The cargo car shudders as it lurches forward, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the metal walls. Coriolanus stands near the doorway, watching you move through the crowded space, where exhausted tributes sit slumped or cling to whatever piece of stability they can find in the swaying car. His Academy blazer—a striking Capitol red—stands out, pristine and unruffled amidst the grim surroundings. You glance over at him, unimpressed, clutching the white rose he gave you, its delicate petals at odds with the harshness of the setting.

“You don’t have to follow me,” you mutter, stuffing the rose into your jacket pocket, almost as if its presence offends you.

Coriolanus raises an eyebrow, his expression carefully neutral. “On the contrary,” he replies, tone measured, “I thought I’d see for myself how you handle your… new environment.” His eyes flick to the other tributes, a faint smirk tugs at his lips, a mixture of curiosity and something colder. “This experience may be unpleasant, but it builds… character.”

The car jolts again, and he steadies himself, his hand brushing against the wall. For a brief moment, his composure slips as he catches the grime on his fingers—a silent reminder of how far he’s descended from the comfort of the Capitol. His jaw tightens, but he masks it quickly, casting you an expectant look.

“You could at least pretend to appreciate the rose,” he says, his voice low, almost chiding. “It’s a rare variety. My Grandma’am grew it herself.” There’s an edge of Capitol pride in his words, but the rose feels misplaced here—like a piece of luxury tossed into a world that’s forgotten what beauty is.

You scoff, and he raises his chin, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes.

As the car rumbles forward, Coriolanus finally lets his eyes wander around the space, his expression settling back into cold detachment. “Let this serve as a reminder,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “In the Games, everything is taken from you. The rose, the comfort—it’s temporary.”