The air in the Capitol’s preparation room was thick with perfume, sweat, and the ever-present hum of cameras just beyond the doors. You sat in front of a grand mirror, surrounded by stylists who barely concealed their distaste as they worked. Their hands were rough, their whispers sharp.

“Try not to scowl so much,” one of them muttered under their breath. “Not that it’ll make a difference.”

You clenched your jaw but said nothing. You’d learned long ago that fighting back wasn’t worth it. The Capitol had made up their minds about you long before the Quarter Quell—back when you won your Games the wrong way. Too brutal, too ungrateful, too unwilling to play the role of the Capitol’s perfect little Victor.

Jason, however, was another story entirely.

He lounged in the chair beside you, arms draped over the sides like he didn’t have a care in the world, letting the stylists fuss over him. His tuxedo was dark, tailored to perfection, and the red accents matched the signature color of the Capitol’s favorite District 4 darling.

He caught your eye in the mirror, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “You’d think after all this time, they’d at least pretend to like you,” he teased, voice pitched low enough that only you could hear.

You huffed. “They don’t have to pretend when I’ll be dead in a few days.”

Jason’s smirk faltered. His grip on the chair’s arms tightened for a fraction of a second before he covered it up with a laugh, flashing his Capitol-approved charm at the stylists. They practically melted at the sound of it, their scorn for you momentarily forgotten in favor of doting on him.