I replayed our argument in my mind, emotions twisting in knots. Anger at his hesitation mixed with the fear of what lay ahead. I didn’t want to face this alone, but I couldn’t wait forever, either.

The increasing presence of Peacekeepers outside my window was a constant reminder of the danger we were up against. As much as I hated it, a part of me still longed for Archer’s presence. I hated that he could still mean so much to me, even when I was angry with him. His refusal to act felt like a betrayal and every thought of it hurt all over again.

Now in the afternoon at the bakery the rush had finally died down, I was at my breaking point. The smell of fresh bread lingered in the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of pastries cooling on the counter, but none of it did anything to settle the storm brewing inside me. I wiped my hands on my apron, glancing over at Annie as she carefully arranged loaves in neat rows on the display shelf. She always seemed so calm, so composed, even when the rest of us were barely holding it together.

“Annie,” I said softly, my voice barely cutting through the quiet hum of the bakery. She looked up, her warm brown eyes meeting mine, and I saw the concern flicker there immediately.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, setting down the loaf she was holding.

I hesitated, my fingers twisting in the fabric of my apron. “I need to talk to someone. I… I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Annie didn’t say anything right away; she just nodded and motioned for me to follow her to the back room. The small space was cluttered but cozy, filled with sacks of flour, jars of preserves, and the lingering warmth of the ovens. She pulled out two stools, and we sat down facing each other.

“Start from the beginning,” she urged gently, her hands resting in her lap.

I exhaled shakily, trying to gather my thoughts. “It’s about Archer,” I began, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “We had a fight. A bad one. And I’ve been avoiding him ever since, but it’s eating me up inside.”

Annie didn’t interrupt; she just listened, her expression soft and understanding as I poured everything out. I told her about our argument in the fields, how I wanted to leave, how I needed to leave, but Archer kept holding back. I told her about the guilt, the fear of leaving him behind, and the frustration of knowing time was running out.

“I don’t want to do this without him,” I admitted, my voice breaking slightly. “But I can’t stay here, Annie. Every day, it feels like the walls are closing in. And now, with the Peacekeepers tightening their grip, I’m terrified we’ll lose our chance forever.”

Annie reached out and squeezed my hand, her touch grounding me. “Y/n,” she said softly, “you’re one of the bravest people I know. You have this fire in you, this determination that not many people around here have. But leaving isn’t a decision you can force on someone else. Archer has to come to it on his own, or it’ll never work. You can’t carry him with you if he’s not ready to make that leap.”

Her words hit me hard, but they were the truth I needed to hear. As much as I wanted Archer by my side, I couldn’t let his hesitation hold me back. I nodded slowly, my chest tightening with the weight of what I knew I had to do. Annie gave me a small, reassuring smile.

“Just… don’t give up on him completely,” she added. “Sometimes people just need a little time to catch up to where you are.”

“Don’t give up on him,” Annie said softly, her eyes steady on mine. “You know how much he loves you, don’t you? Archer doesn’t always say it, but it’s in everything he does—the way he looks at you, the way he’s always watching out for you. That’s why he’s hesitant. He’s scared, Y/n, not just for himself—for you.”

Her words sank deep, stirring something I’d been trying to bury. I could see it—the quiet protectiveness in his gaze, the way he always made sure I was safe, even when we were fighting. He loved me, and maybe his fear wasn’t just about the Capitol. Maybe it was about losing me.

Annie squeezed my hand, her voice gentle. “Sometimes love makes people act in ways that don’t seem fair. Just give him a little time. He’s trying to figure it all out.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. She was right. He did love me, and as frustrated as I was, I didn’t want to leave without him. I just hoped he’d find the courage to take the risk before it was too late.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of flour-dusted countertops and the rhythmic motion of kneading dough. The sweet, yeasty smell of freshly baked bread filled the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the bakery.

Annie and I worked seamlessly together, catching up on small details of our lives while keeping the shop running. Customers trickled in and out, each of them carrying the weight of their day on their shoulders, yet still offering polite smiles and small talk. The worn faces of the people of District 12 never ceased to remind me of the harshness of our world, but there was an unspoken solidarity among us all.

