#coryo x reader

Someone should really fix these leaks…

With all of the funding his father is flooding into the Gamemaker ‘Romulus’ initiative as part of his ‘glorious’ Presidential campaign, Coriolanus thinks there ought to be a line of handymen, eager to get close to the Creation of it all. Yet, here he sits, waiting on the apparently urgent summons from Gaul—and that blasted trickling just Does. Not. Seize. Like maggots crawling through his brain, each drop is a frustrating reminder of the Head Gamemaker's overstep, of her playing with her food.

She is definitely observing through her digital eyes—the cameras all but a testament to her ever-reaching control. Every minute reaction he may let slip is another data point for her observation of human nature, a self-satisfied smirk pulling at her facial muscles in that disjointed, puppet-like fashion.

If there was one thing he can undoubtedly say Gaul enjoyed, it was playing games. And what greater joy than her toys being animated with worry, fear or worse…? It’s a lost art Coriolanus had come to find deep appreciation for—the ability to hold someone’s mind so thoroughly, in the delicate balance between sanity and madness. It is an intensely intimate affair, if one would ask him, to hold their brain and take it apart only to put it back together in whatever designs you can fathom. Not to void the subject of their life, but evolve it—study it, better it.

His specialty definitely lay with corrections, as he dubbed them. Carefully curated, be it behavioral or in more extreme cases chemically altering—his animal experiments are a glory to behold. He often finds himself falling asleep to the reports. Joined and soothed by the smell of his late mother's rose compact powder, he relives that blinding moment of ultimate control—when an experiment concludes successfully.

Ravenous, cannibalistic rabbits, bats that could tune their echolocation to the exact frequency of their prey's skeletal and muscle structure, causing the target to implode… Tendencies and markers that Crassus’ simple mind cannot begin to conceive of being displayed in a species’ lifetime, are now reality. By virtue of Coriolanus’ divine spark, the field of mutt designs thrived and will fuel at least a decade of Games to come.

Who would've thought that exploiting the naturally evolved behaviors of these creatures while splicing them with, at a first glance, totally incompatible genes can lead to scientific wonders?

Ingenious on his part, really.

His subjects may have been resistant little things—struggling and shriveling against the antagonistic genomes introduced—but the end always justifies the means. True enough, in his very beginnings, through his first steps on this wet floor that resembled a frozen game of kings, Coriolanus was a bit overeager. We live and we learn.

Science is precise like that. It doesn’t lie, doesn’t pretend—just reveals: what is strong enough to persevere… and what will sink and drown in the endless whirlpool of the natural order. That certainty gives him serenity like nothing else can.

It's of no surprise then, that he'd much rather have someone under his magnifying glass. Has Gaul forgotten his brilliance? Is she ignoring it to intentionally spite him? Maybe she is in dire need of a reminder as to who exactly she is dealing with.

Snow lands on top, after all…

Coriolanus has enough of butting antlers with his father to allow for any bothersome transgressions against his standing to hunt him here. The lab is his safe haven, where he governs and inevitably brings all to heel. He will decidedly not permit it to become an operating table for authority negotiations.

Mildew permeates the air, making the lingering chemical smell heavier, constricting, as though he is a specimen in a formaldehyde jar. His jaw is so taut, it aches now; a nasty habit of grinding his teeth has followed him ever since the start of his Academy days.

Socializing doesn’t dawn well on him. Of course, he is efficient enough at it—taking care to note all of the small quirks each classmate exhibits so he can win their favor. Though it comes at a great cost to his peace of mind. While, in theory, he grasps the importance of upholding powerful ties; in practice, most of his peers bore him to no end. Those simpletons weren't his subjects, sadly, and most of them never put any care whatsoever to strive for perfection… What a pathetic, brainless existence. A pity he couldn't get them on his table. What novel symphonies he could reach then…! Alas, it's not so easy to get his gloves on human experimentation. Point is, using the data he gathers while conversing with his so-called ‘friends’ was a matter of simple convenience, not a grand plan. Each such interaction inevitably left him repressed, hollow and always searching for more to apply his findings to.

A solitary wolf by choice and necessity… Crassus’ shadow has always been loud enough for the two of them to get swallowed by.

“Mister Snow…” Gaul's echo bouncing off the walls wakes him up. Next and as per her usual routine, she feigns surprise, waiting on her subject's reaction. “Ah, aren’t you a busy little bee—getting in your head again? Your eye should be focused outward… objectivity is king in empirical study after all. I'd hate it if it hasn’t been drilled into your skull sufficiently by now.”

She'd come from the control room, of course, from the door behind Coriolanus. For that brief time, before she approaches his desk and unveils herself, there had been no discernible source to accredit that deep voice to. A mockery of a guardian angel—calling from high above.

“Why have I been summoned on such an auspicious day?” Coriolanus queries in a hiss as his posture straightens automatically like a string—the very picture of a perfect heir. “Or has it escaped the good doctor's mind that we are needed to ensure Reaping preparations?”

The chipped wood under his fingernails—the result of his restless clawing at the desk’s bottom apron—is forgotten in haste. Such displays are not only unbecoming, but all around damnable for a Snow.

“Oh, my, so demanding today, Coriolanus…” she coos. “I assure you, it's marvelous news I bring, simply marvelous.” She clasps her gloved hands.

He'd noticed it rather early on—how Gaul addresses him depending on the occasion. Switching between the designations throughout the course of a single interaction, in ensuing sentences even. His first name is reserved for one purpose only: to deliver poison, make judgments on his character. ‘Mister Snow’ is for such occasions when she deems it indispensable for a lesson to be delivered. Theatrical as always, she would even dare to use that one in the presence of Crassus. Especially in the old man's presence. It feels personal, purposeful in fact, and a part of the prodigal son wonders if she's living out some fantasy where it's the Presidential candidate whom she guides instead of Coriolanus. And finally, ‘Doctor Snow’— a title he technically hasn't earned yet it's still his… in all but writing. That one, she's used just once before… when he managed to deliver those mutt rabbits.

“I hope it's indeed so. I'd hate for my precious time to be wasted.” He swallows the thick air around them.

“Come and you shall see, Doctor Snow…” Gaul encourages. “Don't be shy.”

Coriolanus’ eyes slowly widen, as though he's seeing for the first time. A pulsing sensation tickles at the corner of his lips—the beginnings of a smile that he swiftly suppresses. The genuine giddiness in her voice, almost child-like, can only mean one thing—new funding, a new experiment, and… a new subject. His for the claiming if that theory on her word choice patterns holds any merit.

And what scientist would he be, if he doesn't test his theories?

Black, white, black, white… the harlequin floor tiles mark every piece moved, every strategy carefully weighed out and applied that's led him to this moment. He finds deep consolation in routine; a compulsion gnaws at him to stick to it—an exact path through the patterned wet ceramics. The mysterious leaks aren't much of a concern now that he's moving through his territory and has a bounty to claim. The drops become a metronome that keeps him steadily moving.

Coriolanus can hear it before he sees its wellspring… the singing—resounding through the tight walls of the hall that lead to the holding cells. The melody rolls in deep waves and there’s subtle fury in the notes—like it's fighting its entrapment beneath water.

That dampness nets what will otherwise be a pretty voice and turns it haunting, seeking…

As I was a walking down in Pearl Bay I met a drowned sailor on the beach as he lay And as I drew nigh him, it put me to a stand, When I knew it was my own true Love By the scar on his hand Clear as the sea that saw us two together For the last time

So, it isn't an Avox. Marrow-deep relief washes over Coriolanus as he sighs, relaxing his coiled lungs. While far more readily accessible for their purposes, a thing void of their tongue cannot report on complex sensations, on what compels them after behavioral reprogramming. A sorry affair, truly. At that point it's as good as having a monkey to experiment on—still trainable on intricate routines without the nuisance of blank data points. Missing vital information because of this possible… physical inconvenience would've been a cruel waste of potential.

A sure way to spoil the fun.

It’s eerie, how lucid the words of the song ring over the lulling voice—like it's a lived account. The pauses between lines hang in the air, no doubt brought upon by the exertion of fighting the sedative. Whatever meaning this song holds, it must be far more soothing than sweet surrender to the drug. Otherwise, the shanty would’ve drowned long ago…

As he was a sailing from his own dear shore Where the waves and the billows so loudly do roar, I said to my true Love, I shall see you no more For ‘tis the last time.

That timbre, it is mournful… kissing freedom goodbye most likely with the way the bridge is repeated in that grated fashion. ‘For the last time, for the last time’… No—Coriolanus’ mind barks, almost offended—there shall be plenty of new times now. Better times.

A subject under his care need not preoccupy itself with notions of finality… it will be made immortal through the generational breakthroughs they'll deliver together.

So farewell, my dearest, you're the lad I adore. Anda stone for remembrance was laid on my grave, My joys are all ended, my pleasures are fled, This grave that I lie in is my new married bed.

‘Grave’? Hardly… his lab is a place of innovation—where the mediocre turn into something more. Burying one’s old self is hard, letting go of what holds you back as well, Doctor Snow ponders. He shall be the balm to that mourning.

Objectivity, yes, he reminds himself, objectivity reigns. Though for some reason he cannot shake the song’s call that only grows deafeningly louder with each step toward his destiny.

District Four, no doubt—that shanty carries the sound of saltwater, grainy sand and long voyages. He despised that place. For all the beauty capitolites ascribed it, that land was just a sorry, insignificant fishmonger's abode, reeking of guts and despair. His father had taken the family there once, in celebration of his second marriage. Save for the stench, it's all a blur and pressure-inducing darkness to Coriolanus… Good riddance!

What matters is the present—a final corner to be rounded, just a moment more and he shall greet his destiny. The summer storm has grown grotesque outside, lightning shining through the myriad of round windows high in the corridor. It truly is like a submarine in here.

Gaul's heels click in determination; Coriolanus’ jaw finally relaxes as he's set on a course…

And then… he sees you.

Folded in on yourself in an embryonic embrace… on the floor instead of the cot—more afraid to take what's offered by your doctors than by the filth that soaks the cell. Pitiful creature, so in need of guidance… what a bad subject, to not heed a professional's advice. And yet, he isn't too surprised—most of your kind suffer that affliction, thankless things that you are. It's what will make it all the more fulfilling, painful yet precious to take you under his care.

Aye, I know that I've loved, I've fought For the last time

You mumble and Coriolanus is so lost in envisioning all the possibilities ahead that the startle intended for you has the effect of making him flinch in stride. Doctor and subject already in sync…? Not bad.

Gaul snaps her fingers, willing a nearby Peacekeeper and the soldier readily surrenders his baton. She takes her time, feeling the weight of the black rod in her hand. Turning it, twisting it until it becomes almost an extension of her arm as her black gloves swallow its handle. Small rhythmic taps against the bars ensue, matching the drops that come from the rain penetrating the lab.

False comfort and suddenly—a loud bang in sync with the thunder outside.

You give a violent start and with a gasp, the melody drowns in your throat. While mildly unpleasant, the baton’s crescendo is a far less rude snapping to full consciousness than Gaul's usual treatment. He'd seen her practically waterboard her subjects. Though, a level of distance is owed now—you are his, not hers. She wouldn't want to sully the preconditions of whatever experiments awaited you.

When you realize you aren't floating ashore back in Four, anchored instead against your will, your eyes snap to the two figures you can distinguish. The ‘transportation aid’, as it's called, is a powerful sedative—yet whirlpools of fury dance within your irises. You are a fierce one…

Gaul doesn't utter a word, too busy conducting an observational study of her own. The lack of claim she displays should send a sufficient enough signal to Coriolanus that you are indeed his for the taking.

“Very well…” he mutters, attempting to mask his enthusiasm.

Oh, how long he's imagined this day. Ever since he was asked to submit his very first proposal, maybe even before then… when the ants on the playground were his initial and only research in group dynamics. Poor insects, so lost when their queen—their head of state was forcefully removed by his hand. It did teach him a great deal about how Panem ought to be governed and how limited natural creations were. Control is an intricate thing, one that requires nourishment. But its epitome, he believes, comes in the form of shaping individuals.

He will gladly leave Crassus to play court. In the end, all it takes is one piece to mate the king. One person to be that spark.

Now, a man grown into his calling, small creatures were a thing of the past. He's earned this, earned you… after observing his mentor in action more than he could pretend to care about. No, his method is different… He takes a step toward you, not within the cell just yet—the lock is still securely in place, marking the boundary of his territory.

Crouching, the words grate from his throat. “Hi, doll,” he outstretches his hand as though you need to get acquainted to his smell like a wild animal. “I'm Doctor Snow. Welcome to my lab.”

He expects you to recoil, to shout or beg for your freedom—however futile—but his mouth hangs, face drowning in surprised when you… you slither… towards him.

The lab gown hangs like a martyr’s rags on your famished frame. Your long hair is matted, begrimed from the unsanitary transportation correctional Peacekeepers typically utilize. You’d tried to subdue it—he’ll give you that—rake it back into a braid… the waves he expects from the visibly delicate curls are crudely slicked back. A puppet without strings isn’t allowed tools. Not when it can use them in less than favorable ways—pins, ties, combs—anything can aid in escape or bodily harm.

A thorough cleanse, inside and out, is in order… before he can even think about touching you without his gloves.

Blue shadows from the puddled water dance in ghostly ripples where the material dips between your breasts. Pretty thing… for a district girl, tempting his superiorly rational mind with your wicked ways—like a nymph of myth.

He shakes his head back into focus to meet your expression… it pleads silently—wide, warm eyes above your sunken cheekbones. You… recognize him? The thought is so absurd, a hysterical laugh threatens to bubble up to the surface.

“I'm—” your voice tries to find a confidant through cracked lips.

“—You are my subject,” he supplies before it can get out of hand. “Fish out of water, but I will have little trouble shaping you into the proper doll ought to be.”

The denial of your unspoken words burns you, forcing you to grow quiet. A wise retreat, he recognizes. Here, you have no name, no past… just the future he determines, as what he will shape you to become. It’s a responsibility, a burden even, but a calling he is destined to fulfill.

“Ah, the puppy recognizes its new owner?” Gaul notes, each word pressing with a blade’s sharpness. “What a delight!” She taps her fingertips together, restless—the same way she’d get when she knows more than anyone else in the room.

The disproportion in information, and thus power, needles him ceaselessly. Frustration festers beneath his skin until he can feel the vein pulsing on his forehead. Ordinarily, he is the fish that can’t resist the lure. Now, he simply stands up, not to bite at Gaul’s provocation but to gaze down at you from up high—the place where he belongs. And you—kneeling as his rightful subject, awaiting the greatness he’ll administer in due time. When your eyes follow him, fearful and desperate, that’s when his mind quietens as he realizes…

He’s already won.

“Strip,” Doctor Snow orders.

His display of restraint is truly commendable, he believes. Any self-respecting doctor, eager to start on the scientific method, would’ve resorted to strapping you to their table and pulling out the scissors already. Not Coriolanus though.

He prides himself in the patience he's trained into his temperament. Naturally, any growing Snow boy endeavored to seize the whole world. He wasn't born necessarily self-possessed. A man of turbulent emotions, he learned early on to quell them, suppress that high baseline of physiological arousal that’s plagued him so. Unlike Crassus who seemed entirely void of that human side, detached and raising above its mundane ruckus.

‘Pick your battles’—truly the single most effective way to lead one's life and emerge unscathed.

You, however—you've picked the wrong one today. As your legs dangle from the surgical table—the cold metal no doubt boring into your backside by now—he gives you a chance to be good. The way your fingers crumple the gown in white-knuckled fists—you are itching to tear it off. Whether it's to throw a tantrum, to try and show that the garment doesn't define you… he doesn't care. The result will be all the same—you, beautifully vulnerable under his guidance, and his assessments finally beginning in earnest.

Instead, you surprise him yet again… by shooting up with the vigor of a new day’s beginning. Big and angry barefoot steps patter Coriolanus’ way—not to obey, but to annoy with your insistence. Crawling definitely fits you better, he determines. Swimming though, will suit you best—far more elegant than your little display.

When you arrive in front of him, trembling like a rabbit beneath a hawk’s shadow, his hands twitch around the final button of his lab coat. Putting on his armor while you ought to be shedding yours—what a fitting, exquisite imbalance. That reminder steadies his fingers—he cannot allow you to scent his vexation, lest you weaponize it.

“Please, ain't you hearing?!” your voice quivers in a wheeze, throat tight with frustration and disuse. You flail your hands in fury as boundless as sea whipped into foam. “We've met before! I'm—”

“Ah, ah, ah—those delusions really aren't helping your case, doll. How unfortunate—your mental state seems worse than I'd hypothesized…” Coriolanus waves a finger as he interjects swiftly, a faux sickly sweet coo masking his practiced words. “I've already told you the exact parameters of what you are.” His gaze is set on the desk beside him and when it’s not, he’s looking past you, trying to not snap. “You are my subject, my doll to take apart and put together for the greater good of Panem… And good little dolls do not argue with their doctors.”

He seizes your wrists with one hand as if that would quell you. The body sends signals to the brain after all—some correct, some erroneous. A prey though… knows when it's trapped. His free hand finds its course to a readied syringe. In your desperation, however, you remain none-the-wiser.

You writhe against his cold grip like a fish caught in a net, trying to wriggle out. “Stop, stop! Don't you call me that! I—” The moment you let your guard slip, arms bound like this, a sting bites at your neck.

“There we go…” he coos as your muscles give out under the relaxant, and he catches you in his waiting arms. “Good girl, doll. See? Not so hard to just follow orders.”

“—I have… a name…” your words are still here, though nausea bubbles up and your body grows heavy—no longer yours to control.

“Hmm, do you now?” he feigns contemplation as you float, guided to his table. “Because I look at this file and…” He waves some papers you cannot hope to make out in this state, “… I don't think you do.” The mock pout that cracks on his thin lips is clear enough though as he taunts: “Not anymore. Not after your… what was it?” He pretends to consult the report on your imprisonment as though he didn't mull over every letter a hundred times before he went to sleep last night. Imagining you at those dark docks—running and afraid, your sweet voice begging for mercy. “Ah, there it is—your silly escape attempt. Thinking you can abandon your post? Your duty to the nation…? What an ingrate creature.”

His words reek of discontent. Sighing, he takes to strapping each of your wrists and then your ankles. The leather licks at your skin, a gentler sensation after the many bites of Peacekeeper whips. Even that, you know well, is a false sense of comfort. At least the lashes had been delivered on your body… now, these false kisses blossom on a mere cadaver. Your autonomy—swept away with the tides.

Still, you try to fight the current, to appeal to his humanity. “On Pearl Bay in Four, I—I saved you. I’m—” each word is slow and painful under the slow influence of the drug. It comes in waves as clarity fights to linger, but it’s muted—cascading in small bursts.

His hand shoots up to cover your mouth as your words bring about an unwelcome flash in his vision. No coo is detectable in his voice now, just poison. “It's fascinating, really—what fantasies your simple mind can concoct just so you don't feel powerless… ‘Savior complex’ as I have so eloquently noted in your file already.” He tuts in disappointment, squeezing your face harshly until your jaw aches, until your teeth catch your lips and you can taste the latex of his glove. “If you hate my darling pet names so… perhaps you'd prefer a number? Every specimen in here has one, but… that'd be so impersonal.”

Your only appellation here — 1042, he says. And you wonder—how is it possible for so many people to have been put through this? Then, you figure, like a stab through the heart… they probably count the animals in the same pile.

“It'd be a pity to have to use it when there's nothing more devoted and soul-baring than the relationship between a doctor… and his patient.” he hisses, fingers digging into your cheeks like talons, with even more ferocity—like he might seal the corrupt words there.

He doesn't believe it—the yarn you spin of a mermaid rescuing her prince. For he is no fairytale, and you… are no siren. Not yet anyhow. Even when, in his dreams with teeth, his subconscious remembers the shadowy depths of Four…

Was it his father who'd thrown him to swim or perish?

Coriolanus’ breath catches at the vision that's entered his mind uninvited. Blasphemy! It's all a child's scare, not reality. It didn't happen. You are playing tricks on him with your perfidious district ways… how you are able to peer into his fears and know what to exploit, he hasn't the faintest idea. One thing rings clear though—he needs to up the ante.

