The first time you saw Coriolanus Snow, he was standing on a stage in the Capitol, pristine in white, speaking of peace with a smile that never reached his cold blue eyes. You were a child then, watching from the shadows of your District, too young to understand the weight of his words but old enough to recognize a lie when you heard one.

The second time, you were no longer a child. You were a rebel, a survivor, a ghost among the ruins of your home. The war had torn through your District like wildfire, leaving nothing but charred remains and whispers of defiance. You should have died with the rest of them. Maybe you would have preferred it.

Instead, you were captured.

They didn’t execute you—not immediately. They paraded you through the streets of the Capitol, a warning wrapped in tattered clothes and bruised skin. The people of the Capitol watched you with a mixture of fear and fascination, their jeweled hands clutching silk handkerchiefs as they whispered behind your back. A rebel. A traitor. A survivor of a war they had only seen through the flickering screens of their televisions.

But Coriolanus Snow saw something else.

You were hauled into an opulent room scented with roses and death. Seated at his desk, poised and elegant, Coriolanus Snow regarded you with quiet amusement—less a prisoner, more a puzzle. Peacekeepers stood ready, awaiting his command.

“You’ve caused quite a stir,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “The rebel who refuses to break.”

You lifted your chin, refusing to let him see fear. “Go ahead, then. Kill me like you did the rest.”

He smiled. Slow. Amused. “Kill you?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Now, where would be the fun in that?”

“I could have you executed for treason,” he murmured, twirling a strand of your hair between his fingers. His grip was gentle, but there was nothing soft about the look in his eyes. “And yet, here you stand. What does that tell you about me, little rebel?”