#capital!reader

His eyes were locked on the girl in the District 12 enclosure, her bright dress muted by the grim bars and stale air. Lucy Gray stood with her chin tilted high, a performer through and through, even in captivity.

You both watched her for a few moments—Coryo calculating, curious, captivated. You, quieter, unsure how to feel about the girl who smiled like she knew secrets.

“She’s different,” you murmured, your eyes trialing her up and down.

“She’s dangerous,” he replied. But there was something like admiration in his voice. Though you weren’t threatened by it.

After all, she was the one behind the bars; you weren’t.

You nodded once, then gently tugged his hand. “Come on. I want to see mine.”

Your tribute was a girl of only twelve, a slip of a thing with tangled hair and limbs too thin for her frame. She was tucked in a corner of the enclosure, knees pulled to her chest like she was trying to disappear.

You reached into the elegant satchel slung over your shoulder, the one your mother insisted matched your family’s station.

“A Tolston never leaves the house looking anything less than exceptional.” Was what your mother had always said to you.

The Tolstons were old money. Old, influential, and perpetually seated at the Capitol’s highest tables, with your father’s name on every infrastructure committee and your mother curating the Capitol’s most exclusive fashion exhibits.

You weren’t supposed to cry about the Games. You weren’t supposed to feel things for tributes. But it was different now that you were in charge of taking care of one, to try and help your tribute to win.

So here you were, with wrapped honeyed bread, pear slices and soft cheese tucked between embroidered linen napkins. A large fancy ‘T’ stitched into it.

“Hi,” you said gently. “This is for you.”

She blinked up at you, wide-eyed, hesitant. Then slowly, carefully, she stood and crept over, taking the bundle like it might vanish if she moved too quickly. Her fingers brushed yours, feather-light, and you smiled.

She stared at the food, then at you. And then she said, in a small, wonder-filled voice

The little girl stood on the other side of the bars, hay in her hair while she stood in the dirt. The food you had passed was clutched tight in her small hands like she was afraid someone would take it back.

“Are you an angel?” she asked, voice breathy, eyes too big for her thin face.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

She nodded seriously, stepping a little closer. “An angel. My mama used to talk about them all the time. She said they were the most beautiful creatures in the world. That they come when you’re really scared. When you’re about to give up.”

Your heart twisted. “Oh, sweetheart…” you crouched lower so you were more at her level. “No. I’m not an angel. I’m just…” You hesitated, glancing at the food in her hands. “I’m someone who thinks you shouldn’t be hungry. Just someone who is looking after you,”

She frowned thoughtfully, tilting her head like a curious bird. “You look like one. Your voice is soft. Like my mama’s was.”

Behind you, the soft buzz of a camera lens adjusted, zooming in. You could feel the eyes of the Capitol watching—Lucky Flickerman’s commentary somewhere off to the side, smooth as ever.

“Your name is Lina, right?” you asked gently.

“Lina,” she said with a nod, “Lina Grove,”

“Lina Grove,” you repeated, giving her a small smile. “That’s a beautiful name. Mine’s—”

“I know,” she interrupted, suddenly shy. “They said your name on the screen when we got here. You’re the pretty girl that walks with the white-haired boy.”

You choked on a surprised laugh. “The white-haired boy?”

Coriolanus, who’d remained behind you but close, let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a scoff. His fingers tightened around yours—possessive, protective. “Charming,” he muttered under his breath.

Lina giggled.

“You’re funny,” she said to you. “And you smell nice. Not like the rest of this place.”

You leaned in conspiratorially. “That’s because I carry soap in my bag. Want me to sneak you some tomorrow?”

Her eyes lit up like you’d promised her a crown or the most sparkly jewels on earth.

“Really?” she whispered. “Even just to smell it?”

“Promise.”

She hugged the food to her chest like it was a lifeline. “Do angels make promises?”

You hesitated, just for a second. “Only the good ones, I suppose,”

Lucky’s voice rang out from somewhere behind the camera. “And there you have it, folks—our mentors are shining this year! Capitol hearts everywhere are absolutely melting.”

You stood slowly, wiping your hands on your skirt. Lina backed up a step but kept her eyes on you, like she wasn’t ready to let you go just yet.

“Will you come back tomorrow?” she asked hopefully.

You gave her a nod. “Every day until the Games.”

She bit her lip. “Even after?”

Something in your chest fractured. And unfamiliar ache.