With the steady rhythm of our work became a source of comfort, a distraction from the noise in my head. Annie hummed softly as she worked beside me, her hands moving with practised ease, while I focused on rolling out dough, my mind drifting between the words she had shared earlier and the heaviness I still carried from my argument with Archer. 

The clock on the wall ticked away, each moment that passed only reminding me how quickly time was slipping by. It was hard not to feel the weight of the days closing in, how little time we had left before everything would change with the 15th Hunger Games only 7 days away. Even in the humdrum of the bakery, the uncertainty of what lay ahead seemed to hang in the air. But for now, in this small space, there was a sense of normalcy—just two friends working together, finding comfort in the familiar.

As the afternoon wore on, I felt the weight of the day settle in. When the last customer finally left, the bustle of the bakery faded, leaving a quiet calm in its wake. Annie and I moved through the cleaning routine without speaking, our actions were fluid and practised. As the sun sank below the horizon, casting long shadows across the streets, we locked up the shop. I wiped my hands on my apron and glanced over at her, offering a small, tired smile.

“Thanks, Annie,” I said, my voice softer than usual, filled with gratitude. “For the advice earlier. It really helped.”

She returned the smile, her eyes warm with understanding. “Anytime, Y/n. You know I’ve got your back.”

I wrapped my arms around her in a tight hug, feeling the comfort of her presence after the heavy day. As I pulled away, I pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, my way of showing my appreciation. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Annie. Take care of yourself.”

With one last smile, I waved goodbye to Annie and started the walk home. The familiar paths through District 12 were quiet, the streets bathed in soft hues of orange and purple as dusk settled in. The world seemed to slow down, the chaos of the day fading into a peaceful calm. Yet, despite the tranquillity, a restless tension lingered in the air, pressing against my chest with each step.

The weight of everything—the conversation with Annie, the unresolved tension with Archer, and the constant pull between wanting to escape and staying behind—sat heavy on my shoulders. My mind wouldn’t settle, replaying snippets of the day and all the uncertainty that still clouded my thoughts. I felt torn between two worlds, one that promised safety and the other that whispered of freedom, unsure of which direction to take.

As I arrived home, the familiar creak of the door echoed in the quiet house. The air inside was cool, tinged with the scent of dust and the faint remnants of a long day. The silence felt heavier here, even though I knew my father would be home soon, his slow steps on the porch signalling his return.

I moved into the small kitchen, the routine familiar and automatic. Chopping vegetables, and stirring them into the simmering pot—it didn’t require much thought anymore. The meal was simple, just stew, nothing fancy, but enough to fill his stomach. Still, as I worked, my thoughts kept drifting to him. The ragged breath he sometimes took, the way his cough lingered longer each day, now even echoing through the night. His illness was slowly consuming him, and I could see it in the weariness that clung to his every movement. He would never admit it—far too proud for that—but I could feel the weight of it in the air.

I set the table, placing two plates down, one for him and one for me. I didn’t let myself dwell on the dread in my chest, the fear that this illness might be more than he was willing to admit. I had to focus on the task at hand. As the door creaked open, signalling his return, I quickly turned the stove's heat down, giving him a warm smile despite the unease gnawing at me a gut feeling that he was feeling worse tonight.

The door creaked open my father stepped inside, his movements slow and laboured. His face was drawn, pale with exhaustion, and the lines around his eyes were deeper than they had been in weeks. His shoulders were slumped under the weight of another long day in the mines, the fabric of his worn coat hanging loosely around his frame. 

The flickering light from the hearth cast a dull glow on his tired features, making him look even smaller, more fragile than I ever wanted to admit. His steps were uneven as if the strength in his legs had already begun to fade.

He stopped for a moment, a slight tremble in his hand as he gripped the doorframe, his breath hitching in his chest. His eyes fluttered closed, his body swaying slightly, as though he was fighting to stay upright just long enough to make it over to me. The sickly coughs from earlier had come back with a vengeance, deep and raspy, echoing through the small house like a warning.

