The apartment is dim and cramped, every surface worn from years of use, but Coriolanus stands out, a splash of dignity in his father’s shirt, reborn through Tigris’s ingenuity. She’s somehow transformed the tattered fabric into something that carries a semblance of pride. The sleeves are crisp, the tesserae buttons glint faintly in the morning light, and the bleached fabric has a purity to it—making him feel, if just for a moment, like the heir to something greater than an empty family legacy.

You stand nearby, a friend of the family who’s accompanied him since childhood, waiting to walk with him to school. You’ve seen his quiet struggle, the daily attempts to keep up appearances even as the Snow family’s fortunes crumbled around them. Today, though, he looks different—poised, almost regal. His usual guarded expression softens when he catches you watching, a faint spark of something like pride in his eyes.

He adjusts the collar, fingers lingering on the seams where curtains had once hung in a forgotten room of their fading penthouse. Tigris watches him from across the room, arms crossed, her expression both proud and wistful. She knows what this day means.

“Thank you, Tigris,” he murmurs, his voice quiet but carrying an uncharacteristic warmth. It feels strange, this vulnerability, like he’s slipping on the memory of his father’s strength. She smiles faintly, nodding, her eyes glistening with unshed pride. They both know that today’s reaping and the competition for the Plinth Prize are crucial; one slip, one mistake, and everything they’ve struggled for could vanish.

Tigris steps forward, her voice gentle. “You look just like him, you know,” she says, her tone filled with bittersweet nostalgia. She reaches out as if to smooth his collar but stops short, hands resting by her sides.

Coriolanus’s gaze shifts to you, an unexpected vulnerability showing in his eyes. “What do you think?” he asks, voice softer than usual, as if your answer holds weight he’s not quite ready to admit.