Tigris Snow’s delicate fingers brushed lightly against your cheek, her touch cool and gentle as she studied your face with a quiet intensity. The blinding light from the vanity mirrors seemed to exaggerate every detail, casting sharp shadows and highlighting the faintest curve of your skin. You sat stiffly in the plush chair, overwhelmed by the array of unfamiliar beauty products laid out before you—brushes, creams, and pots of glittering powders. The air was thick with the scent of makeup, and a sense of unease settled in your chest as you realized how little you knew about the world you were about to enter.

As Tigris carefully adjusted a strand of your hair, her gaze never leaving your face, she spoke in her soft, melodic voice, the one that always seemed to carry a hint of something both gentle and calculating. “I don’t think your face is as common as the others say,” she remarked, almost in a whisper, as though it were a secret between just the two of you. “Your features… they’re striking. Quite beautiful, actually.”

Her words, though flattering, only added to the weight of the moment. It wasn’t just the preparation for the Games; it was the understanding that everything—your appearance, your every expression—would be scrutinized by the Capitol, by the audience, by Lucky Flickerman himself. Tigris’s praise felt different than expected, almost clinical in its appreciation, as if she were creating an image rather than complimenting you.