I froze for a moment, a knot tightening in my stomach as I watched him struggle to catch his breath. His chest heaved, his face contorted in pain, and his hand shot out, gripping the doorframe for support, but it wasn’t enough. Before he could steady himself, the violent coughing fit wracked his body had resurfaced once again, shaking him violently as the ragged, painful coughs echoed through the room. His legs buckled beneath him, and he crumpled forward, collapsing helplessly to the floor. 

His head hit the ground with a thud, and I felt my heart lurch in my chest as panic surged through me. For a moment, the world seemed to stop, and all I could hear was the sound of his laboured breathing, the desperate gasps for air that seemed to come too slowly. My mind screamed at me to move, to do something, but I was frozen in place, terrified that this was it—that the man who had raised me, the man who had worked himself to the bone to provide for us, was falling apart before my very eyes.

Panic surged through me, an overwhelming tide that drowned out everything else. My heart raced, hammering against my chest as I rushed to his side, falling to my knees beside him. 

“Dad!” I gasped, my voice cracking as my hands trembled while I tried to lift him, but his weight was too much, too heavy for me to bear alone. His frail body slumped in my arms, and I couldn’t stop the tears from welling up in my eyes. 

“Please, stay with me.” My throat tightened with fear, the words barely escaping as I fought to remain calm.

He gasped between coughs, each one more desperate than the last, his chest trembling with the effort to breathe. His face was pale, and slick with sweat, and his eyes were clouded with exhaustion. But despite the pain, he managed to give me a weak, strained smile. It was the kind of smile he always used to assure me everything would be alright, but it only made my heart ache more.

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he wheezed, his voice raspy and frail. “Just… give me a moment.” He paused to cough again, his whole body shaking with the force of it. 

“I’ll be alright. Just need to sit down for a bit.” His attempt to reassure me only made the knot in my stomach tighten further. How could he be fine? Everything in me screamed that he wasn’t. But I held onto his words, not knowing what else to do.

Every instinct in me screamed to do something—anything—to make him better, but all I could do was watch as he struggled to breathe. I wanted to scream at him to go to the doctor, to get the help he so clearly needed, but I knew it would be pointless. He wouldn’t listen. He never did. His pride, his stubbornness, always won out. The thought of it made my chest tighten even more.

I helped him sit against the wall, my hands shaking as I steadied him. His breathing was shallow, each cough rattling his body. The dinner I’d worked so hard to prepare felt meaningless now, overshadowed by the fear rising inside me. I stared at the food on the table, its scent now nauseating, knowing deep down he wasn’t fine. And the more I tried to ignore it, the harder it became to breathe.

I looked at him, helpless, my mind racing. There was one place I could go, one person who might be able to help. Archer. I wanted to rush over to the Browns’ place, to talk to him, to tell him what was happening.

But I hesitated.

The argument we’d had still stung, and I wasn’t sure if I could face him. If I even had the right to ask for his help. I shook the thought away. This wasn’t about me and Archer. It was about my father. But as I looked at him, so fragile and weak, my heart felt torn. Could I swallow my pride and ask for the help I needed? Or would I continue to carry this burden on my own?

With a deep breath, I helped my father slowly stand, supporting most of his weight as he leaned heavily on me. My heart still pounded in my chest, the fear not yet fading, and I felt a deep pit in my stomach as I guided him to the worn couch.

The old cushions creaked under his weight as he sank down, his body sagging with exhaustion. I moved quickly to grab the two plates of food I had made, but the thought of eating seemed almost absurd now. Everything felt off like the world had shifted into something colder and more uncertain.

I set the plates down on the small table in front of us, but I didn’t immediately sit. I paused for a moment, my hands trembling as I adjusted the plate for him, watching him catch his breath. The shallow rise and fall of his chest made my own heartache. Finally, I slid onto the couch beside him, my body still shaken from the image of him collapsing, his legs giving way beneath him like a man broken by something far worse than just the mines. I tried to act calm, to reassure him, but the truth was, I was barely holding it together myself.

I placed his plate on his lap, but he barely touched it, his hand resting limply by his side. I took my own plate and sat closer, a quiet silence settling between us. My hand instinctively found its way to his, curling around his rough, calloused fingers. I didn’t know what to say. The words felt trapped in my throat, suffocated by the weight of everything that had just happened. 