You get there first, however—your teeth sinking into his fingers hard the moment they slip. Relentless endurance courses in your district veins it seems, and sheer audacity.

“Little shit!” Doctor Snow yelps as he rips his hand away, though he has to fight with your fangs. “I have to put a muzzle on you now? Is that it?!”

You managed to put a tear in the glove and fresh droplets of blood bead at the wound. As you managed to hurt him back… pride swells in your heart.

“Go ahead—since you already treatin’ me like an animal!” you challenge, though you feel your heartbeat decelerate against your will.

Your eyes widen at the dreadful certainty that the sedative is taking the final drag under—like a hundred desperate hands pulling you with the ocean's fury. The quiet horror that paints your face seems to delight him greatly; he can overlook your outburst—if all is restored to its expected place. Just like yesterday when you crawled for him… just like it will be today, and tomorrow, and the day after… and forever.

“Well, aren’t you a handful…”

Letting out a self-satisfied huff, Coriolanus’ hands start rummaging at the helping table out of sight, no doubt preparing another dose of some altering concoction, or some barbaric tool with which to break bone and rend flesh. The clatter of instruments feels deafening for you know each one is some means to seal your fate as his doll.

All throughout his careful ritual, he doesn’t stop humming this bright melody. It sounds like a nursery rhyme, one that is just as unknown to you as everything around—clearly not meant to soothe your nerves. It’s his recital, his show to run. An occasional, almost whimsical whistle sharply emphasizes each clink of the glass flasks as he puts them down with a flare fitting for a conductor.

A second passes, then two, then three—but each feels like a lifetime in this lost world. The air in the examination room grows heavy with the dampness of the leaks that have seeped through the very structure of the establishment. You can see the black mold that’s made home in these walls—blooming in veins like blood in water. Will you remain like that too? Forever etched into whatever construction he designs?

“Almost there, doll, I can feel you getting antsy…” Coriolanus sighs as he dabs his forehead with the pristine white towel that hangs over his shoulder, wincing when he feels the throb of his wound. “I’m just preparing something extra special for my good girl… to ensure you have your strength before the real treatment begins—”

“I’m not ill!” you protest feebly. “I shouldn’t be here…”

“Hush now, don’t distract your doctor…” Coriolanus snaps, growing agitated, but his hands and eyes never leave his station.

Your begging falls on deaf ears while he’s too preoccupied with his sick idea of ‘healing’ you. Vapors curl in the air from a boiling vial, emanating this putrid stench of rot… gurgling until only viscid dark bubbles remain in the glass tube, whirling in a clear liquid.

You raise your head, struggling to look over to the small table. It’s obscured by his broad shoulders where he's settled into the spinning leather stool like a king on his throne. Still, you hope to chance a glance at what horrors he will unveil that will debilitate your agency further. Maybe then you'll at least be prepared… Wasn't it enough for his ego? To have you strapped like this on display, at his mercy? Why does he have to deny you the grace of knowing your fate?

He doesn't need to turn around to sense your rebellion, aware of your every sign, as any good scientist should. A spark of anger flares so fast even he cannot anticipate what he’s compelled to do to regain control over the situation.

In the same blink, without getting up, without even sparing you a glance—his hand flies to your neck, pinning your head down. The recoil rattles your skull onto the metal table in sync with his other fist coming down onto the tools and they are sent clanking like downpour from the abrupt force.

“Oh, no you don't!” Only when your throat is secured in his clutch does he turn slowly, forcing his instincts to take a backseat while his words attempt to regain their momentum— a dangerous note catches fire, “Forcing my hand to use the relaxant. Now, you try to compromise the study's blinding! Sullying my experiment before it's even began…" His eyes dart madly, "It's all wrong, all filthy, all wrong… all spoiled and wrong!” he chants through gritted teeth.

Doctor Snow presents himself as this put-together professional, yet you see the smoldering wrath that bubbles beneath the mask. A small, scared child—wanting to lash out at anything that dares defy his imposed order. That is why he hides behind the orchestration of his lab… if you can't fight the force that is Coriolanus Snow, you may yet bring it about… So it can scorch him back, so that the armor cracks and he's left to the untamed fire. Even if you are reduced to ashes in the process… you'll know—you have fought.

“Barin’, you said?” you echo his earlier tirade in a tired, thin voice. Somehow you find the strength to scoff under the spell of the drug and his possessive hands, your lungs and throat burning from the exertion. “I'm the only one in the open ‘ere… you can't even touch me without them gloves—”

“Ignorant, rotten little girl…” His hand is still on your neck, squeezing harder with each word. “Has Gaul put you up to this, hm? Or my father perhaps? He could never bear that my brilliance outshines his… maybe you are no gift, but a curse? Sent here to taunt me!”

The pressure is all too much now, you can't hope to breathe through it. If you could just move and scuffle him off… but you can’t. With grace, you are prepared to let the current take you. If this is how it ends, at least you'd still be yourself as you leave this world—not whatever mutt he wants to make of you. For a moment, his grip is a welcomed respite, a glimpse into the light.

‘Coryo… What have you done?!’

His mother's shriek echoes from somewhere low in his hind brain. It’s like she’s in this very room, afraid of her own son even from beyond the grave.

Then, just as your body thrashes to take the breath you're owed, his hands snap back as though burned and you are washed ashore— a fresh gasp torn from your lungs. Your surrender had tugged some string in his heart. Not pity, maybe not even a guilty conscience wrought from the memory of his mother finding his earlier experiments—back when his childish mind couldn't yet judge right from wrong. Surely, it's just as simple as him clinging to his ambition—redirecting his efforts to fasten a strap over your forehead.

Limited to your peripheral vision, for once you wish you were born a prey animal instead of being forced into the role of one. A small, fluffy rabbit mayhaps—with side-facing eyes and whiskers. A superior frame for detecting danger when it cannot be met head-on.

“No matter… you hurt me—I hurt you back,” he reassures himself more than you, chest expanding and constricting rapidly as his breath attempts to outrun his thoughts. “But we'll show them… we'll show them all.”

That he is good, because he's answered a calling bigger than himself, because he doesn’t shy away from what needs to be done—the grotesque and the vile. Even when his mother— sweet late Lady Snow, too soft-hearted and light of spirit, drifting through a world that never demanded she carry its weight—couldn’t see what he was destined to achieve. He'll show her, it's nothing to be afraid of, but a glory to be embraced.

He won't break you, not yet… and not with his own two hands. Curse or not—you still have your purpose and he'll be damned if he doesn't squeeze it out of you one way or another.

“They oughtta've hanged me…” you choke out. “Not leave me ‘tween the devil and the deep blue sea.”

Why didn't they? You were captured at the abandoned docks, searching for some blind hope: tales of rebels trying to escape the bounds of Panem through sea—a faraway voyage but nothing felt too vast when you yearn to taste freedom.

It would have been so easy to just deal with you like any other vermin… instead of subjecting you to a slow death at an unmarked grave.

“No, no... Shh, don't cry,” The squeak of his new glove on your heavy tears is assaulting to the senses, yet he seems unbothered by it, almost as if in a trance. A chill crawls up your spine at how quickly he oscillates from one extreme state to the other. “Do you miss my hands on you so dearly that you yearn for the burn of a rope around your pretty neck? I won't gag you, I promise. I will hear your song, even when it tries to deceive.” his voice is so gentle now or maybe it's the sedative that makes you melt. “I was a bad doctor, doll… refusing my subject's call for help,” his voice grows solemn as he cradles your scratched-up cheek. “Forgive me.”

He doesn’t wait for absolution, he doesn’t truly need it from a subject. It’s just another lesson learned… if you insist you ‘saved’ him, if you want to cling to that ludicrous story—that's just another thread he can cure or exploit. It truly is ridiculous—he never needed saving, but you… you do.

“Why should I?” you ask drowsily. “You ain’t savin’ me from drowning.”

“No, doll… But I'll make sure you are never afraid of the depths,” is all he offers as he lets the scissors lead.

He starts off slowly, holding his breath as each snip bares more of your skin to him… inch by inch he starts to peel the gown off—that last barrier. Be it because he forgets to exhale or because you look so tempting pinned to his table, his chest begins to ache, warm blood rushing to his core. The fingertips of his free hand trace each of your bruised ribs as though he can produce a melody drumming through the hollows…

He's always been fascinated with the curves of the human body—so purposefully sculpted. Even if you are frail now, you still have that fullness in places—your breasts, those nipples prickling in the cold air—his fingers still there, applying just enough pressure to feel the plushness beneath. A sponge bath is in order; you aren’t clean by any means—not in your state now and chief of all, not by virtue of your breeding, but… he wants to be engulfed in your softness nonetheless. He forces himself to sit down lest he reveal the… prominent result of your alluring form—the tent pressing in his pants that his apron so conveniently conceals.

Still, he cannot deny himself more exploration. It's a necessary part of the assessment, he tells himself as his gloved hand dances in featherlight strokes across each freckle where the sea sun had kissed you first.

It tingles in ways you don't want to be feeling… No one has ever touched you that way before, and maybe no one ever will. It's normal to be confused, you think to yourself—that’s just what this is. The first gentle touch you are graced with in this forsaken world.

“Good muscle tone, all things considered,” he notes clinically, yet the gruff baritone that rings underneath is anything but, “Though a woman should have more body fat in her composition. I will amend that.”

“It's not like we’re out there feastin’ in the districts,” you bite back, though your labored breath isn't something you're proud of. “And your Peacekeepers sure don't give a damn if we starve in them cells.” You attempt clear your throat in discontent.

“I said, I will see to it—”

The subtext is clear: ‘I'm more of a man than these soldiers my father hails could ever be.’

When you dare tremble as the sharp cutting edge reaches your abdomen, your underbelly—that vulnerable spot any animal protects—his composure cracks. The scissors are sent flying to the other side of the room with a clatter so vicious, for a moment you’d been afraid he was preloading a strike to stab you with them. Instead, he snatches the flaps of your gown-turned-rag, bracing a knee atop the table. His forearm veins bulge though the physical exertion shouldn’t be so grand… and he tears through the remaining fabric with a groan.

You shriek at the sudden exposure, and he just… stares at you.

“All good now…” he releases a slow exhale.

His breath is labored as he takes in the supple flesh of your thighs and the fawn-like fear in your glossy eyes—all ripe for the taking. All his to mold and enjoy. Yet he's careful, forcing composure back in place… he's no beast, even if he could do as he pleased within these four walls. His one purpose here is to serve more than just his primal needs. To show show Panem that his order reigned supreme, that Crassus’ political theaters and court pageantry had nothing on science and real progress.

‘We are the real puppet masters here, Mister Snow… Ties and strings that stay can only be born from the shadows.’, as Gaul likes to assert. ‘Bread and circuses—the only means to control a nation is not with empty promises, but by showing the plebeians who they truly are. Animals, savages… when there’s no Leviathan to reign.’

It pulls Coriolanus back at his center and away from the gravity of your trembling body. You are a means to an end, nothing more… First, comes the trust between a subject and their doctor—and he won't have it nipped in the bud. Then, well, the world's his oyster, and you—his pearl. It's embarrassing enough that he'd allowed his temper to get the best of him in front of you earlier—his hands clawing at your throat like a madman… Why do his palms still tingle?

A distraction—yes, he needs one and desperately. Thankfully, the enriching serum he'd prepared provides just that. Synthesized from his defining work, his pièce de résistance thus far—the rabbits. It will increase your appetite just right, he hopes, making your body retain more of the nutrition you’ll be pumped with.

A shortcut, yes, but one that he deserves. And should any side effects occur… he will be here to greet and treat them in whatever way is required.

This should keep his mind set on the target while he bathes his doll—can’t have you be messy while he works, now can he?

“My, my… Just look at the mess you’ve gotten yourself into,” the observation rings as Coriolanus leans in to clean up the wounds that are still gaping, the bruises that still bloom in magenta—some new, from Peacekeeper lashes and batons and some old, from the night you tried to flee to the ship that promised to take you away. “So broken, so abandoned. Those soldier mutts don’t know how to treat a creature like you.” His breath hitches all but involuntarily when he squeezes at your inner thigh to keep you steady for the bandaging. “Fret not, doll, here you are wanted—so long as you let me take you apart.” His hand lingers at your ankle— it remained throbbingly swollen through your days in captivity. Doctor Snow’s touch will kiss it better… As he tightens the compression sleeve his curls brush against your core, making you twitch. All scientific, all with purpose surely. “Over and over, just so I could fit all the pieces back together perfectly. Imagine what spectacular designs we will create together.”

“Let you? Like I gotta choice—no one will choose to be sufferin’…” you offer, though your words are small, drained and confused. There’s some itch that bubbles up in you, that you cannot scratch — that you, more than anything, don’t want to acknowledge.

“Did you see what’s written at the grand arch of the department as they were hauling you in, doll?” he muses as though you are two peers catching up over afternoon tea, instead of you being tethered to him and this table like an unruly pet while he rinses out a sponge.

“No,” you whimper in fear, forcing your eyes shut with such grit that they wrinkle at the edges. You don’t want to feel clean—not by his hands.

“I don’t blame you… your poor heart was probably ready to jump out of your chest, getting mishandled like that. I should have them whipped for daring to deliver my subject in such suboptimal condition.” Coriolanus’ voice laps gently like the sponge he drags up your arm, though his words spell violence. “Have I already praised your beautiful pulse? Even weak like this, your vitals fight—that blood pressure is simply perfect… not too low, not too high. Just what I expected of my good doll.”

“Wh-what does it tell?” you ask, stifling a gasp. Your lids remain sealed—wanting to occupy your senses with anything but how close his hands were getting… to that need that rises treacherously. “The writing?”

“If you open your eyes, I might let you know…” his whisper tingles at the shell of your ear, while his cleaning doesn’t seize—padding the sponge below your breasts, almost at your belly button, one more swipe and—“Everything sounds much more enticing in Latin. And I can tell, you are an inquisitive one, hmm? I am too…”

With that, he reaches between your thighs and your eyes shoot open—the cold cleansing water licking at your warmth. As quickly as that drag floods you with some relief—it’s gone. With shame, you realize that if it weren’t for the straps, you would’ve let your hips chase that friction in a desperate buckle.

His chuckle reverberates through your body, through that emptiness he left behind.

“Good, see how well you listen when you are properly motivated? I’ll have to make a note of that…” he announces, “‘Ex duris gloria’ — from suffering comes glory. Choice or not, we all suffer… it's what comes afterwards that counts.”

“You think that’s it—that you’s what comes after?” you inquire, throat bobbing with contained abhorrence. That’s what you should feel, right? Disdain? At this foreign, unwanted touch… yet its apparent care lulls you. Practiced or not, it comes gently.

“Oh, you flatter me, doll.” The faintest curl at Coriolanus’ lips seems genuine but you aren't sure whether that's a good thing. “No, I'm a mere messenger. You will be my glory.”

He moves to unfasten your leg from the strap, only to secure the ankle compress to one of the wires that hang from the surgical lamps above. You'd thought you felt exposed before, but spread like this… electricity crawls up your skin. Yet another thing you cannot place as good or bad now—is it instincts or craving? No, it can’t be the latter—the drug must really be messing with your mind, clouding it like the mist that settles over the marina before first light. This is the man who almost choked you out… who treats you like an object… but whose touch is the only gentle one you’ve known. The boy you saved… is he somewhere in there, under the dredges of hatred and fear at the world?

“It needs to stay up—helps with the swelling,” he interjects clinically.

Some explanation finally graces you, yet what comes after is anything but gentle…

“Can I at least have a-a wool or somethin’?” you hold your ground, though sheepishly.

“Now, why would you need that?” he challenges, tone imbued with the mild agitation you sensed before— the same one that grew so wild in a flash. “I’m your doctor, doll—you have nothing to hide here under my care. Not your body, not your… little reactions.” His eyes are reduced to slits at how he concentrates on dissecting you. “It’s all natural, all part of the study. Even that ear-splitting sailor talk you have going on—I tolerate it, because it’s an independent variable.”

Everything he does, he does for his work.

The ‘blinding’ as he put it, seems ready to be unveiled now—when its application becomes inevitable and he is the one controlling the narrative… telling you a version of what the serum will do.

“Now, I hope you don't mind needles, because it all starts with this—” Coriolanus’ gloved hands handle the syringe like it’s an integral part of him—swiftly and confidently, positioning it with precision. “A little something to get you on the right track… to bring a healthy flush to those cheeks and prime you for what’s to come. And don't you worry, it’s passed all sorts of testing—”

Animal testing. With macabre but favorable results.

The disinfectant feels impossibly cold against your shoulder, even as your naked body quivers. When you sense the needle’s prod, you hold your breath. Although your head is strapped in place, your eyes dart to his, to the only other person in the room. In search of some warmth or anchor… you don’t know why you hope to find it in the architect of your distress, the one who supports and benefits from your captivity. His eyes widen, stunned by your display as much as you are.

Then, the only thing you feel is liquid fire scorching in your muscles. Whatever this medicine is, it leaves behind a throb that he pretends to soothe with more antiseptic. Panic cuts you up—prickling like icicles that threaten to burst from your chest. Even when you were captured, you had some inkling as to what may happen to you. Now, it's all unknown—an indeterminate, potent synthetic coursing unseen through your body and leaving its mark. Changing you from within…

“Such a good subject. You took your shot so well, doll,” Coriolanus praises as he finally removes his gloves. “I’m so proud.”

Now, you are clean, washed in his care… deserving of his touch. Yet you've never felt more sullied.

“Don't leave me here…” you rasp out as you grasp at his sleeve like a drowning sailor, words falling once the dam breaks and all you can feel is the all-consuming fear that you may not wake up the same. “Please, I—I don't know nothin’ about what that stuff was. What if it acts up and I'm all alone, and—”

“Doll.” He unstraps you with haste, though the relaxant doesn't allow you to skitter off. “Hey, hey, I'll be here… in a way,” he assures you, “We have so many cameras, so just know… I'm always watching. I told you already—you won't be afraid of sinking so long as I work my magic, alright?”

You nod slowly, bringing the injected thigh close to you—nursing it while you attempt to reconcile the hatred with the odd sense of security that his words bring. Reduced to begging for aid from the one who inflicted this dread upon you in the first place—you decide you'll take the rose with its thorns. For today.

“Thank you… Doctor Snow.”

You can’t recognize the voice—it’s your lips that form the words, yet, you cannot fathom it—showing appreciation for your captor… A delighted smile finally cleaves open on Coriolanus’ face—like cracks breaking through thin ice.

“Young Master?” the butler follows up in a practiced tone, “The President-in-waiting summons you to his office at your earliest convenience.” It’s almost formulaic—how that old fox scans Coriolanus with expert tact so as to report anything amiss to the man of the house. Inevitably, he settles on the boy’s bandaged fingers and slithers in a veiled remark: “Once you’ve managed to leave the day behind, naturally.”

It’s laughable, really, the way Crassus insists on being referred to now. Yet also tragic—that the prodigal son has allowed himself to become a specimen in his home.

“Of course he does,” Coriolanus huffs, knowing exactly what battle awaited him. “Tell my dear father, I shall tend to his needs when I see fit, since he requires so much coddling now.” he muses: “Old age… really scrambles the brain to mush.”

He doesn’t wait to hear a rebuttal, though the devoted servant definitely had one prepared. The young heir simply continues his journey up the winding stairs and into his room—shutting the door behind him with excessive force. He too wants to seal the day—not to let it go, but to sear it in his mind.

As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he aches—his erection was throbbing, coming and going from the moment he strapped you onto his table and his hands found purpose on your body. He isn’t sure how he’ll be able to rein himself in if this is what the first day yields.

Maybe… he can just take a look at the live feed of the cameras? Just a peek… nothing inherently sinister.

He did promise to keep an eye on you, all things considered, and after the hearty dinner he ordered for you, you are probably feeling terribly lonely.

Maybe he can arrange for the two of you to have lunch together? Under regular circumstances, dining with a district girl would be an abhorrent thought… but these aren't ordinary circumstances, and you are no ordinary girl—you are his subject, his responsibility. And, well, he'd use it to gather data—that's all.

