The university had not disappointed me. It had, in fact, confirmed everything I had long suspected—that I was built for more than the petty scrambling of my peers. Under Dr. Gaul, I had been refined, sharpened, rewarded. I suggested ideas - obedience, repayment, reaping—principles others struggled to stomach. I, however, found them… elegant.

Mentorship had done more than polish my intellect; it had stripped away any lingering softness. Trust was a liability. Requests were for the weak. I no longer asked—I expected. What softness the Capitol’s indulgences might have added to me, I burned away through discipline. Early mornings, relentless training, control in all things.

The city, however, had grown restless. A rebel bombing months prior had crippled the main liquor factories—an inconvenience, though an instructive one. Scarcity breeds ingenuity. And desperation.

There were still places to go.

I found myself in one of them more often than I cared to admit.

Relief is an indulgence I rarely allow. But even I require… outlets.

Mine came dressed in sequins.

A showgirl—no, not merely that. Someone sharper than she let on. I would watch her from the dim edges of the room, sometimes indulging in the ritual of a drink placed in her hand, the briefest brush of contact—fingers grazing the shimmer at her back, or the cool slide of her skin as she accepted my money.

That evening, a Friday, had been particularly tedious. Up before dawn, body honed to exhaustion, then hours suffocating in the President’s office—men who mistook longevity for authority droning on in endless circles. By the time I escaped, the city air felt almost merciful.

I hailed a cab to the river, the chill cutting through the cold like a blade, the bridge looming overhead as I descended into the quieter, darker arteries of the city. Familiar turns. Familiar shadows. And, finally, the familiar guard.

A nod. Nothing more.

Inside.

The air was thick with smoke and something sweeter—decadence clinging stubbornly to survival. I moved to the bar without hesitation.

“My usual.”

I did not look up immediately when the glass was set before me. The color was right—deep amber, catching the low light. But something was… different.

Not the usual bartender.

Slender fingers. Precise. A neat French tip, immaculate despite the environment. And then—an addition.

A cherry.

I stilled.

A small thing. Insignificant, to most. To me, an intrusion. A choice.

I lifted my gaze.

Her smile was already there, waiting. “You’re later than usual, Mr. Snow.”

My name, in her voice, was… deliberate. Soft, yes—but never careless.

“The President’s office insists on believing itself indispensable,” I replied smoothly. “He sends his apologies.”

A flicker in my expression—controlled, but present. For her. “I see.” Her eyes dipped to the drink, and she tapped the bar twice, as though sealing some unspoken agreement. “Drink up, Mr. Snow.”

And then she was gone. Not dismissed—never that. Withdrawn. Intentional.

Behind the red curtain.

I adjusted myself—subtly, of course—and carried my drink to a seat near the stage. Close enough to observe. Not so close as to be observed in return.

The music began—Jazz, low and indulgent, wrapping itself around the room like a promise. The stage flared to life, girls stepping into the light one by one, glittering, flawless, forgettable.

All of them.

Until— Her.

My focus sharpened instantly, the rest of the room dissolving into irrelevance. She moved differently. Not better, necessarily—though many would argue that—but with intent. Awareness. She knew she was being watched.

The performance ended to predictable applause, coins and notes already exchanging hands before the final note had fully faded. The girls spilled out among the patrons, laughter and perfume trailing in their wake. A marketplace, thinly disguised.

And I found her.

Naturally.