For a long moment, we simply sat there, side by side, the warmth of the meal offering little comfort against the overwhelming tension that clung to the room. The reality of it all—the sickness, the helplessness, the fear for what might come next—settled like a heavy fog around us, and I wondered, deep down, how much longer we could pretend everything would be okay.

We ate in quiet, the sound of utensils clinking softly against plates the only noise filling the room. My father managed a few bites, though his appetite seemed faint, his focus more on catching his breath than on the food.

I ate in silence too, but every bite felt heavy, like the weight of it was pressing down on my chest, trying to force me to acknowledge what we were both avoiding. The evening felt far too normal, like a routine I’d once known, but now, it was strained and fragile as if something in the world had cracked and we were only trying to keep it from shattering.

Once we finished, I collected the plates and moved toward the sink, the water running over the dishes sounding louder than usual, echoing through the quiet house. My movements were slow and deliberate, my mind racing with everything I couldn’t say. I wanted to tell him how scared I was, how I couldn’t do this alone, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I focused on the task at hand, scrubbing the dishes, trying to bury the gnawing feeling in my stomach. When I was done, I wiped my hands on the towel and turned back to the couch.

He hadn’t moved much, still sitting with his shoulders slumped, looking smaller somehow, his body more fragile than I ever remembered it being. Without thinking, I sat beside him again, this time closer, my side pressed against him, just like when I was a little girl. Back then, I’d always curl up next to him after a long day, finding comfort in the steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his presence. But tonight, it was different. There was no comfort to be found, just an ache I couldn’t ignore. Still, I nestled against him, my head resting on his shoulder, trying to find some semblance of peace, even if just for a moment.

As I sat there beside him, my head resting on his shoulder, I could feel the gentle pressure of his hand rubbing my back, the same soothing motion he’d always done when I was a child. It was a comfort, in a way, though it wasn’t the reassurance I had hoped for. His touch was shaky, but it felt like he was trying to give me something to hold onto, even if he was too tired to say the things we both needed to hear. 

The night wore on, and his breathing grew heavier, his body starting to sag against the couch, worn out from the toll of the day and his illness. I knew it was time to help him to bed. Reluctantly, he allowed me to guide him to his feet, though he grumbled under his breath, not wanting to admit how much he needed my help. 

“I can manage,” he insisted weakly, but I could see the weariness in his eyes, the deep exhaustion that had taken root in his bones. I wasn’t about to argue, though; I simply held him steady as we slowly made our way down the narrow hallway to his room.

Once inside, I helped him into bed, pulling the covers over him with care, smoothing out the wrinkles in the fabric as I tucked him in. He grumbled again, clearly uncomfortable with being taken care of. 

“You don’t need to baby me,” he muttered, but there was no strength behind his words. I smiled softly, brushing a few stray strands of hair from his forehead. 

“You’ve taken care of me for years, Dad. Let me do this.” He sighed but didn’t protest further, his eyes fluttering shut as he sank into the bed, too exhausted to keep up the fight. I lingered for a moment longer, standing at his bedside before pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

I whispered softly, "I love you, Dad." 

His eyes flickered open for a moment, and though he was weak, he managed a faint smile. "I love you too, sweetheart," he rasped, his voice hoarse but full of warmth.

I tucked the blanket around him and kissed his forehead, then quietly stepped out of his room, leaving him to rest. My heart heavy, I promised myself I would find a way to keep him safe, no matter what.

I lay in bed, the sheets tangled around my restless legs, the weight of the night pressing down on me. The sound of my father’s shallow breathing from the other room echoed in my ears, mingling with the dull hum of the Capitol’s presence. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped—both in this district and in my own helplessness. My father’s condition was worsening, and I felt powerless to do anything about it. The thought of him getting worse, of him not surviving much longer in the mines, kept me awake. I needed to find a way out, for both of us.

The quiet of the house was stifling. Every minute that passed, I felt more suffocated by the confines of District 12. I needed to escape, to get away from the looming presence of the Capitol and the constant threat it posed. I had dreamed of leaving before, but now the urgency was different. My father’s frailty made the idea of freedom more vital than ever. I couldn’t let him suffer here, not like this. I couldn’t watch him waste away while the Capitol continued to tighten its grip on us.

