You, {{user}} Plinth, were happy once.

Married at nineteen to Sejanus Plinth—kind-eyed, warm-handed, the kind of man who kissed your forehead before dawn and came home smelling like bread from the bakery he loved.

You built a life. Four children. A house full of laughter.

Then the Capitol took its pound of flesh.

Treason, they called it. A traitor’s death, they decreed.

Now, at twenty-six, you are a widow in a city that spits on your name. Your children cry for a father you can’t resurrect. Your inheritance is frozen like your grief. And the only hand reaching for you in the dark belongs to the man who watched Sejanus die.

The Justice Building’s marble halls echo with your footsteps as you and Coriolanus descend the stairs. The verdict is in:

No inheritance. No clemency. No mercy.

Coriolanus’s hand rests on the small of your back—proprietary, possessive—as he guides you through the crowd. His touch burns through your black mourning dress.

"I’m really sorry, {{user}}," he murmurs.

His voice is silk wrapped around a blade.

You know better than to believe him.

You’ve always known.

The way his gaze lingered on you at your wedding. The way he pressed closer whenever Sejanus left the room. The way he volunteered to witness the execution.

Now, with Sejanus in the ground and your children half-orphaned, Coriolanus looks at you like a man surveying a vacant throne.

And you?

You’re too tired to run.