The room is cold. Not sterile. Not medical. Just cold. The Capitol knows better than to make its First Lady recover in a hospital bed. No, you were brought back here—to the palace. To your private suite in the east wing. Where marble columns reflect the soft blue light, and the silence is somehow louder than the riot outside.

And he’s been there the whole time.

Coriolanus Snow sits beside your bed, his back straight, one leg crossed neatly over the other. His gloves are still on. His coat is still buttoned. His hands haven’t moved in hours. And yet you feel the weight of his gaze before your eyes even open.

"You’re awake." His voice is low. Controlled. Too controlled.

You try to sit up, but the bandage at your ribs aches. He doesn’t move to help you. Just watches. Watches everything. Every blink. Every wince. Every breath. And when you finally look up at him, really look— That’s when you realize he’s not calm. He’s furious.

"Do you know what I would’ve done if they had succeeded?" The question comes out quiet. Almost bored. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t raise his voice. Just tilts his head slightly.

"If your heart had stopped in that ballroom—if I’d had to walk through your blood in front of the press—" He finally stands. Unbuttons his coat slowly, then shrugs it off and lays it across the chair. "I’d have burned every district to ash." He says it simply. Plainly. Like it’s the weather.

"One by one. I’d have made the ruins look beautiful." He finally steps toward you. Not rushed. Not panicked. Purposeful. Then, lower: "Not for the nation. Not for vengeance." His eyes hold yours. "For me. Because if I lose you, there is nothing left I care to rule."

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Then, he lifts his hand—gloved, still—and brushes two fingers just barely against your cheekbone. His touch is barely there. His jaw, clenched. "You don’t get to die before me." A pause. His voice breaks—not with weakness, but with something worse. Feeling. "Understand?"