I sighed as I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him. The house was dark, and the streets of District 12 were unnervingly quiet. In just my white nightgown, the chill in the air bit at my skin, but I didn’t care.

The fences, the watchful Peacekeepers—they felt like chains. Walking along the outskirts, my heart pounded with each step, the darkness closing in around me. As I neared the mines, the tension built, and ahead, the gate stood between me and the freedom I longed for.

I knew this wasn’t the time for hesitation, but my mind was a tangled mess of fear and hope. I wanted to escape, but the reality of what I was considering weighed heavily on me. The freedom I craved was tainted with the fear of being caught, of risking everything for a dream that could easily slip away. But with every cough from my father echoing in my mind, the urgency grew stronger. I had to find a way out—not just for me, but for him too.

The night air was cool as I wandered along the outskirts of District 12, my footsteps muffled on the dirt path. My thoughts were a whirlpool, swirling in a chaotic frenzy, each one pulling me deeper into the turmoil. The night was thick with tension, and the further I walked, the more the weight of my decisions pressed down on me. I barely noticed where I was going, lost in my own mind, until I found myself at the edge of a small pond.

The still water mirrored the moon above, its pale light casting an eerie glow over the darkened landscape. I stood there for a moment, my reflection staring back at me—a face twisted in frustration, eyes hard with determination, a girl caught between the urge to run and the fear of leaving everything behind. The world around me seemed impossibly quiet, the distant hum of District 12 barely audible. It was as if the whole world had paused, holding its breath.

Then, without warning, a tap on my shoulder jolted me from my reverie. My heart slammed in my chest, and I spun around, breath catching in my throat. The shadows around me seemed to shift, and in the dim light, a figure stood just behind me.

It was Archer. His soft yet concerned eyes locked onto mine, and I could feel my frustration boil over. “I saw you sneaking off after I left the mines,” he said, his voice steady but carrying a weight of worry. “You shouldn’t be out here alone, not with the Peacekeepers around and the danger near the mines. It’s not safe.”

I could barely contain my anger. I stood there for a moment, seething, before I finally spoke. “Oh, now you care?” I snapped, turning to face him. “Now that I’m finally doing something about it? Now you want to follow me?”

Archer flinched, but he didn’t look away. “Y/n, I care because I don’t want you to make a mistake you’ll regret. The Peacekeeper patrols are tighter than ever, and the mines at night...” His words trailed off, but I could see the concern in his eyes. “It’s dangerous. You don’t know what you’re walking into you need to think about this.”

I couldn’t help myself. My frustration poured out. “You didn’t care before, Archer. Not when I needed you.” The words felt sharp as I spoke them, but I couldn’t stop them from spilling out. “I never wanted to argue. I just wanted you to understand how I felt, to see things from my side. But it feels like you only care now that I’m trying to make a move.”

There was a pause. He took a breath, and I could see the weight of my words settling on him. His voice was quieter this time, but still firm. “Y/n, I’m not here to argue with you. But if we’re going to do this, you need to be clear about your intentions. We both need to know where we stand. Tell me what you really want, so we don’t waste each other’s time.”

I swallowed, my chest tight. His words struck a chord, and for a moment, the anger simmered into something else—something deeper.

“Maybe we met for a reason,” I said, my voice softer. “Maybe you’re a blessing or a lesson, but I’m only standing between myself and what’s meant for me. I can’t keep waiting, Archer. Not anymore.”

He stood there, watching me, the silence stretching between us. His brows were furrowed in hurt and his blue eyes looking down at me as though I were a stranger. His lips were parted as though he were to say something. I could feel the weight of everything—the pain, the tension, the confusion—hanging in the air. But I couldn’t back down. Not now.

I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of everything pressing on my chest. “I don’t have time for games, Archer. Either you’re with me, or you’re not. But I’m not going to wait around forever.”

With that, I turned and walked away, leaving him standing there in the darkness, my heart pounding as the words echoed in my mind.