“I’ll try,” you whispered. “I’ll do everything I can, I promise,”

Coriolanus stepped closer, slipping his arm around your waist, his voice low beside your ear. “You’re going to make it very hard for them to forget her.”

You didn’t answer. Just watched as Lina sat back down with her food next to her district partner; an older boy maybe around 16. And, for the first time, looked like a child again.

And for a split moment you felt guilt. 

    · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The gravel path shimmered faintly beneath your shoes as you and Coriolanus walked away from the enclosure. The buzz of cameras had finally died down, Lucky Flickerman’s voice trailing off into some other scripted sentiment. 

The air felt heavier now, quieter. As if your lungs were remembering how to breathe again the further you got away from it all.

You glanced back once—just once—toward where Lina now slept in one part of the zoo’s enclosure.

“She’s so little,” you said, more to yourself than him. “Twelve. She still has baby teeth, Coryo.”

His hand tightened on yours. Just a bit. Just enough. Though you didn’t see it, there was a small shift in the boy you loved so much.

“She’s a tribute,” he said, like it was supposed to explain everything. So simple. How could it be that simple?

“I know,” you murmured. “It’s just—” You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. “She called me an angel.”

“She’s scared. They all are.” His voice was soft but sure, like velvet hiding steel. “And you gave her exactly what she needed in that moment. Comfort. That’s not a bad thing, my love,”

You nodded slowly, but something still stirred beneath your ribs. Not outrage—nothing so dramatic. Just a quiet ache. A tug of something soft and uncertain.

He stopped walking, gently pulling you to a halt beside him. You looked up at him, and the Capitol haze made his blond hair shine almost silver. Stunning. He was absolutely stunning.

“I know it’s hard,” he said, brushing your hair from your face with careful fingers. “But we don’t get to be soft right now. Not when everything we want is within reach.”

You blinked up at him, uncertain.

He leaned closer, voice dropping like it was a secret meant only for you.

“We’re doing this for a reason. You and me. The mentor who make it out of this with winning tributes—our lives change. We move forward. Higher. We don’t get stuck in the mud like the rest of them. The Games are there for a reason. To keep the districts in line. But now they’re also the one place we get to prove ourselves.”

You swallowed, your chest tightening. Your eyes never leaving his, not once.

He slid his hand to your cheek. “You want a future, don’t you? Not just for her. For us.”

Your throat bobbed. “I do. Of course, I do, Coryo,”

He smiled then—slow, warm, like sunlight cutting through clouds.

“Then we play the game, my angel,” he said softly. “And we win it.”

Something about the way he said we made your pulse flutter. As if your names were already written into the Capitol’s future. As if this moment, however sharp around the edges, was only the beginning.

Like everything was already promised, and all you needed to do was just grab it.

You exhaled slowly, letting the guilt drift back into the shadows. He was right. He always had a way of being right. And you were grateful he was there to bring you back to common sense.

“I hate when you talk like that,” you whispered, lips curving into a reluctant smile.

“Why?” he teased.

“Because you always make me believe it.”

His grin widened, all charm and quiet power. He kissed the back of your hand, elegant and practiced. “Good.”

The two of you then continued down the path—two golden children of the Capitol, walking the road toward something both of you could only hope for; while Coryo was determined to grab.

You came from a wealthy family. Generational wealth that had taken a hit during the War, but quickly bounced back when your family invested in clothing manufacturing. Your family helped sponsor the reconstruction of factories destroyed in Eight, and soon, the business boomed. Your wealth grew, surpassing anything you’d ever imagined.

But despite having access to the finest fashion first, you remained the same sweet girl. Always willing to give a skirt, blouse, or dress with a flaw to Tigress, saying, “It would be a shame to waste it. I just don’t have the talents to fix it.” Tigress always smiled in return.

Watching you during the Hunger Games years ago had been painful. When the games changed, and Academy students had to mentor District tributes, you were assigned Wovey, a poor thirteen-year-old from District Eight. You did everything in your power to keep your promise to get her home. But near the end, after Wovey drank some water and died within minutes, your frustration boiled over. You demanded answers, questioned the contents of the water, and felt humiliated. You had failed, and it ate at you, gnawing at your pride.

After the Games, life seemed to return to normal—for you, at least. News broke about Coriolanus Snow’s involvement in cheating and his banishment to District 12 as a peacekeeper, and the gossip spread like wildfire.

