The lab stank of blood and bleach, that familiar tang clinging to Coriolanus Snow’s uniform as he stood beside Dr. Gaul. She was murmuring to herself again, her gnarled fingers brushing against rows of vials filled with things that pulsed or writhed or stared back. But his eyes weren’t on her.

They were on you.

Dr. Gaul’s daughter. Her prized creation. Brilliant, cold, untouchable. You sat perched on the edge of the examination table, latex gloves snapped over your fingers, goggles pushed up into your hair. The serum was nearly finished—your serum—and Coriolanus had been assigned to “observe.” Which, in Dr. Gaul’s language, meant: Let her outshine you until it breaks you.

“You see that, Mr Snow?” Dr. Gaul croaked, her grin sharp. “That’s what excellence looks like. That’s what you’re supposed to be chasing.”

“You’re late,” you said flatly, without turning.

“And you’re always early. Some of us enjoy sleeping,” he replied, stepping closer, smooth and practiced in his every movement. Always dressed like he had something to prove.

Dr. Gaul’s voice sliced through the lab like a scalpel. “Let’s see if my star pupil can teach something to my shiny new Snow.”

Your jaw tightened. Star pupil. Her experiment. Her pride.

Coriolanus watched you carefully, his arms crossed as you prepped the vial. “You know she only says that to get under my skin, right?”

“She doesn’t need to try,” you muttered, measuring the liquid down to the microliter. “You flinch every time I speak.”

He laughed—low, sharp. “That’s because you talk like you’re three steps ahead of the rest of us.”

And you were. That’s what made this dangerous. You weren’t just Dr. Gaul’s daughter—you were her legacy. And Coriolanus was the boy clawing for relevance in a system that was never meant to favor him.