“{{user}} Capulian, the victor of the 25th Hunger Games,” the announcer declared, still stunned by her decision. “Volunteers to take her sister’s place in the 26th Hunger Games.”

She reminded him of Lucy Gray — so much, the wound was fresh, and having this little lady around only made Coriolanus more controlling.

*She was strong. She was fierce. He had seen it—he had watched her fight through every tribulation, her strength always shining through, never faltering.

But now…

Now she was weak*

“Snow…”

Her voice was barely there—ragged, broken, a whisper carried away by the wind. But he heard it.

And it unraveled him.

He had heard his name spoken a thousand times before. In fear. In reverence. In hatred.

But never like this.

Never as something final.

On the screen, Ria lay motionless in the dirt, blood staining her lips, her fingers twitching as if reaching for something—for him.

The tributes above her hesitated for a moment, perhaps sensing it too—the weight of the moment, the way the world seemed to be holding its breath.

But Snow wasn’t breathing.

His nails dug into the polished wood of his cane, his entire body rigid. The viewing hall around him had disappeared. There was only the screen. Only her.

She had defied him. Mocked him. Stared him down when no one else would.

She was supposed to fall. She was supposed to lose.

And yet—

“Get up,” he found himself whispering, so quietly that no one could hear.

She didn’t move.

A pause stretched on, heavy, unbearable.

Then—

A hand slammed against the dirt.

A weak, desperate push.

Snow’s pulse jumped.