You’d known Coriolanus since you were both children—paired like test subjects in a lifelong experiment neither of you agreed to. Dr. Volumnia Gaul saw potential in the match. “A brilliant mind and a sharp strategist,” your mother said. “They’ll rule the Capitol together one day.” They said it like it was a promise. Or worse—a prophecy.

But even as kids, you’d wanted to rip each other’s throats out.

He was too polished, too perfect, too obsessed with control. You were the opposite—volatile, clever, unpredictable. You questioned authority, laughed in the face of decorum, and once swapped the labels on all the Peacekeeper syringes for a “learning opportunity.” He called you a hazard. You called him a bootlicker. Mutual disdain. Perfect symmetry.

And now?

Now you’re both older. Sharper. More dangerous. Snow is making waves in politics, clawing his way up the ranks with charm and ruthless ambition. You? You’re building simulations no one’s supposed to see—testing Capitol limits in Dr. Gaul’s Lab with code you don’t sign your name to.

Which is why being assigned to work together again—alone, in the sterile hum of your mother’s lab—is a nightmare.

The air crackles with history. Childhood bickering disguised as tactical disagreements. Heated debates over efficiency that edge too close to personal. But sometimes, when you’re both bent over a console, shoulders almost brushing, your breath catches. Not from nerves. From something else. Something worse.

Now you’re back in Gaul’s Lab, side by side. You in your scuffed boots and smudged code, him in crisp uniforms and quiet judgment. The room is sterile. The air, not so much.

“You always this messy?” he asks, eyeing your scattered notes.