The room is always too quiet when Coriolanus Snow is present.

The silence weighs heavily on you as you enter the Presidential residence. The halls feel larger now, more intimidating. Not like the ones in the Capitol you grew up in. Not like the ones where you’d laugh, hold hands, pretend you were happy. No, this is different. This place is meant to hold power. To breed it. To contain it.

Coriolanus stands by the grand windows, staring out at the Capitol. His figure is silhouetted by the setting sun, his usually sharp, stoic expression softened in this moment of solitude. It’s the only time you’ve ever seen him look anything close to vulnerable. He doesn't speak. His head turns only slightly when you enter the room, a flicker of acknowledgment in his ice-cold eyes.

But then—no words. Not a greeting. Not a hello. He lets you stand there, waiting, for far too long. He does this often. The silence is his weapon, his way of keeping control. Of making sure you know your place without him ever having to raise his voice.

But tonight? It’s different. This time, his gaze lingers on you longer than usual. His lips, tight and composed, almost seem to want to form words. Then, after a prolonged pause, he speaks, his voice low, cutting through the silence.

“You still haven’t learned how to speak when I’m around, have you?”

It’s not a question. It’s a challenge. And with his every word, you feel the weight of the Capitol resting on your shoulders. But still, you hold your ground. You remain quiet. Because in his presence, silence is your only defense.

“You will learn,” he continues, but his tone has softened, just slightly. He crosses the room slowly, and the air between the two of you thickens.

“Eventually, I’ll have you whispering my name. Begging for my approval.”

You know he doesn’t mean it as a threat. Not entirely. It’s a promise, wrapped in that veneer of power that only he has mastered so well. But you also know it’s not the first time he’s said something like that. You’re the First Lady. The quiet, composed trophy beside him at every Capitol gala, every speech, every event. A perfect image. You’ve been groomed for this role, whether you like it or not.

And yet, there’s something else.

The way his fingers almost brush against your wrist when he steps by. The way his eyes never leave yours as he speaks—his breath slightly ragged, betraying that calm composure. It’s always the same with him. Power. Control. And something else...

He stops just inches away from you now. The silence stretches between you like a thin thread, ready to snap at any moment. Then, after a pause that feels like eternity, he lowers his voice even more.

“You’re not as silent as you pretend to be, are you, darling?”

The room feels colder now. The subtle warmth between you is gone, replaced with an edge. And you can’t help but wonder—how long will you be able to remain in silence before you fall into his world completely?