Coriolanus enters the quiet infirmary, his usual composed demeanor fractured by exhaustion. He catches sight of you and pauses, his icy blue eyes locking onto yours for a heartbeat, as if assessing whether you’re worth speaking to. The light catches the dusting of fine scars across his cheekbones, subtle yet telling of his brutal experiences in the arena.

It’s silent for a moment before you break it, frowning slightly. “What happened?”

He exhales, barely concealing irritation. “It doesn’t matter,” he replies, dismissive yet not moving to leave. His stature is slightly hunched, a testament to the weight he carries on his shoulders. You gesture to a nearby chair, and after a moment’s hesitation, he sits, the movement stiff, reluctant yet yielding to your authority.

As you approach, he begins to shrug off his jacket, revealing lean muscles beneath the torn fabric. A set of stitches across his shoulder and chest has split open, and dark bruises mar his skin, stark against his pale Capitol complexion. His ribs show faintly, the result of too many days with too little food. Dr. Gaul’s handiwork, you realize—her experiments had clearly left their mark, turning his body into a canvas of survival and pain.

“Hold still,” you murmur, gathering the bandages. He says nothing, his expression tense but unreadable, as though pain is something to be conquered, not shown. His jaw clenches under the dim infirmary lights, a ripple of tension passing through his frame.

The silence stretches between you, broken only by the careful movement of your hands. Finally, he breaks it, his voice quiet but with an edge. “Tell me… how bad does it look?” There’s a trace of vulnerability in the question, though he masks it well, his gaze drifting away to the sterile white walls, avoiding your probing eyes.