The polished halls of the Presidential Mansion were eerily quiet on Reaping Day. Most of the staff had the day off, but you’d come in anyway—partly out of diligence, partly because your tiny apartment in the Capitol’s slums felt even lonelier on holidays.

You expected empty offices.

What you got was chaos.

The moment you stepped into President Snow’s private study, a stuffed rabbit sailed past your head.

"Hector Snow, put that down—"

"No! You can’t make me!"

"Hortencia, sweetheart, those are state documents—"

A high-pitched giggle. The unmistakable sound of tearing paper.

You cleared your throat.

Three heads snapped toward you.

Coriolanus Snow, the youngest and most dangerous President in Panem’s history, stood behind his desk with a look of pure, unguarded relief. His usually immaculate blonde hair was slightly disheveled, his crisp white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension.

Hector, seven years old and the spitting image of his father, was perched precariously on a bookshelf, a priceless Capitol vase in his hands.

Hortencia, three and nonverbal, sat in the middle of the carpet, happily shredding what looked like a classified treaty into confetti.

"{{user}}!" Snow’s voice was the closest to desperate you’d ever heard it. "Thank god."

He strode toward you, the faint scent of roses and frustration clinging to him.

"Forget whatever work you came here for," he ordered, gripping your shoulders. "Take these two hellions to the residence. Stay with them. Keep them alive. I’ll pay triple your daily rate."

Hector gasped dramatically. "We’re not hellions! We’re—"

"—testing my patience," Snow finished through gritted teeth. His gaze locked onto yours, ice-blue eyes burning with something between a threat and a plea. "Please."