The screen of the portable tablet hums to life as the initially grainy footage crystallizes somewhat. There you are… and something is indeed bothering you. Nestled in that blanked you'd asked for, on the cot, but… writhing against it.

Could it be?

His mutated rabbits did display a potent heat cycle… maybe once you had your belly full with nutritious diet for a change, the synthesized serum allowed you to blossom into this?

Aw, you do look desperate, he thinks to himself, and the read-out of your vitals only supports his theory: high body temperature and elevated pulse. Poor thing, you must be so scared, unaware of what's happening as your hips draw these small needy circles, seeking relief. The image causes Coriolanus to shift in his chair, the tightness in his pants becoming all too uncomfortable and impossible to ignore as he sets to watch intently. The dedication definitely didn't have anything to do with those visions of you, naked on his table that still swim in his mind.

You are trying to sing even now, but it comes out all warbled—courtesy of the pre-War speakers as well as your state no doubt. Something in his primal brain whispers that the muffle will sound so much better if inflicted by his hand… the way he'd held you down today, even if you bit him in the end. Suits you right—to be a slave to this serum now—a bunny through and through, given how you use your teeth without regard.

A moan wrings free from your lips when you seem to finally find the appropriate angle that sends sparks flying through your neediness.

It does him in.

Steadying his hands, Coriolanus unbuckles his belt to join you in your movements— the serpent answering its nature. Though from afar, it feels so real as he wraps his bitten, sore fingers tightly around his painfully hard cock in an attempt to imagine you here with him. By some convoluted, sick logic, it's as though your mouth is on him. After all, your teeth were right there, sinking into his hand… and now the memory of that will guide him into ecstasy.

How strangled would your song be then, when you are too busy choking on his cock?

His eyes fall shut with a strained groan, letting his memories of the day paint the beautiful picture. The sponge through which he licked everywhere, between your thighs, through your wetness; he could tell you craved it even back then. Maybe not fully comprehending it, but that was his job—to know what you need, even when you may deny it. And to administer it accordingly. Each drag of that soaked sponge he'd inflicted on you is a stroke at his cock now—wet and filthy. It's so vivid in his mind—how he was marking your body as his.

Then he hears you—right there on the screen for him to enjoy. The familiar melody is there, but you aren't singing that melancholic shanty, no… you are begging. He can hear it below the crackle: the small pleas and sighs that rain down in the cadence he'd heard yesterday, with no lucid words of your own… because he'd fine-tuned you to play his song now. And all it took was one day. He was truly destined for greatness.

Are you putting on a show just for him? You know he's a man of his word… that his eyes will be on you. He might have to think of a way to reward you for how good you listen to your new body's call. And for pleasing him so well.

His strokes grow sloppy, trying to keep in sync with your chase. Each small tremble of yours translates to a squeeze around his shaft that beckons beads of pre-come. He's trying desperately to hold back… wanting this moment to last.

‘Thank you, Doctor Snow—’

That's right, you should be grateful that he graces you with his time, that he will make you perfect… his sweet doll.

That recollection of your words mixes in with the ‘please, please’ and whimpers from the live feed—so frantic, so hopeless. You must feel so empty without something to fill your cunt through the heat cycle.

“Poor bunny…” Coriolanus mumbles, swallowing a gasp, “Doctor Snow will make it all better—” he vows with a grunt.

His breathing grows heavier, doubling over at his chair. As he rests his forehead on the desk, he surrenders to chasing his release with reckless abandon while that coil winds tighter. Like a man starved, like a wild animal himself, his hips cant up to meet his fist in a desperate need to rut into something. The chair clatters, the desk rattling against the wall with each stutter.

‘Don't leave me here, please—’

“Never—!” Coriolanus bites at his free hand to stifle the growl that splits from his chest.

His release hits him like a whip, in all-consuming waves that he rides out as thick ropes of cum paint the screen where your image still writhes in your makeshift nest. Once his breath returns to him and the haze lifts, he sinks back into his chair, noting the obscene mess left in his wake. Reverently, he smears the evidence over the screen—not cleaning or absolving—just accepting the facts like the observant scientist he is. Oh, how he wishes it all ended up stuffed in you—making you whole, settling you through your cramps.

He looks down at his hands… one bearing your teeth marks, and the other—his. What poetic symmetry.

‘Fueled with the terror of becoming prey, see how quickly we become predator?’ Gaul’s words prowl at the edge of his mind even now… the only way to explain this primal, vulgar display.

Yet, it was not fear that drove him to forego his trained poise, no—it had been Coriolanus accepting his role, blossoming into his nature. Driven by witnessing his prey in such a dire condition, his instincts kicked in.

The epiphany cracks his skull open as an incessant pounding pulses in his head—Gaul is stagnated in her theories, limited, because of her innate objectivity. She stalks the corridors of the Department of War, postulating proudly how behavior is all about negative reinforcement, all the while she neglects the one chief truth…

A predator seeks to consume.

His ‘spiritual mother’ may wear the skin of a wolf, but beneath—it’s all cogs and bolts, whirring and tuning—laboring to imitate human nature and force baseless interpretations upon it. A machine, void of deeper wants and needs, just like Crassus.

Coriolanus, however, knows much of impulse and appetite, feels them throbbing in his heart. They aren’t a cancer that needs biopsy, but the very essence of his work. Maybe, it’s high time Doctor Snow’s paradigm reign over the ‘Romulus’ program… and for you to become the pearl in his insignia.

The grand doors of his father’s study weren’t always uninviting to Coriolanus… not when this used to be his mother’s studio. Creative chaos, filled with half-finished pieces, oil paint streaks coloring her face as well as her next escape on a canvas and the resinous smell of turpentine that permeated the air. There, a small Coriolanus would sit on her lap, proudly finger painting—safe and sound, loved and embraced.

Crassus permitted it even while she was pregnant. After all, a Commander called to duty didn’t need a place to parley—the War rooms had provided a sufficient enough stage for his ego... for a time. As soon as she left this world alongside Coriolanus’ baby sister who took all but a fleeting breath in it, the President-in-waiting claimed the peace Lady Snow left behind in that room. Before the mourning period had its chance to pass, he'd already turned it into a barren, desolate shell—a true reflection of Crassus’ inner world where he now spends his days entertaining political alliances.

Coriolanus holds his breath as he knocks and the instant response— ‘Enter.’ —is like a guillotine that slices clean through the full girth of his neck.

“So, my heir apparent finally decides to show some gratitude for the funding of his little pet projects? How fortunate must I be that the busy Doctor Snow graces me with his presence?” Crassus begins his sentencing sarcastically and without as much as a cordial greeting—tapping his cigar against the mahogany like a metronome. “Oh, wait, you aren’t a real doctor—it must’ve slipped my mind with how you parade yourself under my roof.” No turpentine in the air… just stale whiskey breath as he utters: “Tell me, boy—have you broken your doll yet? Or are you too busy savoring the only thing you can posses so long as I live?”

This study felt too small, even the whole of Panem sits meager and unable to contain two stags, two Snow men battling for ground. That full-height window, framed with wrought iron roses where his mother used to sit for better lighting as she painted… now casts the cold glow of the setting sun on Crassus. It makes Coriolanus wince before he buries the emotion.

“Father… what a warm welcome, as always. I still wonder—when will you stop whining like a child? Are the numerous bootlickers you surround yourself with not enough for your soldier toy set?” Coriolanus snaps dryly. He doesn't take a seat, electing to instead circle his sire. His rival. “I know the allure of honest work evades you. So—” The deliberate cracks of his leather soles emphasize each calculated pause as he reaches the cellarette, pouring himself a glass of the amber syrup. A sip, then two, and only then does he continue: “—Let me enlighten you. Presidents fall, dynasties can be usurped. But I'm building something of significance, a greater understanding of humanity. And my design will bask in life eternal…. while your head rolls in the dirt.”

And it all starts… With you.

The bedroom was silent save for the fantom kiss Adriana still felt pressed into her scalp—searing, not soothing. Yet another mark.

It certainly sent loud thoughts racing through her mind, like his absence always did. Loneliness physically pained her, and the emptiness caused by him—even more so. It was like even his cruelty could mend the hollow parts inside her, making her chase him for the ever-missing fragments, fearful of remaining shattered into countless pieces.

A thirst that can never be quenched.

The thick drapes let so little light in that she was unsure what time it was, but... it was a confusion she’d come to expect and greet like an old friend. All a result of his roller-coaster of unregulated highs and bottomless lows.

Adriana tried to stay in the middle now, balanced—the dark silk sheets creasing beneath her weight, beneath the exertion as she moved restlessly. But the concept—the stability was far too foreign, so her mind settled back to him. To the pearl she dives for.

Coriolanus was gone, so it couldn't be earlier than seven. She rolled over to his side of the bed—neatly made, nothing to suggest he'd ever been present—except for the white rose he'd left on his pillow and a note to her for the day. Elegant, yet assertive cursive bled through the small thin parchment piece…

Busy day, little siren. I expect you ready for the senate dinner. No party for you tonight and no coffee at breakfast. I've made sure of it. Milk and honey from now on. -C.S.

Not a text, but his own penmanship—his hands leaving something behind. For such occasions that required precision and for lessons that necessitate permanence, he preferred this method far more. His initials were written sharply, ritualistically practiced—an unnecessary addition… Who else could the note be from after all?

Adriana lifted her hand up to trace the matching ones imprinted on her neck and realized... everything had its purposes in his world.

He liked to watch her before he got on with his day. Her sleeping peaceful form. Liked knowing he stood behind it—guaranteed it.

Not that he couldn’t check in through the myriad of digital eyes he had on her at all times… but then, he wouldn’t be able to hear her breaths, to allow them. The act would settle his nerves, knowing she’d still be wherever he pointed to—a sea god commanding his siren and her emotional waves. He’d written the note, still watching her from the escritoire in the bedroom, imagining how she’d scrunch her nose in distaste at all his adjustments—but that she’d follow nonetheless. It was a high like no other.

‘No party’. The denial made her clench her fist and crumple the paper. Why couldn't she have both? Have it all? If she was so alone now, what would he care if she went?

The plan was still there… she'd leave the dinner and make him chase her. Finally prove he was in just as deep as she was. Not a distraction, not a secret—but something kept. And gem of Panem help her, she'd be drinking espresso martinis with Rosa in celebration until she couldn't walk straight…

Why did the thought of being away from Coriolanus make her head pound?

For now, sure as the moon commanding the tides, breakfast came—served in bed. The milk tasted far too sweet—a reminder of the life Coriolanus offered, but also of the weight he demanded on her hips, her thighs… a claim deep to her very bones. But the salty ocean currents made for better conquerors…

She chewed through the french toast, sprinkled with dried rose petals—fluffy but filling her senses far too overwhelmingly, making her his inside and out. The plethora of sourced wild berries stood still on extravagant china, so domesticated. Adriana popped one blueberry in her mouth when she heard heels clicking down the hall.

A woman—definitely refined in her gait. A feline-like shadow spread when the door was reached… Tigris. Her sweet voice that had become more of a careful purr recently now trickled through the keyhole. She didn’t dare knock—showcasing the subtle way in which Adriana wouldn’t even have the authority to let her in.

“Darling…?” the older woman prompted, waiting to hear what she would be dealing with on the other side.

After all, Coriolanus liked to play rough with his toys from a young age—break them if necessary. Even when the Snows couldn’t afford much, his belief was that if the trinkets were of no use to him, they better not be his at all—or exist at all for that matter. He’d try and make all these ‘adjustments’ to his military set—more wheels on Peacekeeper vans, painting camouflage stains on the small figurine soldiers, switching out limbs of stronger pieces, adding weapons as limbs… the list went on. If they couldn’t withstand his treatment, his improvements… they’d be thoroughly disposed of.

A tendency Tigris knew had followed him into adulthood but had switched focus to more... practical things. Like the lab work with Gaul he refused to abandon. Be it body modifications to troopers or the epitome of it all—his cabinet of vials galore, labeled to perfection. More often than not, a trip to it meant another bell tolling—another Capitol coffin lowered. A magistrate poisoned to perfection.

Like the Sea Witch of olden tales… poor souls would deal in terms few of them were astute enough to fully grasp before they’d inevitably turn to sea foam. It wasn't just lethality he administered though—chemistry was versatile like that.

“Yes, Tigris?” Adriana’s fog lifted, responding as she swallowed a mouthful. If Coriolanus were here, he’d surely take away her utensils for daring to speak while chewing. And that sweet breakfast bite would have been the last she’d get to feel on her own.

“Coriolanus requested I be the one to make any final adjustments to your wardrobe for the trip…" she explained, voice still muffled from behind the grand bedroom doors.

“I can be at the dressing room in ten!” Adriana automatically wiped at the corners of her lips with the thick handkerchief provided—already carrying the ingrained table manners even when there was no one around to scrutinize her.

“I was thinking… let us have the modeling outside? See how real sunlight compliments the fabrics with your complexion…” Tigris explained hastily: “We wouldn’t want to miss any angles now!" A well thought out excuse—her tone clipped and efficient. Just what Coriolanus would expect of anyone tending to his little siren. Nothing too familiar.

Outside… where there were no cameras. Adriana couldn’t lie that it’d be a reprieve from it all—from control disguised as care. From a constant dive for the latter, only to settle for the former, being confused in it herself. An uneasy feeling settled low in her stomach, that she was somehow betraying his rules—with reluctant awareness, but committing to it nonetheless.

The sun was bright against the white marble columns that surrounded the gardens, warming—even if they always gave the feel of endless snowfall. The first dress from yesterday already hugged Adriana’s frame better as she exited onto the large veranda and into the light. Tigris’ careful fingers brushed the tulle downward. Every movement spelled the reverent respect she held for her craft.

“The stitching here is sloppy… I tell my baby cousin—that’s what happens when you rush art! But then again, he never saw much value in the fashion itself." she shook her head, moving to pin a loose thread in place: “Not to worry, sweet girl—I’ll fix it in no time.”

The fabric wasn’t what was appraised here—it was the model, always Adriana. These ‘fancy rags’ were just another way to hold her tied down, in them—no unnecessary color and definitely not a means of self-expression. What a silly thing to even consider—there was no ‘self’ outside of him.

Yet there were still far more permanent chains Coriolanus could put in place. And Tigris knew it…. saw it—the ordinarily bitter serum stirred into the sweet milk this morning, by his hand. Brain chemistry was such a delicate thing after all, and his siren’s—even more so.

Adriana let out a small laugh, cutting through the older Snow's calculations: “I still don’t understand the rush to have the whole wardrobe done today… if we leave in five days.”

“Ah, it’s not for us to know—at least that’s what Grandma’am used to say.” Tigris related—a louder display of compliance for the sake of any lingering surveillance. But as she continued her distracting ramblings and coordinated accessorizing—a necklace here, an earring there— she'd squeeze the other girl's shoulder in a quieter comfort every now and again. “She permitted Coryo all his quirks. In a sense, he reminded her of my uncle… and, well, he was the Snow ideal.”

Just at that, a maid arrived with fresh lemonade and a conveniently pinned rose lapel—Coriolanus’ ears were scattered like jabberjays it seemed….

Adriana reached for a glass, but Tigris seized it sharply—hands suddenly far too unsteady for a well-trained seamstress. “That's okay, leave them on the table. We wouldn’t want to sully the new dresses, now would we?" she added sweetly.

“Of course, ma'am.” the maid curtsied hastily and left with that—fearful of something or rather someone.

The younger girl swallowed hard, lips pursing at the display. It wasn't like Tigris to command like this…

Carefully, Adriana opened her mouth, voice thin as if threading a needle accompanied with an anxious chuckle: “What was that about, Tigris? Surely we can enjoy some refreshments?”

Tigris took a final paranoid look over her shoulder, back at the looming gardens—somehow dark even when the bright summer shone. To her relief it was just the gardeners now—far away, tending already perfectly shaped evergreen shrubs.

She exhaled through her nose firmly as she turned to rummage through her leather work bag: “Listen, my girl… Coryo—Coriolanus—" she corrected, the action paining her greatly as she grimaced.

‘Coryo’—such an affectionate nickname—it sounded almost like a bird's chirp. Adriana wondered if the President's heart had ever been truly so open as to respond to its calling. Maybe long ago… with a certain songbird whose presence lurked between her and Coriolanus now—a ghost solidifying Adriana’s cage.

But before she could pursue that line of thought further, Tigris’ voice cut through, continuing lowly: “…He has been spiking your drinks... those gumdrops he feeds you too. I doubt the lemonade was a part of it since I'm here too, but… one can never be too careful." her throat was tight, breath barely escaping as she pressed a cold vial into Adriana's hand, squeezing it just as tightly as the invisible hand constricting her neck.

The siren took a step back, jerking away like she'd been burned: “Wh-what do you mean? Tigris? Why would…", her voice trembled as did her body. Suddenly, Adriana felt like she were standing back at District Four's Justice Building like she had for five full years. But this time, as in her worst nightmares—her name was being pulled from the Reaping bowl. “—I didn't do anything wrong!" she raised her voice, panicked while frantically feeling around her heart for a pulse through the sheer dress. For any indication that she was still alive. Maybe that was what every ‘tribute’ thought to themselves…

And Adriana could fathom it—Coriolanus wanting her out of the way… Painless, clean, poisoned—a snake's weapon. Even still, the betrayal hurt, fear consumed—like saltwater filling her lungs.

“Quiet now—we wouldn’t want to call attention!” Tigris warned but assured further: “It's not poison he is giving you… it's—”. Suddenly, she looked to the large pool, water in her eyes meeting the turquoise dancing in artificial waves. The mechanical whirl of the machine producing them somehow calmed her breathing, even if only somewhat: “—I don’t even know what exactly. All that I am certain of is that he spent sleepless hours in Gaul's lab before you moved in. When I inquired, he had all of these ready-made excuses… like he always does. Something about a serum for the civic service Peacekeepers—to ensure their loyalty.” Tigris didn't let go of Adriana's hand as her voice carried strained—bitter at Coriolanus’ lies, she bit her cheek: “One of the reports I saw on his desk called it ‘Cor raptum’…”

‘Stolen heart’… a compound that could be made strong enough to introduce physical pain upon separation from the intended ‘anchor object’—as Tigris had read and now retold. For precise effect to take hold—behavioral conditioning was paired; for soldiers, that meant being subjected to any number of propaganda materials after administration… for Adriana—it meant getting Coriolanus’ rewards, so she'd come to associate all the wonderful highs and lows with him. Low cortisol, high dopamine—she was slowing being forced into an addiction.

“What are you saying, Tigris?… I-I've always been like this." she tried to make sense of it, to explain to Tigris. She'd always felt empty, when she wasn't on the deep end of one emotion or the other.

“Maybe that's what he counted on… he was always good at finding sinkholes—or creating them when needed. But, Addie… I know what I saw, I know what my cousin is now… maybe what he has always been and what I was too blind to see." Tigris looked away with wet eyes as if she were mourning a non-existent version of Coriolanus—of the boy she'd protected for so long. When her hands trembled again, she forced them steady and looked back at Adriana—intensity boring into her eyes: “You don't have to trust me—I sure know it wouldn't come easy now. Just, please, keep this close… in case. Test it if you dare… if it isn't too late.”

Tigris, like the Lady Justice statue at the Capitol Square, had been blind—not because she is impartial in her judgement… but because she fears to gaze upon the world and the true nature of humans. But that didn't make her powerless. The older Snow tapped Adriana’s palm, still holding the vial—making the little siren clutch it harder…

She had indeed been feeling like something was tearing her apart when Coriolanus wasn't around—like an actual physical pull at her heart strings. A traitorous part of her wondered if that were such a bad thing. Would he have gone through the trouble if he didn't intend to keep her?

But being kept and being wanted weren't the same. He would never need her as much as she did him with that poison… it was poison after all, one of the heart and soul. He made sure her devotion remained endless, but never shared—never vulnerable himself. The realization sank deep within Adriana as she looked toward the carefully placed morning newspaper on the garden table—the whirling white hand-forged iron leaves blended with the thin paper… as if the printing ink sprung from within. As shall the truth.