You’d liked him—been acquaintances. You exchanged basic pleasantries, nothing more. He was smart. Incredibly so. Even in silence, his eyes were constantly assessing, watching everything.

You felt sorry for him. Sorry that he was stuck in an awful district with awful people. Sorry that he’d been manipulated by Lucy Gray, that District girl who you believed was only using him. How awful those District people were.

Then, near the end of summer, after Sejanus Plinth’s death, Coryo returned to the Capital. And he was different—hardened, colder, more toned. But the way he looked at you was also different.

It began with simple compliments during classes at University. Compliments that made you blush. Then came walks to class, studying together, dinners. And before you knew it, you were standing beside him as the First Lady of Panem, ever so cold, calculating, and calculating. You saw the side of him he only allowed you to see—the soft, loving Coryo you had come to know and love.

And now here you were. Just two years into his presidency. The grand hall of your home was packed, its glittering elite seated in perfect rows as cameras broadcasted the event to the districts. Tonight, the event was designed to be a spectacle—a night of carefully crafted rhetoric.

You stood at the podium, poised, regal, your silk gown flowing over the unmistakable curve of your belly. Coriolanus had urged you to rest, to stay seated during the event, but you insisted. This speech was important.

The initiative you were launching, The Future of Panem Fund, symbolized progress—a new focus on education and healthcare for the next generation. It reinforced Coriolanus’ image as a leader who not only brought order but invested in the future. As his wife, you played a key role in solidifying that vision.

Standing before the audience, you smiled, your voice unwavering. “Good evening. I would like to thank you all for taking the time to come tonight. I assure you, it will be worth it,” you began, the polished ease of a practiced speaker settling over you. A sweet smile, a perfect face, the ideal First Lady for their perfect President.

“For too long, we have focused on the present—on survival, rebuilding, improving. But tonight, we look beyond the now. We look to what comes next. What comes tomorrow.”

A wave of nods rippled through the audience, all of them hanging on your words. You had crafted this speech carefully, balancing inspiration and strength.”

“The Future of Panem Fund is not just an initiative; it is a promise.” Your hand rested lightly on your belly. “A promise that every child in the Capital will have access to education, healthcare, and the resources to grow strong and capable.”

Applause rippled through the hall, and beside you, Coriolanus stood composed, his sharp gaze never leaving you.

You took a steadying breath before continuing. “Because the future of Panem is not written by chance. It is shaped by those with the will to guide it. Together, we will build a nation that does not just survive—but thrives.”

The applause swelled, echoing through the hall. You allowed a brief smile, savoring the moment—

And then, the contraction hit.

Your breath hitched, pain radiating through your abdomen. You gripped the podium, forcing yourself to maintain a serene expression. You weren’t going to falter.

Coriolanus noticed instantly.

Though he didn’t move, you could feel his attention shift, his calculating mind assessing every detail.

Still, you pressed on. “This fund will ensure that every—” Another contraction. This time, your breath left you in a slow, controlled exhale. You gave a short laugh, shaking your head.

Oh.

Oh, this was happening.

You turned to Coriolanus and, in a voice that carried through the microphone, murmured with quiet amusement, “I do believe I’m in labor, my dearest.”

Silence.

Then the hall erupted.

Laughter, cheers, applause—thousands of people on their feet, reveling in the spectacle. This was their perfect moment—their President, his wife, and the arrival of their child, the future of Panem.

But Coriolanus didn’t see it that way.

For the first time, his mask cracked. His usually unreadable expression betrayed sheer disbelief.

You, however, were laughing softly, gripping the podium as another contraction struck. “Well,” you exhaled, glancing back at the crowd, “it seems the future of Panem is arriving a little earlier than expected.”

More laughter, more cheers, more applause. Half the room was celebrating, while reporters scrambled to capture every moment as though it was a privilege to witness.

Coriolanus finally snapped into action.

“Go,” he barked sharply to the peacekeepers, “Bring the doctor. Now.”

The peacekeepers moved immediately, but Coriolanus was already at your side, one hand pressed to your back, the other reaching to steady you. His grip was firm, unwavering, but you felt the tension radiating off him. More peacekeepers formed around you, escorting you out of the hall and to the private part of your home.

“You should have been resting,” he muttered lowly, his voice tight as he guided you away from the podium.

You smirked despite the pain. “And miss my big speech? Not a chance.”

