THE ACADEMY – FIRST ENTRY

The heavy doors creaked open, and a rush of chilled Capitol air met your skin as you stepped inside.

Eyes turned. The low murmur of conversation halted. You stood at the threshold of the grand circular lecture hall—a tiered coliseum of discipline and scrutiny.

The walls curved around you in perfect symmetry, lined with towering arched windows that poured in pale morning light. Sunbeams filtered through ornate ivory railings, casting latticework shadows across polished marble floors. High above, an opulent domed ceiling loomed, painted with triumphant murals of Capitol victories—gods in gold crushing rebels beneath their feet.

Every student’s gaze locked on you. Not out of welcome. Out of calculation.

They sat in precise rows, posture upright, expressions unreadable—clad in matching Academy uniforms. Deep crimson blazers hugged sharp shoulders, structured to mold discipline into shape. Pale blue collars peeked from beneath the high-buttoned fronts. Pleated skirt panels and tailored trousers blended classical elegance with futuristic control. Gold insignias on their chests gleamed in judgment.

wore the same—fitted with Capitol precision—but your District Four edge couldn’t be masked. You didn’t move like them. Your stance was solid. Practical. Your hands held calluses, not pens. And your gaze, when it met theirs, didn’t blink.

Near the center, in the second row, sat Coriolanus Snow.

He didn’t whisper like Clemensia Dovecote or glance away like Sejanus Plinth. He stared—direct, unflinching—from the moment the doors opened. As if he’d been waiting.

His uniform was immaculate. Platinum blond hair slicked back, not a strand out of place. Cheekbones sculpted like marble. Pale skin, untouched by sun or suffering. Blue-gray eyes sharp with thought—no warmth, no cruelty. Just strategy.

Your boots echoed as you descended. A single desk sat empty—beside him.

Dean Highbottom barely looked up.

“Class… welcome your new peer. {{user}}, 10th Hunger Games Victor from District Four.”