I walked on, the weight of my own thoughts pressing down on me, the tension between what I needed to do and what I feared doing gnawing at my insides. But then, through the darkened shadows near the edge of District 12, something caught my eye—an opening in the fence, small but wide enough for me to squeeze through. My heart skipped a beat. This was it. This could be the way out, the escape I’d been dreaming of.

I approached cautiously, kneeling down to inspect the hole, my fingers tracing the jagged edges of the metal. My mind raced with the possibilities—what if I could slip through here and find freedom? What if I could finally take control of my life and get away from all of this? I was so absorbed in the thought of it, that I almost didn’t hear the sound of heavy boots approaching.

My breath hitched, and panic surged through me. The Peacekeepers were coming.

I quickly scrambled to my feet and dove behind a pile of rocks near the fence. My heart hammered in my chest as I held my breath, praying they wouldn’t notice me. I could see the faint glow of their lanterns, their shadows moving closer. I remained as still as possible, the sound of their boots growing louder, each step drawing nearer to where I hid. For a moment, I thought my heart would explode from the fear, but finally, they passed by, oblivious to my presence.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, trembling with adrenaline. My body felt weak, but there was a fire building inside me, too—a newfound resolve. This wasn’t just a fleeting thought anymore. This was real. I had found a way out. And no matter the risks, I wasn’t going to stop until I was finally free.

-The next day-

As I made my way toward Annie’s shop, I felt a knot of unease twist in my stomach. The streets of District 12 were quieter than usual, the heavy presence of Peacekeepers a stark reminder of the tightening grip the Capitol had on us. I tried to ignore them as I walked, but before I could reach the bakery, I was intercepted by a group of Peacekeepers blocking my path.

Their eyes were sharp, their faces unreadable as they circled me. One stepped forward, his tone cold and accusatory. "Where were you last night?" he asked, his gaze piercing.

I hesitated, my heart racing as I forced myself to stay calm. "I was home," I lied, hoping they wouldn’t probe further.

Another Peacekeeper, a tall one with dark eyes, gave me a hard look. "We noticed some unusual activity near the mines," he said, his voice low but deliberate. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

I swallowed, anxiety rising in my chest. "No," I replied quickly, trying to mask the fear in my voice. "I don’t know anything."

But they didn’t believe me. Before I could say anything else, they grabbed my arms, pushing me forward. "We’ll be taking you to the Peacekeeper base for further questioning," the first one said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

My heart pounded as they dragged me away, the familiar streets of District 12 slipping further out of reach. I was powerless, trapped in a web of suspicion, and the terrifying reality of what might come next crashed over me like a tidal wave.

A/n: Here is Archer Brown's fact/information sheet so you can gain a better understanding of my OC in his upcoming appearance in my new fic Threads Of Freedom!

Basic Information:

Full Name: Archer Connor Brown

Age: 18

Date of Birth: 9th of January

Gender: Male

Pronouns: He/Him

Hometown and Residence: District 12, the seams located closer to the mines

Occupation: Miner

Physical Appearance:

Face Claim: Tom Blyth as Billy The Kid

Height: 6'2

Build: He is toned due to all of the physical labour that goes into working in the mines.

Hair Color, Style, and Length: Shaggy brown hair that curls towards the ends e.g. at the nape of his neck

Eye Color: Grey/Blue

Posture: Normal posture

Body Language: Despite his tall stature who when you first meet may come across as intimidating he is quite the opposite. Archer is reserved and quiet more often than not. He would much rather listen and observe than be put on the spot but when it comes to his family or you, he will not shy away from confronting said person no matter how much it is out of his nature.

Personality:

Personality Traits: -Positive traits: Loyal, hardworking, empathetic, humble, dependable, caring, self-sacrificing, responsible, practical, and cares deeply for loved ones. -Negative traits: Self-doubting, stubborn, overly cautious, prone to overworking, guarded and anxious about the future

Strengths: -Dedicated: deeply committed to helping his family and doing his part, never shying away from hard labour. -Resilience: Growing up in the mines has made him tough and capable of enduring physical and emotional hardships. -Protective: He’s willing to make personal sacrifices to keep those he loves safe. -Resourcefulness: He’s good at making the most out of limited resources, and thinking creatively to solve problems when necessary.

