Anger, shame, fear all boiled up in him at once, drowning out the shouts around him, the splashing sounds of the pool, Rory still giggling, trying to figure out what he was looking at over his shoulder. He could hear his pulse in his ears instead, the hot flood of heat to his neck and face that had nothing to do with the alcohol. The room was suddenly far too crowded, to small, and through the numbness he swore he felt every pair of eyes on him, they knew, they knew, they knew. How? Who would have done this to him? How would they know about all of the times it happened? Alder scrambled to his feet, not saying a word to Rory, and booked it for the door out of the ballroom. He nearly bowled over a couple of sponsors in the process, but he didn’t care, he needed out, all of the air was being sucked out his lungs and all of the people were closing in tighter and tighter and tighter. His stomach lurched as he ran, and he swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat, immediately regretting the alcohol. He ran until he tripped over an icy block of snow, careening forward into a days-old pile of crystallized snow. Coughing, spitting ice from his mouth, he rolled onto his side, pulled his knees to his chest. He seemed to be in some kind of garden, dead for the winter, but secluded and abandoned for the sub-freezing temperatures that Alder barely felt. He buried his face in his arms and let loose a pained sob. It was over. Everything was over, he felt hopeless, stupid, violated. Already all of his life was stolen by the Capitol, publicized, capitalized on. For a couple fleeting weeks, he had one good thing, and they exposed that, too- how had they even found out? Now he had nothing. Maverick would never want to see him again after this, he’d lost any face with the rebels for getting involved with a Career, he’d be an embarrassment to Seven- could he even go home?