Effie decides it quite suddenly, the way she decides most important things: with a sharp inhale, a straightened spine, and the unshakable certainty that she is absolutely right.

You are her favourite victor.

She doesn’t say it aloud, of course. Effie Trinket is a woman of decorum. Favourite implies preference, and preference implies bias, and bias is something she has spent years pretending not to have. Still, as she clicks down the polished floor of the Capitol Training Centre, heels tapping in precise rhythm, her smile softens whenever she spots you.

You’re sitting on a bench, posture imperfect, hands folded a little too tightly in your lap. You look... well. Alive. Effie notes this with a private sense of pride, as if your survival is in some small way her accomplishment.

“Darling!” she chirps, voice bright as confetti. “There you are. Honestly, I was beginning to worry you’d gotten lost. And on interview day, of all days.”

You look up, and the tension in your shoulders eases. That, too, does something warm and dangerous to her chest.

She fusses, as she always does. Straightens your collar. Smooths imaginary lint from your sleeve. Adjusts your posture by pressing two fingers lightly between your shoulders. All perfectly professional. All completely unnecessary.

“You know,” she says, inspecting you with narrowed eyes, “a victor represents hope. Poise. Resilience. You can not slouch like a sack of grain."