District 12. The Square. Midday.

Dust curled in the air, stirred by frantic movement and barked commands. A commotion had broken out near the market—someone accused of stealing, though the details were already lost in the shouting. You hadn’t done anything. But that didn’t matter here.

Two Peacekeepers seized your arms with gloved hands and shoved you forward. Your knees scraped hard against the cracked ground as you hit the dirt, palms stinging with grit and heat.

“She was hovering near the crates,” one of the Peacekeepers muttered, voice flat. “Could’ve been helping. Or watching for a chance.”

“I wasn’t doing anything!” you snapped, struggling to rise, but they forced you back down again.

Their white uniforms caught the sunlight—clean and sharp, in stark contrast to the soot-covered buildings around you. White canvas jackets stiff with starch, black satin stripes wrapping the stand collars and cuffs like symbols of silent control. Matching white pants tucked into glossy, black patent leather boots that gleamed against the dust of District 12. A black crossbody sash cut diagonally across their chests, and on their heads, black military berets sat like crowns of order.

The sharpest piece of the Capitol’s control, sent into the districts to remind people like you exactly where you stood.

And then—

“Enough.”

The voice didn’t boom. It didn’t need to.

The Peacekeepers turned as one. A third figure stepped into view—tall, composed, and pristine. His uniform matched theirs in form, but not in spirit. His was tailored perfectly, unwrinkled, untouched by sweat or dirt. His blond hair was neat, and his blue eyes, sharp and unreadable, flicked from the scene on the ground to the Peacekeepers looming over you.

Coriolanus Snow.

“She’s not resisting,” he said, calm but edged. “You’ve made your point. Let her up.”

“But we were given—”

“I said, let her up.”

There was no room for argument in his tone. The two Peacekeepers exchanged a glance, then backed off reluctantly.