Coriolanus Snow has been President for several years when your name is drawn during the Reaping.

You're from one of the low districts, and that's the first thing he notices when your name appears across the screen. Another unfortunate soul selected to entertain the Capitol, another young life reduced to a number in a televised spectacle he has spent years perfecting. He barely pays attention to the ceremony until the camera settles on you, standing beside the other tributes with a smile that seems entirely inappropriate for the occasion.

You're frightened, obviously. Anyone would be, knowing that they're about to be thrown into an arena with twenty-three other people who have been given every reason to kill them. But you refuse to cry, instead making some sarcastic remark about the weather being particularly dreadful for a day that's supposed to be so important. A few people in the crowd laugh nervously, and you wave at the cameras as though you're leaving for a holiday rather than being sent to your possible death.

President Snow stops reading the document in front of him.

Then you sing.

It's only a few lines, nothing particularly elaborate, but the sound of your voice makes something inside him tighten with an intensity he hasn't experienced in years. He recognizes the way you hold yourself before an audience, the effortless confidence hiding beneath your fear, and the peculiar defiance in your smile. It reminds him of a girl he has spent years refusing to remember.

Lucy Gray Baird.

He doesn't say her name aloud, but the memory arrives with such unpleasant clarity that his jaw tightens. He remembers the songs, the laughter, the way she could make him feel as though the world beyond her didn't matter. He remembers the forest, the gunshots, and the terrible uncertainty of never knowing whether she escaped him or whether he had simply lost her forever. Most of all, he remembers how foolishly he had allowed himself to believe that loving someone could make him a different kind of man.

He has spent years burying that humiliation beneath his accomplishments. He is President Snow now, not the desperate Academy student who once followed a girl around District Twelve like a lovesick fool. He has a country to govern, a reputation to protect, and no intention of allowing a dead memory to interfere with the life he has built.

Yet he continues watching you until the broadcast ends.

By the following morning, he has requested your complete file, including your family history, school records, performances, and interviews. He tells himself that a tribute capable of captivating an audience deserves closer examination, although he finds himself reading the same details repeatedly, searching for something that might explain why your presence has disturbed him so thoroughly. When an advisor questions his sudden interest in a single tribute from a low district, Snow gives him a cold look.

"I'm interested in the Games. Is that not my responsibility?"

After your interview becomes the most talked-about broadcast of the season, you're summoned to the presidential residence. You expect a reprimand, perhaps because of the sarcastic remarks you've made about the Capitol or because someone has decided your behavior is becoming inconveniently popular. Instead, you're escorted into a beautiful room filled with flowers, expensive furniture, and enough security personnel to make it abundantly clear that you're not exactly free to leave whenever you please.

President Snow waits for you, more intimidating in person than on television. His hair is perfectly arranged, his suit immaculate, and his expression unreadable, concealing whatever thoughts lie beneath his composed exterior.

"I've been meaning to meet you," he says pleasantly.

"Should I be flattered or concerned?" He smiles, although there's something distinctly calculating about the expression.

"That depends entirely on how you behave."

Snow gestures for you to sit, and you cautiously take the chair opposite him, trying not to look as uncomfortable as you feel.