His jaw clenched, but a faint twitch of his lips betrayed something softer. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” you teased breathlessly, leaning into his support as another contraction hit, a small groan escaping, “you married me.”

The quiet dread that settled over you was only interrupted by the occasional crackle of a nearby camera and the distant sounds of movement. You moved quickly through the shadows, your senses on high alert. The rustle of leaves underfoot, the chirp of insects hiding in the cracks of the ruined stone—it was all you could hear as you searched desperately for Lior.

“Lior?” you whispered, barely daring to speak above a breath.

No answer.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. You moved closer to the broken stage of the amphitheater, your footfalls light but hurried. It felt like you were being watched, the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on you from every direction. The Capitol’s cameras were always there, capturing your every movement. But right now, you didn’t care. You had to find him.

“Lior,” you called again, louder this time.

A soft gasp echoed through the rubble. You froze, instinctively dropping to your knees as you peeked around a pile of stone blocks.

There he was—Lior, lying crumpled in the dust, clutching his side, his face pale and twisted in pain. Blood stained his shirt, the dark red of it spreading across his abdomen, his hands weakly pressing against the wound. His eyes were wide, glazed with fear, as though he hadn’t yet realized the depth of his injury.

“No,” you whispered, a pang of panic shooting through your chest. “No, Lior…”

Your heart twisted in your chest. You reached out to him, but before you could even touch his shoulder, a shadow moved in the distance, a figure stepping from the edge of the amphitheater.

It was one of the other tributes. A tall, lanky boy from District 4, grinning as he approached, his weapon drawn. He’d been waiting for the right moment.

Lior’s eyes widened in horror, the realization of what was coming too late. You felt a hot, burning rage bubble up within you. Not just for him, but for all of them. All of the tributes who had been forced into this arena, some of them too young, too innocent, too unwilling. You had already seen too much death to just stand by and let it happen again.

The boy took a step forward, aiming his spear at Lior, and before you could think, your body was already moving.

You threw yourself forward, grabbing a shard of broken stone from the ruins. The boy was too focused on his target to notice you, his face twisted in grim satisfaction, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

In one fluid motion, you launched yourself at him, the shard of stone gripped in your hand.

“No!” you screamed, swinging the jagged edge down with all the strength you could muster. The boy barely had time to react before it struck his throat, a sickening crack filling the air.

He gurgled, trying to scream, but the blood poured from his mouth and his wound, drowning out his last breath. He collapsed, dead before he hit the ground.

You didn’t hesitate. Not for a second.

You rushed to Lior’s side, your hands shaking as you lifted him into your arms. He moaned weakly, his head lolling against your shoulder, too far gone to help himself. You could feel the warm blood seeping through your hands as you pressed against his wound, trying desperately to stop the flow. But it was futile.

The arena was cold, and so was the reality of what was happening.

With one last look at the boy you had just killed, you turned and ran. You didn’t know where you were going, but there was no time to think. The only thing that mattered was getting him out of the open, getting him somewhere safe, somewhere hidden.

You found a narrow gap in the stone, an old service pipe buried beneath a pile of rubble, half-hidden from view. It was dark and dank inside, but it would do. You pulled him inside, cradling him gently as you both collapsed to the dust and dirt.

The tunnel you hid in was cold and dark, but it sheltered you from the other tributes—though not from the Capitol’s ever-watchful eyes.

The cameras had found you. They always did.

You barely noticed.

All you could see was the boy in your arms, his chest rising in short, shallow gasps. His name was Lior, and you had sworn to protect him. But promises meant nothing in the Games.

His blood soaked into your hands, warm and sticky, pooling beneath him onto the metal beneath you both. A dark, growing stain on your already tattered dress. A reminder of your failure. An image that would never rid of your memories.

There was nothing left to be done. The knife wound to his stomach had sealed his fate, and now he shivered against you, his brown eyes wide with fear.

“I don’t want to go,” he rasped, voice barely above a whisper. “I want my Ma…”

Your throat tightened.

He was only thirteen. A child thrown into this nightmare, just like you. But you were older. You knew better.

But wasn’t this what would happen to you one day? On the brink of death, your fear so cold it made you shiver, reaching out for your own mother?

The thought sent a sharp ache through your chest.

“You won’t be alone. You’re not alone,” you murmured, brushing the damp hair from his forehead. “I promise. I’m not leaving you. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Your voice was soft, cooing gently as you smoothed his hair back, as if you could soothe him, as if you could ease the pain that had already consumed him.