Coriolanus didn't usually allow news around his little siren—what would she need them for, when she had him looking out for her? Yet, on the front page… there it was—an engagement announcement from Livia Cardew herself. Adriana’s eyes darted between the grainy picture of the smiling blond woman and the label on the vial, growing heavier in her hand… ‘cor revocatum’— ‘heart reclaimed’. If Coriolanus wouldn't keep her heart safe, maybe she'd finally find the strength to do so on her own. So she wouldn't end up a shipwreck buried in his depths—looking for a pearl that was never there.

“Thank you…" Adriana whispered as Tigris held up a pearl earring to match the dress.

“Don't thank me yet—choose first." a warm but reluctant smile spread on her lips but her eyes remained glossy throughout.

The gown was like twilight trapped in a bodice—dark but tasteful, not hugging but owning every curve. Adriana gave it a performative spin in front of the floor-length mirror while Coriolanus’ eyes never left her form through the reflection. With a measured step down from the fitting platform, he adjusted his cuff links—approaching slowly while they caught in the clear dressing room lights like the scales of a snake.

His left hand came to rest on her waist, while the right seized her wrist… pinching it between his thumb and pointer finger—wanting to keep even her pulse under his ‘care’. No words yet, just his presence had been enough to make warmth spread—pressing against her skin from within, as if her blood was boiling.

Adriana hadn't taken its antidote counterpart yet, wanting to see if its effects were true—if Coriolanus really had denied her even the opportunity to be honest with her heart.

It had been a reality she'd been living for weeks, but it was another thing entirely when she knew what to look for. He hummed now, apparently pleased with his observations—the heartbeat matching his expectations. Another data point for his collection.

“Looks like someone's worrying their pretty little head over the senate dinner, hm?" his voice was so gravelly, it reverberated from his fingers deep through her bone marrow—willing her still: “No need to fret, little siren… it will be a total bore." he assured, blunt fingernails digging, then dragging slowly up and down the length of her arm, forcing it to extend: “Though I have something extra special for my good girl.”

Suddenly, he moved back, denying touch—waiting for her reaction. And it came—a pang in her chest—more painful, more unbearable with every step he took away from her; immediate, guaranteed—a chemically induced invisible chain—like he could pull her heart out with him and keep it in one of his glass jars forevermore.

He fought the urge to smile when he saw it for himself —just how effective the serum was. And so, he concluded: “Since you've proven your loyalty… you get to help Daddy tonight.”

More like the cor raptum had forced it out of her… Adriana mourned her right to choose—to show the real extent of her devotion.

“Help?" she echoed inquisitively. While she’d become well-versed in what was taught in her classes, she couldn’t imagine Coriolanus allowing something as pivotal as political discussions to be outside of his control. But then again, they wouldn’t really be external to him. Not truly, not ever, if he owned her heart so thoroughly.

“Yes, sweetheart… help. Don't you want to be good and help Daddy? I know how curious you have always been and tonight—I'll indulge. Just a couple of drops, but by your hands." he let each word simmer slowly, enigmatic as always—speaking in riddles to force a binding promise of the little mermaid becoming human… if she just gave her voice away.

And Adriana, fool that she was—took it every time. As she stepped towards him and felt his fingers lace with hers, guiding—her stolen, rotten heart skipped a beat; and even that pause was his to enjoy.

Coriolanus led her to the infamous maid’s bathroom—though its one and only function was to house his vial cabinet—a shrine of his experiments in all flavors of control. The lavatory was made to be an exact replica of the one that rotted away in the old Snow penthouse. It was so tall that no natural light could force its way inside save for a little twinkle that bled through the small window high above. The glass was stained so any warmth would transform cold and blue upon forced entry—repurposed and bent, making it all feel like an underwater cave with no means of escape.

The cabinet stood menacingly large; wide doors like lungs—it was the closest thing to a living presence in the otherwise soulless room, even when closed. Though Adriana wasn’t sure if its essence was a good thing or just a testament to the spirits, whose breaths were now and forever trapped in its wooden depths.

Widdled serpents coiled at the sides—their heads reaching dark and fanged to serve as handles at the heavy doors. A reminder that reaching for a poison meant embracing it fully and suffering its bite too.

But what a small price to pay it was—Coriolanus believed and as such had ordered the old mural from his father's office be displayed above the cabinet. The ethereal figure of winged Nike, goddess of victory—hand outstretched in a blessing… had been teared together with the wall which she once downed. She hadn’t brought his father any successes, but Coriolanus knew better than to let his chances be ruled by silly gods. No, luck was made and his Victory would—quite apparently—be ripped forcefully if need be. The ragged panel edges were honed down to a semi-circle—a halo. A crude mockery of one, if Adriana had any say in it. The watchword that could still be made out—letters, once black now faded to almost burgundy against a pure white ribbon translated—

“The Victory has… honor," Adriana mumbled while she stood frozen next to Coriolanus, only tilting her head slightly to make out the textured words at the end.

He was more than willing to let her adjust to what he felt was the glory of it all while he guided her hand to grasp one of the serpent heads. The wood bore into her skin—much like Coriolanus’ voice—drawing prickles.

“Ah, someone has been polishing their Latin? Good, I'm not paying that University tuition for nothing then…" he started as the cabinet wing creaked open under their shared hands, but more so under his guidance.

The muted light of the room caught in the vials that rested within—some were filled to the brim, others looked almost empty—a melody of agony. In turn, the reflection carried their menacing promises onto the tiled walls; the small rhombus stones that connected each of them suddenly stood out to Adriana. Tesserae—a death sentence for many tributes—traded as a means of imposed survival. Morbidly fitting, she thought—for these to be here.

Coriolanus’ words cut through as his fingers seized Adriana's chin when she'd gotten far too distracted for his taste: “But, pray tell then, little siren… since you are so wise now. Do you know its meaning? Or are you just good for reading what others before you had to say?”

Adriana pursed her lips for a moment... then shook her head, like a deer caught in headlights. Her mind drew a blank, or more so she couldn't will her lips to move. She knew well—that history was written by the winners. That victors held honor regardless of their morality. But here and now, she couldn't say it—couldn't be part of it.

His voice continued to drip with mockery as he held her head there—eye to eye with the various poisons on offer. “No?" he sighed, shaking his head: “Disappointing… truly. I guess, some things never change—your gaze holds fear at what it takes to rule…. the reprimand was almost at the tip of your tongue, was it not? It probably tasted so bitter—and then… you always get distracted by shiny things.”

He reached for a small yet ornate mixing bowl, putting it in her hand while tracing its engraved snowflakes. His reluctance to let it go was palpable. “It’s what caught you in my net in the first place. And now… now you will see the price I pay every day.”

Adriana looked back at him—worry seeped through her bones. “Isn’t the dinner too risky of a place? Who—", she gasped at the sudden grip at the back of her neck. He was scolding her without words—much like one would hold down an unruly puppy.

The intensity of Coriolanus’ clench matched that of his eyes—an endless whirlpool dancing there as he examined his cabinet.

Noting to himself… a particular vial… missing.

He hated sentimental people, yet he suffered from that ‘affliction’ tenfold. Though he'd like to believe it was his way of thinking clearer—his way of reclaiming his rightful legacy; no sentiment for the sake of some soft gullible feelings.

And so, tile by tile, tesserae by tesserae—he had the whole maid’s bathroom brought here—lock and door included. His cousin seemed to think she was still the groundskeeper, that she still had authority over him.

He didn’t need her, he didn’t need Gaul—any of them.

Coriolanus could almost hear the jingle of the keys dangling on that large ring, ringing now in his ears, even over the breathing he tried to steady. Tigris used to carry them always… after the Grandma’am became far too fragile, far too gone to keep track of it all.

And now… one small silver key had allowed her entry here—into where he planned to keep Adriana’s heart.

What came next was an uncanny expression on Coriolanus’ face—not a smile, but an ugly pulling at his cheekbones—pulsing and alive, paired with a deep chuckle—a cruel sound, from the depths of his being, edged with a cough from all the prior poisons: “What a thoughtful creature you are… but it's not your place to ask who the recipient of my justice is.”

He picked up the intended vial for tonight as if nothing had happened.

He’d let it play out—but this time, he wouldn’t be helpless... He’d be the hunter, already setting a trap in his forest. And when the little siren, none the wiser, got caught—then, he'd feast like a king.

“Just two drops of this for Daddy. And the the rest goes out to Senator Sickle and Commander Heavensbee... who were kind enough to feed rebel informants." He squeezed the pipette at the top, without unscrewing the vial yet—just to show and seal Adriana to her purpose in his ritual. His deep voice proceeded with more instructions: “Mix it with this—", he passed a leaf-like plant oil with a sickly sweet smell: “—moringa, same as the perfume I had ordered be made for you. It helps with, well… the less favorable effects you might say.”

He had gotten gradually resistant to most of his poisons, but this one… he needed some exposure to still. A particularly nasty concoction that would melt the men from inside. To Coriolanus, it'd just feel like a thousand blades pressed at his throat.

Adriana counted the two drops and added generous amounts of the moringa, mixing them—the poison dark like tar, quickly soaked up in the bright oil. She held him in her hands now, his life. Should she obtain access unattended, she could easily put more than two drops. So, he never missed a beat—and this here and now was the only semblance of autonomy he'd allow when it came to the poison preparation. She was part of it now—bathed in blood too.

“T-to your health!" she cheered far too timidly after she'd stopped swirling the glass stirring rod with a click—passing the bowl back to him.

“Hm, thank you…" he raised it to his lips—too chapped, too used to spew and take poisons: “Victory loves preparation after all.”

As he drank, he never once blinked away from Adriana. Even as his throat grew tighter and his stomach was set aflame—he simply gripped her wrist tighter—holding her through the process, making her see what he was.

He tried to hide the wince that followed…

“Shall I bring you water, Daddy? You don't look—" Adriana was pulled closer to him, feeling his heartbeat harsh and spiked through his chest.

“And dilute my hard work?" He coughed, his voice growing hoarse: “I thought my siren was unafraid of the depths?" he challenged.

At that, she poised herself—still tight in his forced embrace, but more aware now, more upright and ready. She'd play her role to perfection and then… she'd see the real extent of the price she was expected to pay.

“I will dive deeper, so long as you are there when I come back for air, Daddy." she added sweetly.

A final plea—to be allowed an independent swim before she tried to take matters into her own hands; with the cor revocatum's call burning through her hidden pocket.

“Ah, you forget yourself, Adriana. I dive with you, or… Well, there wouldn’t be a purpose to you breathing at all, would there?" He smiled a sharp smile—a shark bearing its teeth: “Now, shall we? We have big fish to fry...”

It was the Senate summer residence that hosted the dinner. Wide open spaces, framed by metal arches that displayed various mythological scenes—all bacchanalian in nature. Chalices, ivy and grapevines tangled with nymphs in various stages of undress and intoxication—some were part of the marble columns that held up the curved structures, others already dancing at the top.

There were probably two dozen of these archways that made up the main pathway through the green luscious expands of the summer gardens. Each step toward the grand table was framed by stepping stone leaves—a march toward a feast, but a last supper for some.

“Were these not outlawed in Rome? With the unrest they caused?" Adriana prompted curiously as she remained hanging on Coriolanus’ hand.

“Indeed—but not to Senators..." he pondered: “The ‘Feast of Bacchus’ is a great display of one's vices… and we all have them, as I have well taught you." a huff that could have been mistaken for a laugh: “These long summer days can be quite revealing." he murmured for her ears only—breath metallic from the sores the poison left behind.

These esteemed citizens thought they'd be safe to indulge in it all—but nowhere was truly safe. Their ‘freedom’ was just more information—more means of control. If anyone took more than Coriolanus allowed, they'd suffer his wrath.

Was that all she was to him then too—an indulgence? He so readily displayed their closeness now—wasn't his arm reserved for a fiancé and not his vice?

As a leopard-mutated Avox handed Adriana a wine chalice, a shrill voice sliced through the honeyed air: “Coryo! Gem of Panem give me strength, where were you?" Livia's arm snaked around his in an intimate display. “Did you read the morning paper? I left you a surprise…!" She sing-songed proudly.

“Livia… darling, when will you learn I do not appreciate surprises." he shook her off, taking a step back. “Thanks to your overstep, Senator Sickle was forced into early retirement from his editorial duties.”

Adriana blinked like she were waking up from a dream. The article… hadn't been authorized by Coriolanus? And the Senator—wasn't he a rebel informant…? Or was there a more personal vendetta that sealed his poisoned fate? So many questions floated, but none could ever be voiced.

Livia scoffed offendedly—looking between Adriana and the President. Her face grew red like the wine that was spilled around: “And why shouldn't it be published? So you can parade your whore around and embarrass me?!”

Her voice was far too loud, raising even above the festive ruckus. To the younger girl's horror, it caused eyes to turn towards the oak tree under which all three sides of the folly currently stood. The words—ugly and harsh were like daggers, but what hurt most was that they held truth. Livia had called their 'arrangement' for what it was, Adriana thought.

Coriolanus’ grip on his own cup tightened, composure cracking at the seams though still hidden from public view as he cornered his fiancé toward the thick tree trunk.

“Adriana is here because I am her patron as you well know.” his voice was low and dangerous—a snake suffocating its prey: “You, darling, are as important as I deem you to be. Without the promise of a marriage, you are nothing. So, see to it that it doesn't become an empty one…" a hissed threat.

Livia, however, didn't back down. Entitled people like her had little sense of self preservation—Coriolanus knew that well but had still given her a chance to cower. Instead, she bit, not bothering to lower her outburst: “Is that what we are calling it now?” a forced laugh escaped her lungs: “‘Patron’… so what—you think everything you touch turns gold, huh, Snow?! A district mistress? How incredibly exotic—wait, no, you are probably waiting for her to birth your bastards—then you would have had your fill!”

Oh, now she was causing a scene. And not the type Coriolanus enjoyed correcting. No, unlike his little siren—who couldn’t bear take a step away, even as the words hit her. The pompous Cardew couldn't be mended or molded… and these were the types of tantrums that would settle a dull pain throbbing behind his eyelids.

Suddenly, he was reminded of Arachne Crane—blood gushing from her gaping throat but also… of her shrill peevish complaints when anything whatsoever didn't go her way. Livia had held more class than that during their Academy days, but it seemed now she'd gotten too comfortable with her cushioned life. Coriolanus thought his hate for the pompous Cardew extended to just her gloating… But it was becoming quite clear that her affinity for attention was far more unsavory when she'd whine in defeat. A muscle jumped at his jaw as he bit down his anger.

“Miss Cardew, please, let's all calm down for a second…" Adriana attempted, even as she had intruded, even as she felt unwanted and ostracized by everyone but Coriolanus it seemed.

Maybe she should poison Cardew herself… Coriolanus had shown her the vial cabinet—surely the siren could do it. A sick satisfaction settled in her—burning at the thought of remaining the only person close enough to him. Was it the serum that made her so desperate to cling to him that she was suddenly willing to kill?

“Ah, the fishie can talk! What a tremendous feat, Coriolanus—you mean to seep her through the Capitol ranks? And then—what…? You think your money will wash off the smell and filth?" Livia continued, not addressing the other girl at all.

Suddenly, her turn of phrase brought Coriolanus back to other such plans he once held dear. Of a songbird singing at Pluribus’, of her coming home to him—of remolding her to stay in the Capitol. But Lucy Gray had practically laughed at his face when she’d run away.

‘What if this was our life, Coriolanus?’— he should have laughed at that—suggesting a Snow would ever be contempt with living like a wild animal… what an insulting, naive proposition. She had led him on so expertly that for almost a full day in that forsaken forest, he had turned his back on what truly mattered—fulfilling his calling to greatness. So yes, he'd wash Adriana clean—because it was he who decided what was acceptable now… and what wasn't.

Coriolanus turned deadly, snapping his hand toward a nearby Peacekeeper. The officer immediately rid Livia of her wine. “I am afraid you've had too much to drink… isn't that right, darling? Better run off, before I remind these same ranks who exactly pioneered the whole ‘patronage scheme’ in the first place… maybe then you'd know what true embarrassment tastes like then?”

It was clear Cardew's blood ran cold at the threat—some skeletons were better kept in their closets. She stood there— catatonic, with just her lip quivering in barely contained nerves until the guard stood menacingly next to her, making her peel away small steps from the grass.

When the immediate threat was eliminated, Adriana could feel herself sober up from the panicked hold the serum had held on her. It was then that it dawned on the siren—that her quarrel wasn't with the other woman. She could have just as easily been on the unfortunate end of the President's whimsy. It was him—the viper— pinning small game against one another. And she had been ready to kill someone over it… Coriolanus had made the perfect weapon. As Livia passed in bitter defeat, Adriana's features dropped.

“Do say hello to your father and sister for me—or is it ‘step-sister’? Families can be so very messy…" Coriolanus twisted the knife.

And thus, he turned sharply to his little siren, pulling her closer—a mockery of a lover's embrace: “Do not. Ever. Speak unless spoken to here. I will not be the one cleaning up your next mess." he hissed—each punctuated word sounded like steam leaving his body.

Adriana swallowed but simply nodded, because what else could she do? When the serum burned through her core even at his cruelty… because it was his… as was she—even as a scapegoat.

He raised an eyebrow, demanding she voice her willing obedience.

“O-of course, Daddy—I spoke out of turn…” the forced words scorched her even harder as her back hit the rigid tree.

He seemed pleased and so left her with a final warning, bringing his lips to her hair in an almost-kiss—inhaling her rose scent, the one that always grounded him: “That you did. Now, spare me the melodrama—I have an audience to attend to.”

Coriolanus’ gait grew determined—to the private chamber with the men set to die. Adriana, once again, felt each step away as if a trickle of her own blood was drawn. So, matching his resolve, she turned to face the oak where where rays penetrated its thick crown and washed her in their glow. Unscrewing the cap of the vial Tigris had given her—she downed it so fast it almost made her dizzy—her grip threatening to break it. The liquid coated her throat like fresh water and she felt the immediate effect. It seemed it was planned as a fail-safe switch… in case Coriolanus grew bored. He always planned for those.

Now, it allowed her to take a freed breath, breaching through the surface. As Adriana wiped a tear she didn’t realize had fallen, she heard his voice before she felt his presence—steady as the tree in front if her.

“Addie… come, Cardew has lent us her driver.” Lysander assured with a hand on her shoulder.

“Lysi… what are you doing here? Aren't you at the University party?” her voice was far too mellow, like she was finding it anew.

The boy laughed an unburdened sound: “Obviously not… Rosa suggested we stop by here first and extended the not-so-official invitation to me. Something about her ensuring Festus was ‘behaving’." A roll of his eyes punctuated just how different their worlds had become. Then he suddenly grew intense, shortening the distance between them: “I saw it… how he treated miss Cardew. How he treats you. Whatever you think he is offering—it cannot be worth it, Addie. He wasn't protecting you… He protected himself."

He offered a place to belong, she thought—even if his four walls weren't a home but a cage. Her hand itched to slap Lysander at how correct his words rung, but she knew it wasn't him she should be angry with. And so that tempestuous fury coiled tighter in her stomach— a tide threatening to release.

She knew exactly where to channel it now that her mind was clearer. “Let us go then… I just hope you realize what you just uttered." Adriana concluded: “The party awaits.”

It bordered treason, but then again anything that went against Coriolanus could be seen as such. But there was no one to witness it now, or so they thought—no rose lapels, no cameras… just her quiet rebellion and a person who cared enough to aid it.

“Oh, I know, little pearl. And I'm glad to know you do too. At least for this short while.” he smiled with contagious warmth.

Guests blurred with their retreating shadows as another mutt Avox passed Adriana her shawl. The circular fur patterns across the servant’s skin would have been beautiful if they hadn't been forever etched on a human being against their will. She lowered her head in gratitude… or was it in apology?

When they neared the waiting car, someone caught Adriana's wrist—trembling, clammy fingers holding desperate and tight. She turned to meet Livia's empty eyes, as the woman finally addressed her instead of speaking like she wasn't there: “If it is money you want—I can supply… for every day you stay out of his life. You could go back to Four—new name, new future… give diving lessons at the ‘S&M’ resort. My father can make it happen!”

