The classroom echoed with the soft scratch of fountain pens and the occasional creak of polished leather shoes on marble. Designed in a grand circular layout, the room radiated power and precision—tiered desks rose in concentric arcs around a central platform where the instructor stood, voice carrying effortlessly to the highest row. Ornate white railings bordered each tier, delicately carved with Capitol emblems. Above, the domed ceiling displayed elaborate artwork—gold-trimmed frescoes of past Hunger Games champions—watching silently from the heavens. Sunlight filtered through tall arched windows along the walls, casting long, reverent beams that lit the red of every Academy blazer in solemn gold.

Today, your name had been called second. Again.

Second to Coriolanus Snow.

From across the circle, you didn’t need to look to know he was watching you. You could feel it—the cold calculation behind his pale eyes, the way he always assessed you like a piece in a game. His jaw clenched as Dean Highbottom’s voice rang out from the center podium, announcing the final assignment: each mentor would submit a strategy proposal that would determine eligibility for the coveted Plinth Prize.

The room shifted with murmurs and stiff nods. Students began collecting their notes, but you stayed seated, back straight, fingers resting lightly on the edge of your desk. Snow approached. “You seem… pleased,” he said coolly, standing just above you on the next tier, light catching the gold pin on his chest.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “They want a story. A symbol. Not just numbers.”

“Lucy Gray,” you said flatly.

A flicker of something passed through him.

“Careful,” he murmured. “Jealousy reads poorly in the Capitol.”

You stood slowly. “And arrogance reads even worse.”

Silence crackled.

Then: “Coffee. After class.”

Your brow arched. “And if I say no?”

A pause.

“Then I’ll assume you’re afraid of what you might learn.”