Weaknesses: -Self-doubt: He constantly worries he isn’t doing enough, comparing himself to his father and fearing he won’t live up to expectations. -Overly cautious: His fear of being caught or punished makes him hesitant to take risks, even if they could benefit him or others. -Fear of change: While he dreams of a better life, he’s also afraid of what he might lose by stepping outside his comfort zone. -Difficulty expressing emotions: He often keeps his feelings bottled up, which sometimes leads to misunderstandings with those close to him.

Fears and Insecurities: -Fear of letting his family down: Archer worries that he won’t be able to support his family the way his father has, and he feels immense pressure to be as strong as his father. -Fear of failure: He feels responsible for ensuring his family’s well-being and fears he might not be able to protect or provide for them. -Insecurity about his worth: Although he works hard, he wonders if he’ll ever be “enough” for those who rely on him or if he’ll just end up trapped like so many others in District 12.

Hobbies and Interests: -Wood carving: When he can, Archer likes to carve small figures or designs into pieces of wood. It’s a quiet hobby that helps him decompress. And he loves to make special ones for both you and his little sister and brother. -Occasionally hums or sings old folk songs he heard growing up that his mother use to sing. -He plays guitar out in the fields with you or in his house and loves playing songs his mother taught him as a child. -Secretly giving his last bits of dinner to a stray ginger cat that lives near their small home.

Favourite Things: -Freshly baked bread; the warmth and flavour remind him of rare moments of comfort and security and a reminder of when you two were both younger and helped the baker down the road occasionally. -Favourite colour: Deep blue because it reminds him of quiet, calm nights and stargazing.

Habits and Quirks: -Fiddling with his hands: When anxious or deep in thought, he often fidgets or carves patterns into whatever’s nearby. -Avoids eye contact when embarrassed or nervous: His humility and self-doubt often lead him to avoid looking directly at people when he feels unsure of himself. -Early riser: Due to years of working in the mines, he naturally wakes up at dawn, even on days he doesn’t need to. -Bites his lower lip when thinking hard: Especially when considering something risky or weighing difficult choices.

Background:

Family and Relationships: He comes from a close-knit family in District 12’s poorest area, the Seam. His father taught Archer from a young age the value of hard work, bringing him to the mines as soon as he was old enough to contribute. Archer deeply admires his father, although he constantly worries he isn’t doing enough to ease his family’s burdens. He has a younger sister Jane and brother Oliver, as well as his mother, who all rely on him and his father’s efforts to get by. Archer’s closest relationship is with his best friend (you), who he’s known since he was six. Although he's deeply in love, he’s afraid to confess his feelings, uncertain about his worth and fearing the consequences of making things complicated. He also has a small group of friends he met while working alongside his father in the mines.

Enemies/Rivals and Why: -Caleb: Caleb is a co-worker in the mines and constantly mocks Archer's family background, making comments about their struggles. He sees Archer's determination to support his family as a weakness and often tries to belittle him in front of others, hoping to assert his own dominance. -Jasper: Like Caleb, Jasper works alongside Archer and joins in. He enjoys making fun of Archer’s aspirations and dreams, believing that he’ll never amount to anything more than a miner. Jasper’s cruelty stems from a desire to fit in with the group, and he often targets Archer to gain their approval. -Brayden: Brayden is the ex-boyfriend of Archer's best friend (You). He is consistently rude to Archer, often making snide remarks about Archer’s loyalty to you and their plans for the future. Brayden’s bitterness over the breakup drives him to be antagonistic towards Archer, especially since he’s trying to win back you and sees Archer as an obstacle.

History and Significant Events: Archer’s life took a turn when he began working in the mines as a young boy to help support his family, sacrificing his childhood and education for their sake. Witnessing his father's struggles firsthand shaped his deep sense of duty and his fears about not being able to provide or protect. His bond with you, beginning when you were both six, has been a constant in his life, giving him hope and strength. However, his fear of rejection has held him back from ever confessing his feelings.

Social Status and Upbringing: Archer was raised in the poorest area of District 12, the seams, surrounded by hardship and deprivation. His family is unprivileged and struggles daily to make ends meet. This harsh environment has made him resilient, yet painfully aware of his limitations and the obstacles he faces.