The frenzied hopelessness in her voice made Adriana tremble back in surprise. For what she knew of the woman in all the interviews and gallery showings—she was a self-assured, well-adjusted individual, if a bit overconfident. Yet, what she saw in front of her right now was a husk of that—as if all her life force had been drained out by Coriolanus. It was shocking—that Cardew had really come to believe she would be nothing without him as a husband, without his name painting her future. The siren couldn’t fathom it—Livia had the resources, the family… surely she didn't yearn for the President to be at her center—not like she did.

“Let go, miss Cardew—you're hurting me.” she wiggled her hand free, still feeling the ache—the physical but the mentally contagious one in equal stride: “It's not your money I am after… even if I do realize that's hard to believe…”

Livia retreated her hand, opting to instead brace it around herself in a self-soothing gesture while she took the other girl's words in. The sigh that left Cardew's lips was half disappointed, half expectant: “Just… Think about it. This here isn't your world…" she started retreating, but turned slightly to add: “I'll have a train waiting for you at seven tomorrow. In case you change your mind.”

Adriana didn't respond—she didn't want to. Just because she was acting out against Coriolanus now didn't mean she'd flee from his cold but present embrace.

It was a horrible realization—but a very real one.

As Lysander helped her into the car, the last words she heard from Livia reverberated through her skull, leaving their destined mark: “Do his bruises and lies taste sweet? The ones he spews at me only taste sour.”

The party was already in its peak as Rosa ushered her two friends in. Somehow, she had gotten to the venue before Cardew's car, even though Lysander insisted they'd arrived at the senate dinner together.

“I guess you made a quick work of Festus, then?” Adriana joked, raising her voice so she could attempt to be audible.

This get-together was far more flashy and loud than the ‘Feast of Bacchus’—the former was obviously curated by their peers who didn't cling to snobbish high society refinement. The stark difference between the Dark Days and the post-War era had shaped a peculiar cultural milieu wherein the younger generations—who weren't even alive during the rebellion—simply didn't see the point of old aristocracy. Some, more bohemian than others, even opposed it.

Why wouldn't they? It wasn't like their family lineage made a difference between starvation and survival. To this generation, the Capitol was at the top and that was enough—a conglomerate of free spirits, ready to give themselves over to hedonistic indulgences. That last part they did have in common with their parents, who—despite attaching themselves almost ritualistically to their class—felt they ought to gratify all their cravings, no matter how exotic. They'd earned it after all… as the victors.

“Oh, please, he was like a fish out of water—gaping and stuttering… needless to say, I got Clemensia off of him rather quickly.” Rosa announced, proud of herself: “Though… I heard Livia caused a fuss? How scandalous!" Rosa slapped the other girl's arm.

“Let's just… put that back in its box for tonight, eh?" Adriana suggested shyly as she took a sip from the liquor Lysander had offered. Its harshness made her scowl: “How are you drinking this and still standing upright? Eugh—”

The strong aftertaste reminded her of the moonshine sailors would bring around the docks to stock up for personal use at longer journeys. She'd stumbled on a stashed bottle once, when she was about eight years old and had curiously taken a chug from it… Only to promptly spit it out and get yelled at by her father, who made a show of pouring the whole load out into the ocean. He wasn’t about to ruin his immaculate record just because his subordinates lacked discipline—no contraband had been allowed on a ship under Ronan's sail ever. Needless to say, the poor sailors weren't very pleased with the small rascal for ratting them out—even if unwittingly.

This was a more refined version of that, naturally—it was the Capitol. Mixed with some citrus pulp that provided not only refreshment but great texture to the drink.

“Tolerance, little pearl—" he teased, raising his glass in a cheer: “—you can't learn unless you try things for yourself. Not just what he allows…”

No name… no honorific—it was blatantly obvious that Lysander was bitter at Coriolanus. ‘Tolerance’ was the word that stuck with Adriana though, given what she was aiding in before the senate dinner.

“There's a karaoke machine?!" she jumped excitedly, opting to ignore the tension for now. It wasn't like she was ready to take any side—and if she did, Lysander wouldn't like the outcome. “I thought these were like… outlawed?”

“Yep, but—wait, do you keep a mental list of forbidden items or something?" Rosa laughed as she swayed, almost spilling her drink: “We got Darius to find one! There was some old abandoned cabaret up at the Corso with all kinds of stuff—it'd be a pity to leave them rotting just because Daddy Snow has a stick up his ass!”

Now, it was Adriana's turn to try and not make a mess of spitting her drink. She expected Lysander to reprimand his friend at the audacity… but he just… laughed along—with the kind of smile that caused the corners of his eyes to crinkle.

Why didn't Coriolanus’ smile ever reach his eyes?

It seemed this place was underground enough to allow for blasphemy—or at least, so everyone thought. It gave the siren a peace of mind to let go herself.

“Yeah… I don't understand the whole secrecy around songs. It's been a way for humans to bond— like, ever since we lived in caves!" she noted as they got closer to the makeshift stage—neon lights swallowing their conversation.

“Maybe it's just… that—some are afraid to truly bond." The boy shrugged like it'd been obvious all along—exactly what Adriana was getting tangled into.

“You know, for an engineer, you can be oddly insightful when it comes to human nature…" she responded somewhat bitterly, but there was an undeniable thread of fondness below the banter as she downed the rest of her drink.

“What's that supposed to mean, little pearl?" he chuckled with his whole chest. “Don't tell me you are insulting my intelligence to my face! I'll have you know— I pay attention when it comes to the people I care about.”

“Lysi… You are hopelessly drunk! I'm just saying… You are full of surprises—good ones!" she nudged him.

“Ah, those are hard to come by these days, no?" he took her glass to refill at the bar next to the speakers, which were currently blasting an awfully off-key rendition of some old Capitol estrada—courtesy of none other than the machine scavenger.

Though it was becoming quite clear the original lyrics had been substituted for less sappy and more… downright vulgar and vociferous ones. Darius Vickers was a tall boy so the way he overplayed the tune—putting his whole body into it was quite scary for the integrity of the stage but also for anyone close enough to be caught in the crossfire of his beer.

It was quite theatrical though, how he lowered his voice and widened his eyes—expecting ovation at the especially unsavory parts he free-styled:

If I fall in love, it will be in you And I will sing like you sing about many-a-roses fling Like a drunk Peacekeeper and a corrupt senator—poisoning my competitor I will give you something more—maybe a Gamemaker's whore

“Charming…” Adriana sighed, eyebrows furrowing at a particular line or two which were a subtle call out to the President... with the roses, flings and poisons. Maybe Coriolanus wasn't as subtle in his extracurricular activities but still kept citizens afraid enough to limit themselves to simple parody songs.

“That's just Vickers for you—his sister is a surgeon but look how he turned out!'“, Rosa booed at Darius unceremoniously.

“I told them you'll be up next, little pearl…” suddenly said Lysander as he brought back a full glass of the same liquor.

Adriana's eyes widened, suddenly stuttering: “I-I don't know any of the songs on this thing! And I sure as dark days can't improvise like mister political controversy over there. Lysi—is this payback for when I said the Arena water reflections weren't authentic enough?" she groaned dramatically: “I'm sorry I ever doubted you, oh, greatest engineer!”—a final sober attempt at reconciliation before she'd inevitably stress even more about the distant possibility of making a fool of herself.

Instead of humoring her histrionics, Lysander reached over— tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear in a gesture that was far too fond to be just friendly. “Come now, humor us and bring something real into this whole farce—the way only your shanties can." he comforted.

‘It'll be the single most captivating thing all evening’—he'd wanted to add, the words prickling at the tip of his tongue. He had that way of reassuring Adriana always—that she was welcomed, not despite her roots but with them, even because of them. If only it were true outside of this small bubble… Coriolanus, on the other hand, had been solely focused on ‘correcting’. He thought the world was a place marked by a constant struggle to fit in—not an oppressive strive—but a symptom of a necessary, well-functioning society. That was a dynamic Adriana knew far too well growing up… and so clung to that familiarity.

“Ah, none of the melancholic stuff!” Rosalind protested: “I've had my fill thanks to Festus… Do something boppy—shake some ass!”

“Ah nope, no requests!" Lysander sighed in warm annoyance. Then, he turned back to Adriana— dropping the latter part and keeping only the affection: “Do what feels like you tonight, yeah? There are some simple arrangements you can browse through and make it yours…”

Make it hers… what was hers? Who was she? Her identity was a ballad long forgotten or maybe never truly known. The most connected to herself she'd ever felt—besides the intoxicating thread that kept her leashed to Coriolanus—had been far too long ago… either when she'd dive or when her mother would sing one particular song. Taken from some pre-Games interviews… the woman had emulated whatever melody and lyrics she could recall from the live broadcast. Its footage was somehow lost, it was told. Intertwining District Four imagery—she seemed to had tragically foretold her demise and Ronan abandoning the family.

Adriana scarcely remembered the feeling that washed over her when she first heard parts of it in first grade. Hazy images of a tribute with a colorful dress and her guitar—so poised yet some bitter hurt had slipped through the cracks of her performance.

That was how Adriana felt now too… playing a role that gave her some safety—but unlike that girl, she was never truly letting go. Maybe she could try now..

“I have it." she announced confidently when the song had made itself clear in the pool of her memories: “Just help me pick a guitar accompaniment, Rosa? Something… you’d want to find yourself in.”

“Wow, sappy much!" the other girl jested, but Lysander shot her a scolding look and she toned it down so quickly one would think her wardrobe was on the line: “Fine, fine… you can use ‘Riptide’ I guess. My mother used to cry every single time those blasted strings played on the radio. She cried even harder when they banned these songs. Whatever, point is—it should fit right in with… whatever you have going on.”—Rosalind's quiet exasperation was emphasized by her over the top hand gestures—drawing wide circles in the dismal air around Adriana.

“Thanks, I knew I could count on you…", the siren smiled wider than she ever had for the whole day: “—both of you.” she added when she’d noted Lysander had taken to slouching in mock heartbreak after being ignored.

Naturally, he still helped her set up the tune on the ancient-looking screen and when she met some of the confused eyes from the crowd who had noted her incongruously sophisticated dress—he assured her softly: “This is for you, yeah? Just let yourself enjoy it…”

Adriana nodded, taking a deep breath in with each bop of her head while she brought the microphone closer. It was a vintage thing—golden finish but not nearly heavy enough to be the actual precious metal—clearly made for live shows where there would be some choreography or at least enticing movements for the sake of the audience. It ended in a horn that was meant to capture the sound instead of the modern ‘grill’ equivalent. Adriana felt its ridges with her fingertips—like a seashell, she thought, almost forgetting that her cue would soon come.

As it did, she could hear her heartbeat in her ears, raising even above the loud chatters. She wanted to not think of Coriolanus as she sang, but her voice—deep, sorrowful and inviting—carried her to him. Where she’d never be abandoned, but she’d never just be either.

When I was a babe, I fell down the marina When I was a girl I fell into your arms We fell on hard times and we lost our serena You went to the docks and I lived by my charms I dived for my dinner, spread pearls like honey You journeyed and gambled, and I said you should We fought for our suppers, we drank up our money Then one day you left, saying I was no good

Her breath hitched, knowing what part came next… knowing it relayed a sort of bravery that she’d never come to posses herself. But still, she sang like it could be true—

Yet every line was marked by him long before it left her lips—

Well, all right, I'm bad, but then, you're no prize either All right, I'm bad, but then, that's nothing new You say you won't love me, I won't love you neither Just let me remind you what I am to you 'Cause I am the one who looks out when you're sailing I am the one who knows how you were brave And I am the one who heard what you said sleeping I’ll take that and more with the new hungry wave

—her soul soared like it believed there was honor in fighting against the current, instead of letting it take you.

Instead, her throat tightened as she felt his hands stifling her voice—

It's sooner than later that I'm deep underwater It's sooner than later that you'll be alone So who will you turn to tomorrow, I wonder For when the pharos dims, lover, you're on you own

—like there was more to her than what Coriolanus made.

Instead, she felt him guiding her deeper in cold darkness, as if love was an emotion never to be shared, only taken—

I am the one who you let see your weeping I know the soul that you struggled to save Too bad I'm the bounty you lost while at sea Now what—

—A loud crash stole her breath entirely. Then, it was her heart that was sent stuttering at the uncompromising barks, answered by terrified screams, reeling from where the secret venue’s door stood.

Adriana had a direct view of the stampede as Peacekeepers filtered in, white like an all-consuming avalanche—unafraid to use batons when some of the intoxicated or otherwise too foolhardy students failed to fall in line fast enough. Somehow one officer had made it to where Lysander and Rosa stood next to the stage. The boy was trying to usher Adriana with them, but the Peacekeeper had other plans—shouting a warning to line the wall. When Lysander didn't oblige—laser focused on getting his two friends out of harm's way—the uniformed man raised his black club.

Adriana moved before she could even think, raising her voice: “Don't hurt them! They weren't part of it!”

It's true—they didn't sing, didn't rouse any dangerous ideas… more or less. But there were a threat by association and anything remotely defiant made them dangerous. As the girl attempted to stand between a rock and a hard place, something strange happened—the Peacekeepers grabbed her friends and hauled them against the wall all the while… they didn't even address her. It was like Adriana wasn't even there…

It quickly became clear why—she wasn't just anyone now after all. Even after her little stunt that had grown more invigorating when she'd somehow chirped that blasted song—there was still a test she could pass, a chance at divine redemption.

Coriolanus appeared from behind an entourage, dark red coat swirling as a path was cleared in front of him—like the deepest pits of the underworld had cracked open to allow for his journey here. Adriana stared at the scene unfolding, almost falling back against the elevated stage, but his hand was at the ready—grabbing what was his in a flash.

“My, my—quite the show, little siren. But I think it's high time we settle some debts… and you can explain to me, in excruciating detail—how in the twelve districts, did you even come to know that song." His grip on her wrist only tightened with each word. Adriana thought she'd seen the extent of his ruthlessness—but his eyes weren't just cold now… they were inhuman. Like the man from the portrait opposite his office…

“Daddy…", she attempted to soothe, more so getting her bearings still. But like a viper striking, his other hand shot up to grab at her jaw, squeezing hard—making her jaws grind at the dig of his fingers.

“Of course, I shan't forget your most devoted fan…" His eyes settled on Lysander—the boy was barely contained— like a rabid animal, ready to pounce if it weren't for the Peacekeepers holding him back. Then, Coriolanus let go of Adriana's wrist—but not without purpose—as he reached into his breast pocket to unfold Livia's newspaper announcement: “—and your… ‘agent’, shall I call her? Offering so graciously to extend a tour back to Four. What a very self-centered proposition that was though…”

He let the thin paper fly down slowly to the ground—like a leaf caught in the wind—as he snapped his fingers, silently ordering the Peacekeepers in formation with the impromptu prisoners. It was apparent that the main show was over… and a private encore was to follow.

“P-please, wait! I'm-I'm sorry—don't hurt them! We were just having fun, I'd never—" Adriana tried to speak through Coriolanus’ iron grip as Lysander and Rosa passed them by, escorted.

“Oh, you aren't sorry—not yet anyway. But… you will be. What did you think—just because you warm my bed you get a say in how I deal out justice?" she could feel the mocking laugh fighting its way through his poison-wounded trachea as he held her tighter to his body, like a part of him was afraid she'd run off. “It's a fine balance, our system—little siren, a fragile thing—and like a child you'd enjoy breaking it if you ever slithered your dirty little scales on it…”

She attempted to look away, only to be met by Lysander’s dark eyes. He knew no rest now, trying to roll free from the Peacekeepers’ hold: “Just leave her alone! And go back to your miserable, lonesome idea of kingship!”

“Ah, how the naive lead the naive… tell me, boy—did she ever say she needed someone to save her?" Coriolanus challenged and Lysander ground his teeth in frustration. When no answer came, the President dragged Adriana by the hair—tauntingly closer to the boy's face, like rattling a toy in front of a beast.

“No? That's what I thought… she knows what she chose—what she will always choose."

The smile that spread was victorious.

Coriolanus could scarcely wait—his whole body was taut like a string—as a deep need to release all the boiling feelings coursed through his veins. The mansion was darker, like it'd usually get when it was later in the night… but this time it was the force majeure events of the day that orchestrated it as such. Every living creature hid under his heavy step—not in soundless rest, but forced, self-preserving refuge.

Adriana was practically dragged along the way—even when she tried to regain her step, he was somehow faster, more controlling—and so she'd easily falter back to her knees. It was a miracle the door didn't fly off its hinges the moment they reached the bedroom. The scariest part was how deafeningly silent Coriolanus was—as if the whole stunt at the party was for publicity's sake and now the real shark would bare its teeth. He prided himself in having trained his temperament—previously reactive, now he could let things marinate. But that made his waters even more treacherous when someone was reckless enough to test his limits.

Without so much as a warning, he tossed Adriana across the floor—her back hitting something metal backed up at the edge of the wall. She wasn't sure what it was with how dark the room was kept… but it was definitely a new addition—taller than her even when she tried to hoist herself up with its help.

Cold delicate alloy strips, long and bended at the top… bars—she realized suddenly.

Bars to a cage.

Not one meant to host just any pet but a sized up version of a songbird's aviary. Surely it hadn't been fitted for her… The siren wasn't yet in it, yet somehow, she knew that was the only place she could end up—no matter what she said now.

Coriolanus flicked the lights on—the switch sounding like a bullet shooting through the silence.

Then, he waited… observing—will Adriana flee or cower? His steps were slow—not shortening the distance—but encircling, trapping her instead. She mirrored his dance, but defensively so—folding in further to the edge, closer to the cage. A true prey in a freeze response.

Satisfied with that data point, he moved closer—letting his fingers ghost her torso, feeling her shiver beneath. Then, out of nowhere, he seized her wrist—feeling her pulse point methodically: “Your heartbeat… it is unusual all throughout. Not just fear—no, my gift would have made your heart calmer in my presence… no matter what you see." he reassured—himself more than her, that what was to come was well-deserved. “Yours hesitated. So, tell me, little siren and be honest—did my cousin give you something naughty?”

Adriana looked away out of spite, feeling like that piece of information may be the last tie to her autonomy that was slipping through her fingers in real time. Coriolanus didn't wait, didn't voice disappointment in that coiling tone of his. No, this time, he moved fast, twisting the Snow family ring that dawned his middle finger so that the insignia now hung on the inside of his palm. And then came the sharp pain.

With the same prolonged motion—he landed a cracking slap right across her cheek. The heavy embossed frozen rose left a cut where it landed as Adriana choked a breath—not a shout, not a scream as her brain was still catching up to it all. And who would be there to hear it anyways?

“What did I say about looking at me when I'm talking to you?" He hissed—barely audible. It was what made the the whole interaction even more chilling—the quiet anger that coiled gradually, never sure when it would be released.

He hadn't done much in terms of physical exertion yet he was somehow out of breath already while the words battled to come out. Like a bubble that had finally popped— it was all raining down—but its drainage would be slow and steady. “No matter…" he tried forcing himself to dial back, speaking purposefully without any contractions: “I'll just have to purge it out of you.”

He forced her mouth open, as if he could still find the antidote lingering there. But he didn't plan on undoing its effect—by the end of it all, his little siren would come crawling back to him willingly.

“A shame that Tigris wasn’t even clever about it—I expected more from a Snow... But I led you there myself—to my secrets… and you—you spat in my face." He said bitterly, pressing his thumb down her tongue once it was past her lips: “Why did you do it, hm? Why did you drink it?”

Adriana held back on choking at the uncomfortable intrusion—anger blurring her vision instead of tears. There was no point in pretending or protecting now—so she let the overwhelming emotion consume her, like she always did. She tried biting down on his finger—set on hurting him back. But, prepared like always, his other hand was already squeezing at her neck, introducing a curious dilemma—will she breathe or continue her futile rebellion?

When she opened her mouth—readily taking whatever breath he allowed, she snapped: “Cor raptum—I know it all, Coriolanus!” It was hard to speak like that—truth purposefully muffled by his hand. Yet, she didn’t let that deter her efforts—bellowing as her salivadripped around his digit: “You stole my heart with no mercy of ever giving yours in return! You will marry Livia one day and forget about me—leave me to drown!" she tried pushing him off, but he just held her tighter: “And you dare ask me why?! I gave myself over to you… wasn't that enough?”

