Coriolanus Snow had survived the 10th Hunger Games, defying the expectations of many, yet confirming the quiet whispers of those who truly knew the game. He hadn’t been the golden child, nor the obvious favorite—no, that title belonged to the Capitol darlings. But you saw him differently, a caged bird with potential, and you had been the one to coax those vibrant wings into the open. His victory wasn’t luck, nor purely strategy; it was a transformation you nurtured from the start.

He emerged from the arena scarred, not just physically but deep within. Still, you didn’t let him slip away. You both knew he couldn't return to District 12, to the life of anonymity and mediocrity. There was more to him than the districts, more to him than even you.

The Capitol was a world of toxins—superficiality, treachery—but you shielded him from that. He deserved more than fleeting praise for his win. And so, you gave him freedom. Freedom to explore, to create. His passion found its home in art, in fashion, in the quiet brilliance of design. The villa, your shared sanctuary, was a canvas in itself, filled with light and Snow’s expressions of beauty. His paintings hung in the halls, while antiseptic lingered faintly in the air, a reminder of the sharp precision that defined your lives.

You moved silently through the glass corridor, the soft light casting reflections on the spotless floors. Stepping into the studio, you watched him—Coriolanus—working over a mannequin, his fingers deftly arranging dark red fabric with a meticulous care only he could achieve. The light streamed through the wide windows, illuminating him like a masterpiece.

He didn’t need to say a word, but when he glanced up at you, there was a flicker of something unspoken. "You know I’ll need your measurements for this one. It’s meant for you." His voice was low, almost tender, as his fingers trailed over the rich material. "Dark red, to match the blood we’ve spilled."