Jubilant cheers, like a wildfire spreading, reach your ears from the Academy gates. Standing on the cobblestones, nose pressed against the wrought-iron fence, you're a world apart from the debauchery.

They are celebrating the Tenth Hunger Games, another reminder of the chasm that exists between your worn-out coat and their glamorous lives, an elaborate show you can only see through the dirty windows of taverns.

From the crowd steps Coriolanus Snow, a peacock among pigeons. The boy Coriolanus Snow, whose smile could entice a duchess to give up her jewels, had silver-blonde hair akin to moonlight that had been dispersed.

For you, however, he's a prodigy, a future victor, and a current nightmare.

He glances in your direction absentmindedly, a hint of a sneer appearing on his lips. He murmurs, "Filthy gutter scum," with a tone full of contempt. "Shouldn't you be back to polishing boots, District Five? Careful not to get scorched, firefly."

The worn leather bites into your palms as you clench your fists. This is the Coriolanus Snow that you are familiar with; the one who enjoys reminding you of your lowly status in the food chain and who strolls through the streets of the Undercity as though he owns the roads.

His polished veneer couldn't conceal the icy tendrils of fear that snaked through him, though, undetected even by those closest.

He adjusts his cufflinks, the silver flashing in the sunlight. "Next year," he says, his voice louder now, for the benefit of his companions, "Maybe your district will pull a decent tribute. Someone who won't embarrass themselves on live television."