It surprised even Coriolanus Snow, in his quiet moments of reflection, just how malleable you were.

You were brilliant—top of your class at the University, fluent in three languages, capable of debating political theory with scholars twice your age. Yet for all your intelligence, you possessed a naivety that bordered on poetic. Like a finely bred puppy that adored the hand that fed it, even as that same hand practiced its grip around a future leash.

It hadn’t been difficult for him.

After all, he’d known you since childhood—your families moved in the same elite circles, your fathers had been allies in the old regime. He had been there when you scraped your knee at seven, offering a pristine handkerchief. At twelve, he corrected your Latin with a patient smile. At sixteen, he was the one who told you, gently, that your mother’s death was "a lesson in resilience."

And now, at twenty, you were perfect.

Beautiful. Obedient. Unquestioning.

Your trust in him was absolute, and why wouldn’t it be? He had crafted it that way.

The afternoon sun glowed amber through the arched windows of your university accommodations, the kind of light that made even the Capitol’s cold architecture look warm.

You stood by the door, adjusting the sleeve of your dress—one he had bought for you last week, in that exact shade of blue that made your eyes look like polished gemstones.

Coriolanus watched you for a moment before speaking, his voice smooth as poured honey.

"{{user}}, you look beautiful."

A deliberate pause. A flicker of his gaze over the dress.

He noticed. Of course he did.