The unspoken part ‘Wasn't I enough?’, lingered—even heavier on her tongue than him still pressing down. But bitter reality was soon to come crashing down. Adriana had said it—his name… not ‘Daddy’, not ‘Mr. President’… Coriolanus. A twisted satisfaction dripped down his frozen soul at the desperation that pierced each syllable while she'd struggled saying it.

“Stolen? Such an ugly word from such beautiful ingrate lips… My heart rests at the bottom of a lake, little siren— far, far away—weighed down by the lessons it learned. Livia will, most certainly, not possess it either." he explained, not addressing the betrayal she'd expressed—only how utterly ridiculous her fantasy of finding love within him had been in the first place. In his mind, he was entitled to squeeze out anything and everything that was ripe for the taking, by any means necessary—including subjecting her to the serum.

“As for yours—it was never stolen, rather claimed. And a heart claimed is a heart earned…" he spared her—finally taking his finger out just to smear her spit across the cut from his ring… it stung, yet fittingly so—like war paint: “Did you not take? And take… and take—greedily so. The food, the lavish dresses and appointments I supplied? Or would you prefer I send you back to Four myself—ensure your father never finds employment—make you beg for scraps? Will you then learn the price of safety? My price—for the ultimate safety?”

His hand moved to grip her hair instead—always somewhere on her—pulling, ensuring she didn’t move an inch. A hiss left her lips, but she continued to spiral—

“I never agreed to Livia's offer!" she demanded desperately, sent on a self-justifying frenzy… Again, he had twisted all the blame back to her. And again, she fell for it. “I would never have! Even with the blasted serum gone—I-I never agreed! I just—I want you.”

It was true—even without the chemical tether, she knew she'd come back… He had her exactly where he wanted her, yet carding his hands through her hair, he continued to hail down his tunnel vision—obsessed with all possible levels of betrayal she could be capable of. “Maybe not today… but tomorrow… the day after?" He let the bed take in his weight while she remained more so splayed on the floor—a good pet at her master's feet: “You did go to that party… and sang that song…”

He was getting angrier at the not-so-distant memory, voice growing deadlier and raspier at each imagined offense he listed off, at each possible future. Adriana clung to his leg—her hands joined in a prayer around it. She’d quickly switched from harrowing anger to messy desperation, letting the emptiness she always carried consume her, hoping any grace from him would mend the broken pieces: “It was just a thing my mother made up! I-I didn’t know it would hurt you…”

“‘Hurt me’?!" he choked out in an outrage, fighting the urge to shake her off his leg. Her plea hadn’t worked it seemed and instead Coriolanus saw red at the end of the tunnel—set on proving himself invincible, always in control: “No, she can never hurt me again—I made sure of it. But you—" he looked down at Adriana’s trembling form, undoing his belt as he spoke: “— and Tigris, tried to take what is mine." wrapping harsh the leather around her neck, she didn't have time to struggle—already lulled into his trap as the buckle settled against her voice box with a clink: “Your breath, your body, your desires and… even your hatred—I own them all.”

With a deliberate tug, he hauled her up by the makeshift leash, claiming her breath in the process and allowing the mattress to swallow her weight. He was moving with single-minded purpose—settling between her legs while he made a quick work of any barriers that still remained in the way. The new dress—one of the many that had cost the ‘Velvet & Satin’ boutique his wrath due to Adriana’s unaccounted weight loss—was torn into rags in seconds.

One hand always remained gripping at the end of the belt, though she gave no indication of attempting to flee. “And if you ever—try to take what is mine again…" he edged the threat, hissing in satisfaction as he slid inside her waiting depths—feeling her cunt flutter around him: “I won't just punish you… I'll punish her too.”

A brutal snap of his hips sealed the promise in as he yanked the leather in conjunction, making Adriana's vision spot. Even still, familiar warmth spread low in her belly—used to his claim, set to chase something real in his sea of deceit.

“I took the antidote because I wanted it to be my choice—", her explanation came out raspy at the constant pressure around her throat, but she had to battle the words out: “For you to want me as I am!" she choked out as his large cold hand hiked up her exposed thigh, deceptively gentle—raising her ass up in an almost mating press—to purposefully hit deeper, drowning out their joint ecstasy.

Coriolanus cared for her pleasure… in as much as it would lead her back to him. He'd seen how intimacy could turn her into putty at his hands and mercy—a token for manipulation. While to him, it was just a way to satisfy his physical and emotional need for control—or so he told himself.

“Why should I want you as you are, little siren… when you can become perfection?" Coriolanus challenged, continuing to abuse that spot inside her with each roll of his hips, with each deafening slap of skin to skin—just to make her grow drunk on the feeling, to stop her pesky challenges. “I thought it was what you wanted? To have my hand always reach and guide you…”

“I wanted you to ne-ed me like I need you! To chase me too!" A shrill whimper cracked from her lungs, unable to see through the haze of her pleasure.

“Ah there it is—you are finally being honest… greedy still, but honest. I’ve done enough chasing to serve me a lifetime… Now, I consume." he purred, slowing down only to reach into his nightstand. Whatever he retrieved, it had gone by so fast that Adriana couldn't see it—but immediately felt it when the persistent vibrations started against where she was most sensitive.

Coriolanus pressed and circled that plug onto her clit, making her feel like she was burning from the inside. She moaned loudly the second he resumed his pace, cursing about how tight she'd gotten at the onslaught of sensations: “And you will take what I give you—when I give it to you. Ha… you are dripping for me even now—can you feel how right this is? How good I fit in all the broken places?”

Adriana tried to wiggle further from the vibe, overwhelmed by its ministrations, but he held her down—guiding her through all the confusingly stimulating sensations: “Settle! Unless you prefer I stop altogether? Leave you high and dry in the cage?”

She shook her head immediately—instincts only ever able to scream his name: “N-no, Daddy—please!" she whined.

It was the penultimate test—even when it was too much, would she listen and stay? Would she trust him with her pain and pleasure… and she did, even without the cor revocatum.

He let out a satisfied breath: “Good. Girl. Just stop thinking now, yes? And take what Daddy gives you.”

With that demand sealed, he drove harsher and restless into her—the vibrations of the plug and the recoil of his hips making her whole body shake. Sooner than later, Coriolanus couldn't delay it anymore and his high overcame him—hitting him like that slap he'd landed. Never wasteful, he held through her own—palm splayed low and possessively across her abdomen—as each pulsing clench of her cunt around him threatened to make his knees give out: “Ge-gem of Panem—you were made for this, weren't you?”

He loved how she was drinking him in—could watch her all night—just full of him. His corrupt idea of legacy singing in the hollow where his heart should be like a persistent brain worm. With that claim settled, he let go of the belt and she was able to breathe fully—simultaneously opening up to him further at the exhaustion that threatened to consume her. But, opportunistic as usual, he made sure to fill the emptiness his throbbing cock had left behind with the plug—nestling it as deep as it was willing to go.

“W-wait—I can't—" Adriana pleaded weakly—oversensitivity coating every nerve ending, down to the tips of her toes that curled at the new intrusion.

The stretch burned even through the sticky evidence of his seed, marking the fact he wasn't done… and a final test—once again void of any chemical alterations commenced.

“Don’t sell yourself short now, sweetheart… I decide when you are done, remember?" he tinkered with something on his data pad and the same vibration pattern that had made her convulse the first time, now invaded her from within—a consistent hum against the exact spot that made her dizzy.

Adriana mewled trying to adjust herself against the plug, but Coriolanus was always faster once her guard was down. He picked her up swiftly from the soft mattress as if he were carrying his bride—but instead of a heartfelt kiss, instead of carrying her over the threshold into safety—he brought her inside the aviary. He rested her on a plush rug that carried his initials—the same one she’d always kneel at when in his presence. Before she could reach back to him, hand almost outstretched—he was already closing the lock around the barred door.

“Why are you doing this?! Didn’t I apologize? I learned my lesson—" a hiccup left her lips—not crying, but simply overwhelmed. Both emotionally and physically now from the plug that shifted with her every movement.

“You don’t even know what you were apologizing for, little siren… ‘Sang for our suppers’—ha!" he mocked the original lyrics—the ones he’d let simmer during late nights as he’d reopen the classified footage. These days would be long gone, he'd thought, when he had his little siren… but somehow she’d found a way to remind him and leave him bare. Now, he had to prove he would remain unaffected…

So, he unbuttoned his shirt methodically, ready to wash himself clean: “I told you—you are only good for reading what those before you have said. Not one unique thought swims in that empty brain of yours… does it?" he folded the shirt methodically: “That’s okay—you will be a good songbird now and sing. Again and again—until the sun comes up, until you have no voice to challenge me with and most importantly—until you have paid for the dress you made me tear off of you." the look he gave her was glacial—like the marble pillars at the mansion freezing over during the winter. Then, he added the remaining conditions: “Any time you stop—I will increase the vibrations.”

“Those weren’t in my ma’s tune! ‘Fought for our suppers’—" Adriana demanded, gripping the bars—feeling the small space closing in around her. Unlike the microphone at the party—she could feel these were pure gold—no resources were spared for the aviary that may never find its destined hostage. “A song like this isn’t something you know or think—but something you feel!”

She hated him at that moment, hated that he seemed lost to his past—again with that ‘songbird’ he evoked every now and again. Hated how he demeaned her whenever she would express her tender heart—just to soothe the bruises with honey-like praises at the end when she’d inevitably fall in line.

Hated that at the end—she wanted it all.

Meanwhile, as Coriolanus’ words bled Adriana dry—he felt a full-body chill consume him, something almost instinctual cringing at her district locution. ‘Ma’… he should wash her mouth with soap for it. He counted to ten slowly, trying to steady his irritability—him finally being fully naked, whereas she’d been exposed for what felt like hours was yet another show of their imbalance. At that realization—his instincts settled somewhat—she was where she was supposed to be, with him always on top. No need to do anything rash now…

He took a deep breath in—a terrifying second to gather himself as he turned slowly towards Adriana's caged form—stalking an already trapped prey, crouching to meet her eyes: “You will sing—I do not care if you feel it or think it—much less what your dead ‘Ma’ had to say about it." the word tasted like bile to him: “Your sole patron missed the whole performance... so now, you will make it up to Daddy. Or maybe I should start Tigris’ punishment?”

Adriana dropped her hand off the bars, eyes widening. Tigris was his cousin—surely he didn’t mean her harm, not really. But before she could delude herself further, Coriolanus’ ruling came loud as he rattled the cage: “I told you—when you don't sing, I'll just increase the vibrations… and every time you come—and I'll know you did… I'll have a Peacekeeper break one of her fingers." A smirk pulsed across his face in satisfaction when his little siren gasped at the threat. But he only continued cruelly painting the picture: “It's only fair… after all—she tried to suggest you don't belong to me. But every clench around my cock or that plug is evidence enough that you… in fact do… so it will be a splendid and, well, rather fitting reminder.”

“Break mine instead—my hands took the vial from her!” Adriana's voice came out shrill and fast—not thinking, but battling the sensation that was already pooling anew inside her at the stimulation that never seized. “It's monstrous… what you are saying, Coriolanus!”

His name again… if he indeed still had a heart, it'd be soaring at that desperation she edged into it once more. She didn't call him a ‘monster’ though—just settled to condemn his actions as such. He noted the distance she put there with even greater satisfaction. She couldn't see him as inhuman—not when she was so thoroughly attached to him it seemed. It was her curse… one that made her just so precious to him. One that made her less of a liability.

“Aw, don't be a martyr now—it's so boringly predictable. You think that's the worst of me?" he scoffed, the poison-laden sores in his throat and mouth still making such spontaneous noises hard: “Her fingers will heal… the betrayal she left in me won't though." he pressed something on his data pad—making Adriana curl into herself at the overwhelming throb the plug perpetuated. “I'm being merciful, if you think about it—such permanent damage to my trust ought to have earned her something just as lasting. But I'm not wasteful—never wasteful. She has her uses, so I won't deny her talents to the Capitol… I'm not that selfish."

He stood up, dragging his data pad across the bars in a discordant melody, meant to intimidate further: “Last chance—start singing or I start collecting… with a backdate”—a tilt of his head as his eyes glistened—waiting.

It had already been once that she'd come undone… and she couldn't bear someone else suffering because of her decisions. It was one thing—compartmentalizing the fact that she was sugar baby to the President… the sole person who kept the meat grinder running; and another thing entirely—to be at the cause of a person's suffering.

So, she opened her suddenly dry lips and carried the song in trembling notes: “Wh-when I was a babe, I fell down the marina… when I was a girl, I fell i-into y-your arms…”

The vibrations stopped and she breathed in the next lyrics—hitching around each syllable in quiet relief. To distract herself from what was to follow, her gaze settled on the wallpaper past Coriolanus. She hadn’t noticed before just how intricate the cloud imagery was woven—starting at one end of the wall, galloping all through the other. Or maybe it was waves… taking wind suddenly—as if willed by the windheads that she’d seen illustrated on old world maps in the library.

But these curves were so dark, they could never be the product of these wind gods. Black and red—a sea of shadow and hatred, instead of the mirage their classic forms would evoke. Even when she tried to let her mind rest somewhere else—what responded wasn’t soft or welcoming—but just another reflection of Coriolanus.

“Good, very good. See? It's not so hard." he let out a content sigh as he gripped the controller harder. Once he got closer to the en suite bathroom door, he spoke again, but didn't turn back: “No stopping now—put some flair into it, sweetheart. I want to be able to hear you well enough while I shower.”

Adriana nodded but didn't dare stop singing to respond, tears pooling in her eyes as she felt the burn already scratching at her throat. She could hear the soft echo of water hitting the tiles from the bathroom and for a moment she swallowed, realizing how thirsty she'd grown. But even that basic need was answered promptly—by the plug coming back to life inside her, making her still sticky thighs shake.

As Coriolanus came out, drying his golden curls, he asked innocently: “Oh? You need something? Funny how you didn't need me when you were at that party…" he put on a fresh pair of briefs slowly, each muscle glistening with rogue droplets: “Choose then—satiate your thirst and lose control or take what you deserve.”

Her hands shook around the glass he handed her through an opening at the top of the aviary—almost spilling the water. No singing meant he had the settings all the way up and in this state it was hard to breathe, much less to swallow the liquid down. It dripped down her chin but even then she took every drop she could. It was hard earned after all.

“You were right though… you aren't a songbird it seems. Water suits you better." He conceded when she resumed her singing.

Coriolanus didn't sleep that night—electing to revisit reports and complete some miscellaneous paperwork on his desk. He'd have to ensure her punishment was met after all.

By the second hour—her silky voice had turned into pathetic whimpers. She remembered how he'd asked her to sing to him last night—didn't demand… just wanted to be carried by the waves. Oh, how distant that person seemed to what stood at his desk now—a cold-blooded serpent wearing his skin. Or maybe this was him shedding it? To reveal the darkness that lurked beneath.

By the third, she'd started croaking… whenever she'd lose the rhythm to attempt and battle the air that burned her sore throat, he'd restart the plug with a flick of his finger. He looked almost bored doing it— like she’d turned into simple background noise. The only thing that betrayed him though were the minute adjusting movements he'd sneak—attempting to alleviate the growing arousal he felt at her predicament. He would steal glances atop his paperwork and he'd see her there—leaning against the beautiful shiny bars, exhausted but pleasing to look at nonetheless—fighting just to keep him pleased. In Adriana’s mind… she was diving in cold refreshing waters.

By the fourth hour he had to take his chair closer to the cage to even attempt to hear her. As he read the interview plans for the Reaping ceremony, he met her eyes once—softly pleading while her chapped lips moved around the words ‘I know the soul that you struggled to save…’. Quite ironic, he thought—for he'd found no salvation within his songbird of old and may yet never find one within his little siren. But maybe, just maybe… he would get Adriana lost with him instead. An honorable compromise…

By the fifth hour, the words had lost all meaning and the final anchor that kept her deep at sea let loose. She felt like she was floating, carried by the winds somewhere higher in the aviary. Maybe she'd finally grown wings—but not strong enough to help her fly away.

The turn of the sixth hour marked the sunrise and with it—the complete loss of her voice. He moved to unlock the aviary without uttering a word… waiting instead for what his final test would reveal. Adriana looked up—confused and dazed, as if she were just waking up. She was still singing—unaware that the punishment had run its course.

“Daddy?" she asked—more so mouthed, without even a screech coming out.

“Shh, it's over now…" he said—voice deep with unfulfilled sleep.

Knees and hands still on the ground, she saw Coriolanus had purposefully opened the bedroom door behind him… She had a clear view of it—a clear path and a train possibly still waiting for her at the station. Her eyes then settled on his crouching form—hands beconing her over too softly.

Then, she slithered… too tired to stand up, too ashamed to walk. She needed his embrace even after everything he put her through. After him being the sole reason she was in this state at all… Adriana crawled to her master and melted the moment she felt his hands caress her cheek—gathering the stray tears with his handkerchief. Some dried, some just coming in—sore and fresh.

As he cradled her torso and led her to the bathroom to wash her himself, he realized that, yes—she was a wild creature, but not a solitary one. Not a ‘lone child’ like Lucy Gray… he didn't need his potions for she didn't need a leash to stay at his feet. What he needed was to ensure there would be no temptations in her way, no way that the world would take her from him.

“Then I'll keep you—pure as snow, wild as the tides… but I shall weather the storms." He concluded as he let her sink into the bathtub he'd drawn just before the sun had washed the bedroom in its glow that promised a new beginning.

She couldn't respond. Her voice was now truly and utterly his… like the Sea Witch—he'd taken it to bind their contract. And now… he could finally enjoy the obedient silence—no meaningless words, no vows spoken just to be broken.

Just this—her being kept forevermore.

Heavensbee Hall erupted around them, as Lucky Flickerman’s voice boomed, the large pre-War speakers carrying his exaggerated cheer: “She’s won—Lucy Gray! Coriolanus Snow is the Victor of the 10th Annual Hunger Games!” Coriolanus, a Victor, not Lucy Gray? The Capitol had a peculiar way of wording things in ways that suited them, Selene Ember reflected, after all, they probably couldn’t conceive of district “scum” being crowned in such honors. Even if they survived hell wrapped up as entertainment. 

“Lucy Gray… she did it—she survived.” Selene Ember concluded, voice low like she was mourning something, though she maybe didn't fully realize what yet. 

“We did it…” he corrected, smooth arrogance dawning his features: “I must admit, your help in the process was pivotal. I don’t think the songbird would have trusted me if she didn’t have someone close from home… nudging her in the right direction, let’s say.” he conceded, a rare occurrence. Selene Ember had noticed that Coriolanus Snow did all he could to appear friendly, masking every thread of underlying disdain he carried for those who crossed him. But, there was something genuine this time under the mask, something close to relief—as that quiet desperation that had been haunting him ever since the words “Plinth Prize” were uttered—finally left his body. The lump in his throat relexed, even if just a fraction, though his words still carried that distant coldness so fitting for his name… and eyes.

He was still on edge, he often was. Like he was waiting for someone to pull the rug from underneath him… but to the outside world, he walked like a Victor, hugging Tigris tight as the cheers continued to echo from the marble walls

Selene Ember knew he had done something to ensure Lucy Gray's survival. “It must be the singing… it's calming them down!”—a messy cover-up. She almost chuckled to herself at it now, when it was all over. Snakes had a peculiar sense of sound and Lucy Gray's voice, although always impactful, definitely wasn't what had pacified them. But when tensions are high and people are engaged, they'd believe almost anything. Coriolanus had left mere hours before the final showdown. By contrast, the previous days he'd been glued to the screen… For a person who sought to be sure of every outcome around him, leaving the fate of his tribute—his investment as he probably perceived it—up to "chance" to take a stroll, seemed peculiar to say the least. 

The excitement being carried through Heavensbee Hall didn't reach Selene Ember. She just stared at the now black wide screen, wondering if Lucy Gray was being dragged out of that awful place and toward a life she'd have to re-learn how to live... Now that she saw what human beings were capable of inflicting to one another under the “right” circumstances up close.