Above you, a camera whirred softly, capturing every moment. Showing you, and this moment, across every screen.

Far away, in the grand halls of the Academy, Coriolanus Snow leaned forward in his seat, hands clasped beneath his chin. The screen before him flickered, illuminating his pale face in the dimly lit viewing room.

The other mentors had long since stopped watching, having already declared the boy a lost cause.

But Coriolanus… he couldn’t look away.

Not from you.

You, with your torn dress—once a lavish Capitol gown, now shredded and stained with dirt. You, with your eyes too bright, too alive, too real for the arena.

He had heard the whispers about you before the Games began.

A girl from the Capitol, sentenced to the arena as retribution for your family’s betrayal. Your existence had been a scandal, a symbol, a warning.

A name once spoken in the glittering halls of the Capitol with admiration, fond smiles, and indulgent sighs. A girl of quiet elegance, always kind, always graceful. You had never belonged to the shallow vanity of the city’s elite, but that had only made you more beloved. Desired. A rare thing—someone from the Capitol with a genuine heart.

And now, you were an example.

A lesson in loyalty.

Your parents had been exposed as traitors. Not open rebels, but sympathizers—people who whispered the wrong things to the wrong people, who sent money and medicine to District families in need. The place where your family had come from a century ago. Their secret had unraveled like a loose thread, and you had been swept into the punishment alongside them.

A Capitol girl in the Hunger Games.

A symbol of what happened to those who betrayed the system, no matter their status. A statement loud and clear.

Not even the Capitol was safe from itself.

And yet, as Coriolanus watched the screen before him, he wondered if they had made a mistake in sending you there.

You weren’t breaking the way tributes from the districts did. You weren’t sobbing, screaming, clawing for survival with bloodied hands.

You were singing.

A soft hum left your lips, barely audible at first, as if you were gathering yourself, gathering the strength. Then, gently, you began to sing.

“I remember tears streaming down your face

When I said, I’ll never let you go

When all those shadows almost killed your light.”

The room around Coriolanus faded into nothing.

Your voice was soft, trembling but sure, wrapping around the boy like a fragile shield. The song wove through the silence of the arena, carried by the hush of the dying light.

“Just close your eyes

The sun is going down

You’ll be all right

No one can hurt you now.”

Coriolanus exhaled sharply.

The sound was haunting—too raw, too full of something the Games never showed. It was haunting, the way your voice wove through the silent arena, wrapping around the boy in your arms like a lullaby.

The way you held him, as though your touch alone could keep death at bay. The way your eyes shimmered, full of something raw and unguarded, even as you watched him slip away.

It was mesmerizing.

In the arena, Lior’s breathing slowed. His fingers twitched against yours, gripping weakly before going limp.

Your voice wavered.

“Come morning light…

You and I’ll be safe and sound.”

Then, silence.

Coriolanus barely noticed the way the room stirred around him. The way the professors murmured, the way the other mentors whispered, already spinning the moment into strategy.

He just kept staring.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream.

You only pressed a soft kiss to Lior’s forehead, then laid him gently against the damp ground of the pipe. When you rose, there was something devastatingly beautiful in your quiet grief, in the way you carried his loss.

But Coriolanus saw it—the shift in your eyes, the way you held yourself.

This was not the same girl who had been forced into the Games, trembling and wide-eyed on the stage. This was not the Capitol girl they had expected to crumble.

No.

You had become something else entirely.

Coriolanus’s grip tightened around the armrest of his chair.

He had seen tributes die before. He had seen them beg and bleed and break. But this—this was different.

This was something dangerous.

Because the way you sang, the way you held that boy, the way you refused to let them strip you of your humanity—it would be remembered.

Even now, the audience watching across Panem would not forget. The Capitol citizens who had once known you would whisper your name with something different in their voices. The districts would see you and know that even a Capitol girl—someone raised in luxury—could still hold compassion in the face of cruelty.

The Gamemakers had wanted a symbol of punishment. A reminder that even the privileged could fall.

Instead, they had created something else.

A spark.

Something too compelling, too raw, too alive to be crushed beneath their heel so easily.

Coriolanus knew how the Game worked. He knew what they would do to you now.

The Gamemakers would see the whispers forming, the way people leaned in when you were on screen, the way the Capitol citizens watching at home softened, the way the districts might see hope in the way you carried that boy.

They would turn on you.