Coriolanus found her once he felt he had sufficiently accepted all the praise and the posca he was owed.

“Why sulking? Your cousin survived, you should be ecstatic, no?” he questioned, hand on her shoulder in that small reassurance they had started giving each other.

It had started small, after the fireworks at Remembrance day… he had found Selene Ember crouched, coiling into herself at the corner of the library, hyperventilating. The loud bangs… that had been her undoing then. She remembered the bombings well, as did he. But he at least had the bomb shelter, while Selene Ember had to tremble in the Covey wagons… half a dozen little songbirds—all the Covey orphans, piling together to meet their fate. And fate was kind enough to let them live, but not kind enough to spare them a life of trauma afterwards. It'd be helpful, having a friend who came from such an influential family yet still clung to District sentimentality, Coriolanus had concluded then. Maybe it had been his way of rationalizing why he didn't feel the need to be someone else around her—the strong heir, with a full table. He needn't bother pretending for someone who was a bastard heir—that's what the Grandma’am's beliefs would have him think. But he found himself considering that, he admired her, quietly. Because she knew what it was like to survive… she didn't shy away from vulnerability.

Another time, it was Selene Ember who had found him—much to his shame—clutching at his mother's compact, trying to ground himself somehow, in any way whatsoever when he had found out the penthouse might be taken away from his family. He didn't tell her what the reason for his sorry state was, but… she didn't ask, didn't need to know. She just held him, humming that song that sounded just like his mother's lullaby.

Selene Ember was the closest thing to a friend he could allow himself to have. Her kind nature was still baffling to him, clashing with his ambitious strive. Even though they were the same age when they suffered their parent's War, the fallout of it had produced two very different individuals. With Sejanus, Coriolanus would chalk up their differences to the district two boy having lived a life of luxury during the War...

..But Selene Ember didn't have that, she earned her keep more than any of their classmates, until her father claimed her into the Capitol. Yet she still remained rooted and kind, in that silent way. A lot more preferable than Sejanus’s insufferable martyr complex, he had concluded.

Fascinating, even… maybe that's why he found himself admitting that his affections may run deeper when it came to her. Like a force of nature that made him gravitate towards her, in her orbit.

“Ecstatic?" she echoed in disbelief "Over something as basic as a human life being preserved?" Selene Ember shook her head, but accepted the posca Coriolanus handed her. "Her life shouldn't be a privilege she earns, Coryo… it's her human right. Just as yours is yours and mine is mine…” she added.

Was she ungrateful for all the sacrifices Coriolanus had made to ensure her cousin made it out?! How dare she!—Coriolanus was close to snapping and it was evident in the way his hand trembled over Selene Ember's shoulder. But if the Games had taught him something, it was to try and take a step back. Even when he didn't want to, even when he couldn't…

She wasn't ungrateful—look at her—she didn't yell to be perceived like Sejanus did, she just… wanted the people she cared about to be safe. And that, that was a hunger Coriolanus could understand, even appreciate. His cousin, Tigris, was very much the same and he owed a lot of his own survival to her. At the end, he supposed, Selene Ember and him wanted the same thing—to feel safe and full again. Not guided by some grand sense of justice, but just theirs.

But before he could speak, or—gem of Panem forbid—even agree with her, a Peacekeeper's shadow loomed over them both. The artificially warm lights served to make his presence even more ghastly: “Dean Highbottom has demanded your immediate presence, Mister Snow.” His tone, procedural, like it was expected of an officer of the law. Ordinarily, this delivery wouldn't have been met with apprehension from Coriolanus but now—well, now he feared they may have found something. 

It was easy to be lost in the feeling of victory, especially when it was so hard earned. 

But owing to his closeness with Selene Ember, Coriolanus had started trying to learn patience… being measured instead of reactive, without letting himself get lost in his perceived grandiosity. He had acknowledged, albeit partially and reluctantly, that carrying the Snow name meant little if he didn't bide his time. His Grandma’am believes things were owed to them simply because they existed as Snows, Coriolanus had internalized that belief too. But even he—the heir to that legacy, had to admit that reality often showed him quite the opposite. In nature, you had to be ready to claim what you were owed, not just wait for it. Snow lands on top, but only if you fight. The Games had certainly taught him that and Selene Ember had humbled him on more than one occasion—there she was, a girl who was owed Vasari legacy from the moment she was born, yet spent most of her life in the dirt of Twelve. It was easy to conceive of her becoming bitter, resentful even, but she hadn't. So why howl at the moon like Sejanus, for example? Wallowing in self pity certainly showed less refinement than persevering despite the world throwing you reasons to wallow in the first place, Coriolanus was almost lost in his own mind now.

“I will be accompanying him.” Selene Ember's voice cut through Coriolanus’s train of thought—authoritative and certain, the way she usually carried herself with an aura of a performer. Not like Livia who would demand attention to herself, revealing underlying insecurity… this was quiet, yet powerful, coming from within Selene Ember.

It was hard for Coriolanus to come to terms with it and maybe he hadn't yet fully admitted it to himself... but that tone of hers always did make him shiver. In what way?, he found himself wondering.

The Peacekeeper sized them up but didn't comment further, it was below his paygrade to deal with the whims of Academy students. So, he just led them through the corridors. Coriolanus was asking a myriad of questions in his head: “Is Lucy Gray waiting for them? Will she be sent back to Twelve? Is that why the Dean requested his presence? To finally congratulate him, even apologize for the way he had mistreated Corionalus...”

There he went again, letting himself overanalyze, Selene Ember noted, then again he did seem more fidgety. Maybe there was a reason for him to be on edge—a real threat, not just an imagined one. Still, she concluded, he shouldn't let it show in front of a Peacekeeper. He wouldn't give them any information, yet Coriolanus was feeding him enough material to report back—that the mentor of the Victor was uneasy—that was leverage enough.

She acted quickly, brushing Coriolanus’s hand behind her dress skirt, unseen from prying eyes, but enough to make the boy blink wide-eyed as if catching himself. He promptly cleared his throat as they reached the grand doors of the Casca Highbottom’s office. The Peacekeeper stopped, boots clanking together, as the sound was carried through the marble flooring—undoubtedly another scare tactic. Selene Ember knew а fair share of men who thought being haughty would make them untouchable… but, in fact, it also made them the easiest to read, because of their evident insecurities. She held up her chin high, not in condescension, but determination.

Highbottom opened the doors, his pupils dilated already—morphling at play once again—but his language was far more grounded than the usual slurring and swaying. He looked clearer-minded and the corner of his lip twitched in what was the beginnings of a smirk.

“Well—” the Dean started, voice blunt but clear, measured almost, “—I see you brought reinforcements, Coriolanus? Some things don't change no matter how much time passes." That was definitely a smirk that had formed on his face now, as he continued: "It feels like only yesterday when you clutched at your mother's skirts whenever something inconvenienced you…” He taunted.  Coriolanus' shoulder was just barely in front of where Selene Ember stood, so their arrangement lacked the physical proximity to warrant such a comment. 

She sensed it without fully understanding it—the Dean definitely had something against Coriolanus specifically and it was as if he couldn't conceive of a Snow being genuinely connected to someone unless it was a self-serving. Selene Ember was reluctant to label their relationship in any way, naturally it would be naive to presume. But she knew how guarded Coriolanus was… and that she was slowly working her way past that guard as he did with her own masks that she had been forced into wearing.

“I assure you, Dean Highbottom, Coriolanus wouldn't have caught Doctor Gaul's attention if he weren't perfectly capable of holding his own” Selene Ember's voice cut through, its precision matching that of Casca's commentary: “I am here merely to ensure the wellbeing of my cousin, who, may I remind the kind Dean—is the very Victor of your most watched rendition of the Games.” She added, twisting the knife. 

She didn't like using this as leverage, not one bit, it felt like giving power to this brutish “tradition”. Even still, she wasn't diluting herself into believing that one person's denial would change anything, so why not use it in the end?

Highbottom's scowl betrayed his own distaste at the comment: “Her wellbeing?” He echoed, schooling his expression back to something more neutral, but still equally unpleasant: “Is that why Mister Snow here stands guard in front of you like an obedient dog?”

Before any rebuttal could be made, Highbottom raised his hand dismissively: “I don't think you'd be happy to parade the Victor around, Lady Vasari, the poor girl has been through enough… and especially given what came to light, it'd be best if she finally finds some peace.” 

Coriolanus’ breathing stopped, it was like time itself had halted too, or maybe he just wished it did. Did Lucy Gray tell on him? No, there's no way, she knew he meant a lot to Selene Ember and there was no gain for her. The confession was likely forced out of her. 

Selene Ember's hand trembled where it stood close to Coriolanus’s back, he could feel the small, barely contained tremors even through the Academy uniform.

The Dean didn’t keep them in suspense. He merely took a step away from the desk that he had been propped leisurely against, revealing a small silver glimmer. The moment the barely-there reflection caught in Coriolanus’s blue eyes, they widened.

Despite the grime that now covered it, there was no mistaking it - this was his mother’s compact—the one he had given to Lucy Gray and next to it… the handkerchief, the real reason the rainbow of destruction was tamed in the Arena. When the two items came together, Coriolanus saw it clearly—having missed them initially, but now illuminated by his mother’s light… there stood his father’s initials, embroidered on that raggedy white material.

Crassus Xanthos Snow, C. X. S, a rare middle name, an incriminating one now.

“Lady Vasari had nothing to do with any of this, Dean Highbottom.” Coriolanus declared in a hushed but controlled tone, like every syllable was actively being forced out of his constricting throat.

“Like I said—” the words coiled around the older man like the snakes they had watched in the Arena less than an hour ago: “—an obedient dog.” Highbottom concluded.

Selene Ember took a cautionary step forward to protest: “Carrying a token inside the Arena barely constitutes evidence of cheating. I would like to think the Head Gamemaker has more sense than to allow such hasty conclusions.” 

Coriolanus’s arm shot up to Selene Ember’s form, rigid and unmoving, stopping any further advancement toward the Dean. Was it to protect her or to save himself the embarrassment of being found out in this way, it wasn’t clear - to him or to anyone else.

The way Highbottom’s eyebrow raised was unsettling, like he had expected a similar response, and so his words merely continued to weave: “It’s fitting, really, to have both your parents here with you, Coriolanus.” He took the compact, opening it to reveal… nothing. Empty—scrubbed of anything that might have been in it. Selene Ember’s words died on her tongue, posture stiffening. She had never seen the compact empty, she knew how much the rose powder in it meant to Coriolanus. Even if he didn't admit it, she had seen it—him clinging to a reassuring memory, much like she did when she would light one of her mother's cigarettes. 

And that’s when she knew, for a fact - that he had done something to ensure Lucy Gray’s survival. Highbottom’s smirk now danced fully present on his face as he took in the reactions: “Come now…” another taunt: “We all know that poor boy from Four didn’t die of natural causes.” He set the compact down harshly, the sound like a gunshot against the desk: “Rat poison. The very same one found at the zoo, conveniently placed in the lovely “token” we found on the little songbird’s person.”

Count One: Guilty…

“And this—” Highbottom twirled the handkerchief around: “Well, you don’t need me to explain the logistics of Gaul’s creations. After all, she assured me both of you have already received a firsthand demonstration in her lab.” 

Count Two: Guilty…

“Do you hear that, Coriolanus?” The words echoed like a twisted ballad. “It’s the sound of Snow falling." 

Enlisting as a Peacekeeper — that was the only way out of suffering the public humiliation and long-term reputation debilitating act of being expelled from the Academy. “But… Why would anyone in my situation do that? I mean—why would I say I would do that? When I’ve just… won the Plinth Prize to the University?” Coriolanus stammered, still thinking of his public image, even when it was already in shambles. “Who knows?" the Dean sneered. "Because you’re that kind of patriot? Because the Hunger Games changed you, and you’re going where you can best serve Panem?" He sat back in his chair: "You’re a clever young man, Coriolanus. I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Dean Highbottom chuckled, self-satisfied. “Why? Why do you hate me so much?” Coriolanus blurted out. “I thought you were my father’s friend!” That made the Dean drop his condescension. “I thought I was, too... Once." A pause so heavy it made Highbottom take a deep breath: "...But it turned out I was only someone he liked because he could use them. Even now.” “But he’s dead now! He’s been dead for years!” cried Coriolanus. Selene Ember moved fast—and she was the one holding him back now. There was no use, she thought, it was those in power who decided what’s just. “He deserves to be—" another ruling from the impromptu presiding judge. "—yet he seems very much alive in you.” Highbottom concluded and it truly sounded like snow falling, or maybe, more fittingly —a guillotine.

It took everything in Selene Ember to not react emotionally. It wouldn't change the outcome. But still… the old man had to hear this, she though, and it needed to leave her system.

“It's how we treat those around us, Dean Highbottom, that puts them on a given course too…” she said, voice low but steady. Coriolanus was ambitious, calculating... and he held that feeling of superiority instilled in him from birth. But that didn't mean he was his father, no one is born fully a certain way. With a tremble in his hand at her words, the Dean rushed both Coriolanus and Selene Ember out of the office.

“Better hurry. The Peacekeeper office closes in twenty minutes. If you run, you can just make it.” that taunting voice remained with them.

It wouldn't change the outcome.

Coriolanus’s eyes were wild when they stepped out, like he was already running in his mind. Selene Ember shushed him in a soothing attempt: “There is a way to make this right, Coryo. They can’t just—” she stopped herself, losing a friend after almost losing her cousin was too much. It’s not losing, the thought occurred to her, a new beginning. Sometimes running is the brave thing.

“You can try and apply for Twelve? I—” she cut herself off, not wanting to sound presumptuous or overbearing: “—I could come too… as a nurse, like my mother was.”

Coriolanus wasn't sure if he was hearing things. Why would anyone put themselves through this willingly? Especially someone who knew this place—was it even fit for life? All that filth and humidity…

“W-why would you throw your life away?” the way he stuttered that out made him bite his tongue. Pathetic, he determined.

“Throwing my life away?” Selene Ember echoed, “I would be giving back to the place that raised me, Coryo. And you—you are my friend…” —the only one who understood her ambitions— “I don't want to lose you…” she admitted before she could think better of it.

“Lose me?” Coriolanus let out a stuttering breath that could've been mistaken for a chuckle, “You'd have Sejanus, little moon… that's something, no?”  Little moon— there it was again. That nickname he'd use for Selene Ember. Тo tease her, she believed, but the truth was deeper.

After she had told him about her namesake ballad— “The Ballad of the Moonmaiden”, he'd use it every now and again. That little tune spoke of a goddess… Selene, some ancient deity people from the Old World would pray to for guidance— lost souls and sailors traversing the sea, illuminated by her light.

And the sailors and lost souls would call to her: Selene, mistress of the silver moon, sister of the sun, daughter of the elder gods, sky-riding goddess, your white hands firm upon the reins, guiding your pale chariot across the night sky, your eyes like stars, your silken hair as black as night, a shining crescent at your brow. Kind-hearted goddess, beloved of beautiful Endymion, your light falls ever on lovers’ silent trysts, on kisses sweetly captured, on longed-for embraces. As well you keep company with mothers in their midnight walks, bringing your comfort to crying babe and weary women alike. Ever-changing one, as you wax and wane do farmers plant their fields, do women count their months, do witches work their spells. Fair Selene, beacon in the great dark, I call to you for guidance. And she'd answer from the skies where she dwells:Carry on, carry on, there will be peace as you journey on.Lay your weary head to rest I shall carry you through the dawn

Coriolanus didn't believe in superstitions and he hadn't been one for song or poetry, but… in those quiet study sessions the two of them would share in the library, he'd let himself be guided by Selene Ember, basking in her warm light. It had felt nice, to let go even if only partially, carefully. Had he not felt like a lost sailor in the endless sea for almost all his life? After his father's passing, Coriolanus had been haunted by a feeling of vulnerability he could never quite shake off. He tried to quell it by being calculated, measured, trying to control everything around him. But it suffocated him… every time, to have to be decisive in everything, when the world around him was anything but orderly. Not that he wasn't capable, he believed that if anyone could put things to order, it was him. And look where that got him… So when he felt like it was all too much, like a lost soul, he'd call for his little moon. And he was undoubtedly, he sensed, irrevocably…

Lost now.

“Coryo—” she started, guiding him to sit with her on the bench at the Academy gates: “This isn’t about me “cutting my losses”... You and Sejanus are both dear to me.” she assured, quickly inputting something into her portable data pad. 

The admission should've made Coriolanus relax, but instead, he felt an ugly, rotting feeling settle in his chest.

He should be the only one his little moon cared for. Hadn't he proven himself to her by saving Lucy Gray, while Sejanus was playing martyr?!

“He actually… talked about enrolling himself. Said he wanted to 'do some real good where it'd matter', you know how he is." She added, thinking it might make Coriolanus feel better. Like what was happening was... a possible choice, and not something he was forced into.  But all Coriolanus’ thoughts spiraled into was:

Please stop talking about Sejanus, please stop talking about him, please stop—

Before he could make a fool of himself, the car Selene Ember had called for appeared, swiftly stopping at the designated strip for student transportation. A Snow shouldn't take pity… but this wasn't that. This was care, sincerity, even if she didn’t know of his poverty— she offered, without demanding much in return but his genuineness. So unlike anyone raised in the Capitol.

Coriolanus nodded and the next day… he departed for Twelve from the train station, leaving behind his mother's shawl to Selene Ember: “It's not a gift…” he said, whether to make himself feel less attached to her or to make her accept it, he wasn't sure “—it's a loan. You can give it back once we are in Twelve, together.” He let go of the fabric, while Selene Ember held it close, as if he was passing on a burden she would willingly take.

Dr. Gaul tilted her head. “And why,” she asked, almost pleasantly, “would the Academy’s best student refuse such an honor?”

Your voice came out sharper than you meant. “Because it’s wrong.” The room erupted in whispers. “You expect me to sit there and help children kill each other?” you continued. “For entertainment?”

Dr. Gaul’s smile widened. “Well,” she said calmly, “this is… interesting.”

By the time the bell rang, half the Academy had already heard what happened. Including Coriolanus. When Dr. Gaul summoned Coriolanus Snow to her office, he already had a sinking feeling.

“She’s remarkable,” Dr. Gaul mused, tapping a pen against her desk. “Top of the class. Brilliant mind.”

Coriolanus kept his expression carefully neutral. “Yes, ma’am.”

“But she’s also… rebellious.” Dr. Gaul leaned forward. “You’re close with her, aren’t you?”

His stomach tightened. “Yes.”

“Talk to her,” Dr. Gaul said. “Convince her to reconsider before I decide what consequences this little display deserves.”

Coriolanus left the office with his heart pounding. Because he knew you. And convincing you to do something you believed was wrong? Nearly impossible.

He found you outside the Academy. Specifically—Standing in the courtyard while Sejanus Plinth yelled at you.

“What were you thinking?!” Sejanus demanded.

“I was thinking someone needed to say it!” you shot back.

“You don’t understand how dangerous that was!”

“I understand perfectly!” you snapped. “I’m not going to sit there and watch innocent people slaughter each other for some sick Capitol fantasy! Hasn’t there been enough blood spread over the years? How long will this go on?”

Sejanus dragged a hand through his hair. “You’re not wrong—but you just made yourself a target!”

That was when Coriolanus stepped in. “Enough.”

Both of you turned. Your anger melted instantly when you saw him. “Corio…” 

He crossed the distance quickly and pulled you into a tight hug. His arms wrapped around you like he was making sure you were still there. “What were you thinking?” he murmured into your hair.

Your voice came out small. “I couldn’t just stay quiet.”

Sejanus sighed. “She’s going to get herself executed for having morals.”

Coriolanus shot him a look. “Helpful.” Then he turned back to you. “Come with me,” he said quietly. “We need to talk.”

His apartment was quiet when you arrived. The moment the door shut behind you, the weight of everything crashed down. You sat on the edge of his bed. And suddenly— You started crying. “This whole thing is sick,” you whispered, covering your face. “They’re children, Corio. Children.”

He sat beside you, pulling your hands away gently. “I know,” he said softly.

“No, you don’t!” you said, voice breaking. “Everyone acts like this is normal. Like it’s just entertainment.” The words tumbled out faster now. “I yelled at Dr. Gaul. In front of everyone. What was I thinking?” Panic crept into your voice. “Corio, what if they—what if they—”

He cupped your face, forcing you to look at him. “Hey. Look at me.”

Your breathing slowed slightly.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said.

You searched his face desperately. “How do you know?”

His answer came immediately. “Because I won’t let anything happen to you.” After a moment, he sighed. “The safest thing you can do,” he said carefully, “is apologize.”

Your expression hardened instantly. “No.”

Coriolanus blinked. “No?”

“I won’t apologize for telling the truth.” You stood up, pacing the room. “They’re killing people for entertainment!”

“And you yelling about it won’t stop them!” Corio snapped.

You turned sharply. “So I should just pretend it’s fine?”

“You should survive,” he shot back.

The tension between you crackled like lightning.

“Survive?” you said bitterly. “Is that all you care about?”

“Yes!” he snapped. The word hung in the air. Then he grabbed your face gently but firmly. “You are a reckless idiot,” he said quietly. Your anger faltered. “But I love you,” he continued, voice rough. “And I am not going to watch you ruin your life because you decided to challenge Dr. Gaul in public.”

That shut you up. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then you muttered stubbornly “She can bite me.”

Coriolanus stared at you in disbelief. “You are impossible.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

His frustration finally snapped. He pulled you forward and kissed you. Hard. Angry. Your hands grabbed his shirt as you kissed him back just as fiercely. The tension that had been building all night broke in a rush of breathless, heated kisses. When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathing hard.

Coriolanus rested his forehead against yours. “You’re going to apologize to her,” he said.

You glared at him. “…fine.”

He smiled slightly in relief.

Then you added smugly, “But I’m not saying I was wrong.”

You knew that better than anyone.

You’d seen the cracks.

You’d seen the late-night decisions he’d pretend he never made, the glances he denied, the ambitions he called burdens.

You knew his impulses intimately—maybe too intimately.

You called yourself his friend.

He wouldn’t.

He’d never use that word for you.

But you knew more about him than most people ever would.

More than half the Capitol.

More, you were certain, than his own cousin.

Pompous. If Coriolanus had to describe you with a word it would be pompous. not in a lame way, not that he would actually tell that because The more ambiguous and possibly insulting, the better.

Pompous. More like a private joke only he understood—an arch of his brow, a flicker of amusement at the way you carried yourself.

You were younger, but somehow walked like you expected rooms to make space for you. You didn’t apologize for having opinions, or for the sharp way you sometimes delivered them.

You thought too highly of your own insight, he’d say.

You assumed you knew him better than you did.

And maybe you did.

He’d never admit that part.

To him, calling you pompous was a way of keeping the balance steady, you on the ground,

him above it, exactly where he believed both of you belonged.

He liked things that way.

He liked you that way.

Not compliant, not soft, just… correct.

Because you were useful when you were confident.

Sharp.

Certain.

Able to glide into conversations and redirect them like you’d rehearsed it.

Able to hear rumors about him and bend them sideways until they evaporated.

Able to look a Peacekeeper in the eye and say, “No, you’re mistaken,” with the poise of someone twice your age.

That was the pompousness he meant: the kind that smoothed his path without him lifting a finger.

And he’d never tell you this either, but:

He relied on it.

On you.

On that effortless, infuriating, invaluable confidence and demureness you wore like perfume.It made his life easier.

It made his ambitions possible.

And he knew—

in the same quiet way he knew you loved him—

that you would never stop using it in his favor.

You were steady like that. Predictable in all the ways he needed.

A constant in a world where alliances shifted like sand and loyalty was a luxury no one could afford.

And though he would never call you a friend, he treated you like something adjacent to one—

a fixture, a tool, a witness, *a secret.*

Someone who cleaned the messes before anyone else noticed there were messes.

Someone who didn’t need to be asked twice.

Or at all.

You learned early that Coriolanus didn’t do issue requests.

He let things hang in the air, half-said, heavy with implication.

If you were sharp enough—and you were always sharp enough—you’d pick up the thread and follow it.

Cover this up.

Fix that.

Make it disappear.

Pretend nothing happened.

He never thanked you.

Not properly.

Not with words that meant anything.

What he gave you instead were crumbs:

a glance lingering a second too long,

a softened tone meant only for you,

a secret shared at dawn when exhaustion stripped his guard bare.

a piece of your favorite cake when he invited you over for tea.

You collected those crumbs like treasures.

And he knew.

He always knew.

Still, he let you stay.

He let you hover around him like a shadow made of silk, useful and quiet and dangerously devoted.

He let you believe you mattered—not enough to change his life, but enough to orbit it.

And you told yourself that was enough.

That being the person who held his secrets was a kind of intimacy.

That protecting him was a kind of love.

That covering up his scandals meant you belonged to a part of him no one else could touch.

But Coriolanus belonged only to himself.

He always had. except for the girl who disappeared

He always would.

The Snow apartment was unusually warm that afternoon.

Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, turning the dust motes gold, softening the edges of everything—even him. Coriolanus sat across from you at the small dining table, sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows, posture relaxed in a way that always made you suspicious. He only softened when he wanted something, or when he needed something, or when he was pleased with you.

Between you, a teapot steamed gently.

Beside it, on a fragile china plate, rested a slice of your favorite cake.

You hadn’t told him it was your favorite.

He had simply noticed.

“Have some,” he said, voice deceptively sweet as he nudged the plate toward you. “You skipped lunch again.”

You didn’t argue. You rarely argued with him. The cake was perfect—light, fragrant, the kind of sweetness that lingered on your tongue. He watched you take a bite, something like satisfaction flickering across his face.

You neither question how he knew about you skipping lunch.

Moments like this were dangerous.

They made it too easy to pretend he cared.

He poured you tea with careful hands, almost gentle, and for a second the whole world felt simple. Two friends—well, one friend and one person pretending he didn’t have friends—sharing an afternoon. Anyone passing by the open window would have thought it was normal.

But you knew better.

You notice there was no maid around, no eyes, no ears.

Coriolanus waited until you were comfortable, until his charm had settled softly in the air between you, before he said, entirely too casually:

“I might have… inconvenienced someone today.”

You looked up slowly.

There it was—the reason for the tea, the cake, the softness.

You set your cup down.

“What did you do?” your tone was soft, calm.

“Nothing terrible,” he said, like he was reassuring a child. “A misunderstanding. Well, they misunderstood me. Dramatically.”

That meant he’d said something cruel. Or sharp. Or politically risky. With him, misunderstandings were always rooted in impulse.

“Who?” you asked, unbothered, to used to this.

“Seren Vantress” The daughter of a senator, and by this point the senator himself. The both of them were always together, indivisible, so if Corio had said something he shouldn't to Seren, the senator must be close enough to herald it himself. They were someone important enough to cause a ripple if offended, but not important enough to be considered a threat. Someone who could talk. Someone who could ruin a delicate impression if the wrong version of the story spread.

You sighed. “What exactly did you say?”

He gave you a look of careful innocence. “I merely pointed out that their proposal was shortsighted.”

You blinked. Coriolanus calling something shortsighted usually translated to him questioning someone’s intelligence in front of the wrong audience.

“And they didn’t take it well,” he added, stirring his tea with practiced elegance. “You know how people are. Sensitive.”

You almost smiled at that. Corio liked to pretend other people were fragile, as if he wasn’t the one who shattered easily and violently under pressure.

“So you want me to fix it,” you said.

He didn’t deny it. Neither affirmed. He never needed to.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to you with that soft, calculated affection he used in rare, careful doses.

“You’re better at these things than I am,” he said. “People trust you. They listen to you.”

A pause, deliberate and flattering.

“You make them feel… reasonable. *And how could they not? you are so pretty, so delicate…”*

You felt the compliment settle in your chest like heat.

He always knew where to place them.

“And what do you want me to tell him?” you asked softly.

Coriolanus dropped his gaze to his cup, letting a faint, self-deprecating smile curve his lips, an expression he used exclusively when manipulating goodwill.

“Just the truth,” he said. “That I didn’t mean anything by it. That he misinterpreted my tone. That I have the utmost respect for his work.”

You stared at him. “So you want me to gaslight him.”

“That’s such an ugly word,” Coriolanus replied lightly. “I’d say… clarify.”

Your heart sank—though not out of disappointment.

Out of familiarity.

You’d done this before.

You’d do it again.

“to make him question what happened.” You softly mumble as you wrap your hands around your warm cup and look at him fully. “I’ll handle it,” you said.

He exhaled once, slow and quiet, as if your promise had untied a knot inside him. Then he smiled—a soft, private smile that almost fooled you into believing it was just for you.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “I knew I could count on you.”

Of course he could.

He always could.

And as you took another bite of the cake he’d chosen for you, you wondered—not for the first time—whether this was intimacy, or simply the sweetest version of being used.

You took another slow sip of tea, letting the warmth settle in your chest as your mind began to turn—quietly, carefully, the way Coriolanus always liked.

He had no idea how many versions of the truth you could craft in a single afternoon. Or maybe he did. Maybe that was the point.

“Convince him he took it the wrong way” you mumble to yourself, thoughtful. Simple on paper, but delicate in execution.

There were two people you needed to handle:

the senator, and—unfortunately—his daughter.

You tried not to think about her, but thoughts came anyway.

She was gorgeous.

Painfully so.

Tall, blond, effortless, the kind of Capitol beauty whose presence filled a room without trying. The kind of woman Coriolanus gravitated toward: poised, polished, born into the kind of elegance he chased like oxygen.

“Excuse me but…why were you talking with her?” you ask, the question slipping out sharper than you intended, but not sharp enough to hide the sting underneath.

He turns to you slowly, deliberately, as if savoring the moment. His expression doesn’t shift — still cool, still composed — but something flickers in his eyes. Annoyance? Amusement? Possession?

“She approached me,” he says lightly, as if that explains everything. “People tend to.”

You fold your arms. “That’s not an answer.” The implication curls between you — that he might listen. That he might not.

A flicker — annoyance, interest, something darker — crosses his face.

“Are you jealous?” he asks, soft, delighted. Dangerous.

His smile is slow, polished, practiced. “She’s useful.”

“Useful,” you repeat, tasting the word like poison. “To you.”

“To us,” he corrects. “Or she could be.” His gaze drifts back to you. “Unless you’re telling me I shouldn’t speak to her.”

You set your cup down a little harder than intended.

You knew it was ridiculous, feeling that twist in your stomach over a girl who likely didn’t even know your name, but the thought lingered like a sore tooth. If anyone were to talk about Corio’s “tone,” it’d be her. If anyone felt personally slighted, it was probably because she cared about how he looked at her, how he dismissed her father’s ideas.

You hated the way that made sense.

Still, jealousy was a luxury you couldn’t afford.

Not in your position.

Not when he needed you to be sharp.

“late for what, sir?” your tone is soft, careful, meticulous, and in the absence of a response you keep talking.

“I was early yesterday,” you said, before you could stop yourself. The words slipped out, small but steady, a defense you hadn’t meant to voice.

His pen stilled for a fraction of a second, then resumed its careful path across the paper. “Yesterday,” he replied evenly, “is irrelevant.”

He didn’t look up, didn’t give you the dignity of his eyes, only that cool voice that reduced your efforts to nothing. And yet, you stayed—silent, as though your presence itself were proof you refused to be erased.

You lowered your gaze to the stack of documents waiting for you, hands moving automatically, though your mind lingered on that flicker, that moment when the silence between you felt heavier than the work itself. His silence wasn’t indifference—it was a measure, a test, one you hadn’t realized you were taking until you already had.

you sit in front of him and grab a pen, marking the documents and leaving notes on the edges, pure focus and silence for an hour. Every now and then when you looked up you would find him looking at your hands for a split second. your hands. yours.

he pen paused between your fingers. “Is something wrong with the notes?” you asked quietly, almost cautiously, though the words came out sharper than intended.

His gaze lifted then, slowly, deliberately, and met yours. “No.” A pause, heavy enough to weigh the air down.

Yet something in his tone made it linger, as though he’d said more than he meant to.

You set the pen down, tilting your head. “That’s all?”

One corner of his mouth twitched,not a smile, not quite. “You want more?” his tone with a judgy edge.

The question caught you off guard, as though he’d flipped the balance of the room without moving an inch.

“I…” you hesitated, pulse quickening. “I just thought you were staring.”

His eyes didn’t flinch, didn’t shift away. “I was.”

The air between you stretched thin, so taut it might snap with the wrong word. You forced your fingers back around the pen, though they no longer felt steady.

“Do you always examine so thoroughly at your employees like that?” you asked, tone carefully even, daring him just a little, nervous.

His head tilted, faint amusement in his gaze though his expression stayed composed. “Only the competent ones.”

You blinked, unsure if it was praise or provocation. With him, it was always both. “That’s a strange way of motivating people.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, the flicker of movement subtle but commanding. “Motivation is for those who require it. You don’t.”

Your breath caught, not because of the words themselves but because of how calmly he said them—as if he knew you, the machinery of you, down to the last gear.

“Maybe I do,” you murmured, cheeks feeling a little hot.

His gaze sharpened, a flash of something dangerous, or curious slipping through. “If you did,” he said slowly, “you wouldn’t be here before dawn.”

“or maybe i would do it waiting for a prize” you mumble soft, mild, your plump lips slightly apart and your eyes looking into his, the hold thing feels illicit.

He paused, the faintest tilt of his head betraying a flicker of surprise—one you could swear was directed only at you. The corner of his mouth twitched, barely perceptible, before his expression settled back into its usual mask of control.

“A prize,” he repeated, his voice low, deliberate. He takes his eyes back to the paperwork. you both work for another hour in total silence, not odd silence, just to focus. When people start to arrive at the office you stand up and walk to your own desk.

Nearly more than a week passed before you agreed to have another date with Cassius, this time you actually learned his name, not because you were particularly eager, but because the invitation had been sitting unanswered in your messages, and it felt easier to say yes than to think of a reason to say no.

Work filled the days in between. Long hours, endless tasks, the rhythm of silence and paper and ink. Snow had been himself—controled firm, steady, a wall of composure you learned to navigate like familiar terrain. Nothing extraordinary happened, and yet the memory of that last exchange, the dangerous flicker in his eyes when you’d murmured about a prize, lingered longer than you wanted to admit.

So when Friday evening came and you were sitting across from the same man again, in another carefully chosen restaurant, you weren’t unhappy. But you weren’t really present either. His smile was pleasant, his conversation smooth, his presence easy. All of it should have been enough.

But your mind has learned to measure silence, to read meaning in the absence of words. And here, across this table, there was only chatter, only noise, only a gentle hum that didn’t ask anything of you.

You were trying. Trying to have a good time, to enjoy the way he spoke, the way the candles softened everything into something almost romantic. And half of a bottle of wine after you might start enjoying it, it almost worked.

He was handsome—undeniably so—in a clean, effortless way. The kind of man who smiled easily, who looked you in the eye as though he meant every word he spoke. He smiled at you, really smiled, with no calculation behind it, a smile that didn’t carry the weight of expectation. His eyes lit up when he spoke about his work, about his friends, about the little things he enjoyed and when you made a comment about whatever he was saying, proving you were listening. You noticed the curve of his jaw, the way he leaned forward to listen, the ease in his laugh.

He asked about your work, your thoughts on the book you’d mentioned the last time, It wasn’t grand or sweeping, but it was attentive. Thoughtful. Nice.

and after hours and hours of talk and yourself leaning in a little closer, caught off guard by the ease of his laugh, the warmth in his voice, you find yourself, somehow, with his lips in your neck, his body wait pressing you against the door of your apartment, and as suddenly as his teeth pinched the soft skin of your neck, while an imperceptible sigh escapes your lips, you push him away.

He has a small, tender smile, like a child after doing something he shouldn't have.

“Sorry if this was too far for you.”

His tone was almost shy, then he kissed your forehead as a way of saying goodbye and leaving.

Most people wouldn't work on Saturday, but you did, of course you did.

just a few worked Saturdays at your job. You could count them with one hand.

You loved Saturdays because it was usually a relaxing day, no rush in the office, no annoying people, no endless parade of faces with problems only you were expected to solve because everyone else was incompetent, and silence, the good old silence, the kind you could stretch yourself into.

The air even felt different on Saturdays, more yours. You could pour coffee without rushing, you could sort through papers in perfect order, you could almost imagine the office belonged only to you. Almost.

Because sometimes—though not always—he was there too.

And when he was, the silence wasn’t just silence. It was heavier, sharper, charged with an awareness that made you more focused, more careful, more alive, hungry for approval.

The hours slipped by in near silence, the kind that stretched and settled over the room like a held breath. Paper whispered, pens scratched, and somewhere between one report and the next, the world outside faded completely.

Every so often, you caught the faint sound of him shifting in his chair, or the steady rhythm of his breathing, the sharp scent of his cologne woven into the air when everything else fell still. You didn’t dare look up; it was easier to pretend you were made of composure.

By the time the clock brushed past afternoon, your neck ached, your coffee had gone cold and the sunset sun fades. You leaned back slightly, twirling your hair, lost in the blur of ink when you heard it — the quiet, unmistakable sound of footsteps. His.

Snow rarely left his desk during work hours, not without purpose. But this time, his steps came closer — deliberate, unhurried. He stopped beside your desk, the faint rustle of fabric brushing against the silence.

“Still working?” His voice was low, measured, carrying that subtle edge that made every simple question sound like an evaluation.

You looked up, blinking once, forcing a small nod. “Just finishing this section.”

He hummed, gaze sweeping over the documents in front of you, then back to your face

Then he frown. His hand grabs your chin, firm but not unkindly.

tug your face up exposing your neck,firm, deliberate, not cruel but not gentle either

Snow didn’t touch people

Instinct flared first. Your hand twitched against the desk, shoulders tensing as you tried to draw back — a reflex, not defiance, more like your body remembering that closeness meant danger. But his grip didn’t tighten. It wasn’t restraint. It was control — quiet, exacting, the kind that didn’t need force to be felt.

Snow didn’t touch people.

Your pulse stuttered under his gaze. The air between you felt too thin, too still. He studied you for a long second — your face, your throat, your throat, When he finally spoke.

“what 's that?”

The question was quiet, almost idle — but the shift in his tone made your stomach tighten. His gaze had dropped, fixed on the spot just below your jaw. You froze. It took a heartbeat too long to realize what he was looking at.

The mark.

It wasn’t obvious in the dim light of morning, not when you’d rushed to come over the office, to rushed that you forgot about the stupid mark.

A bruise in the shape of someone else’s mouth.

Your breath caught, your cheeks red you don't remember when was the last time you felt this coy.

You moved to turn your head, but his hand didn’t let you.

“its nothing” you mutter, not meeting his eyes, your tone nonchalant, trying to at least.

“Nothing,” he repeated, the word tasting unfamiliar in his mouth. His eyes lingered there, cold and focused, as if he could erase it by staring long enough. “I see a hickey and someone did this.” His voice sounded so quietly

You hated the way your eyes sought his the moment he said that, and you knew he saw a sparkle in your gaze, you didn't even know why this conversation was happening in the first place, why did he care, you want to tell him it was not his business. The words never passed your mouth, they didn't want to get out.

Silence stretched and suddenly you noticed that everyone else had been gone out of the office for a long time by now. The air seemed to press against your skin. His thumb brushed the hickey and you softly shiver as he lends a bit closer in an intimidating way, but God knows that at that moment you found it hot.

“was the guy who took you away on that date the other day?” his voice dropping to a murmur.

The sound of his voice was too close, too low, too deliberate. You could feel his breath ghosting against your skin, and that single detail — he remembered — made something deep inside you twist.

“yes…” you whisper “it was an accident” you feel the necessity to clarify.

When his gaze dropped again — to the mark, to the pulse still fluttering beneath your skin —

“is a weak mark” he muttered with a quiet satisfaction and a judgy tone for the men who make it. “i could do better.” His voice dropped to a low, almost mocking tone but also something deeper, more primal.

you felt the heat rise to your face. He took his hand away. The absence of his hand was almost worse.