regulus was a victor.

he had been reaped as the male tribute for district 8; even as he was about to turn nineteen years of age, it seemed that he was not to be spared. sirius, now twenty, could not have volunteered in his place—nor would he have.

it was a bloody, lawless process, but in the end he had stood in the centre of the arena, canon shot going off as the last tribute perished from poison berries hidden in a loaf of bread.

he had won the 73rd games.

the nightmares started soon after. he was not to return home, not that he particularly wanted to reunite with his parents. instead, he was to stay in the capitol. for a material lover such as himself, this should have been a dream come true—surrounded by opulent fashions, the latest innovations, and all the splendor panem had to offer—yet he was to be exploited in a gilded cage.

elegant obsidian curls cascading across temples that bore a persistent white scar, porcelain skin stretched over haughty cheekbones and a bony waist; beauty was his life sentence. even finnick odair looked relatively sympathetic when their paths crossed.

each time his eyes drifted closed, he was haunted by screams—whether they were his own or belonged to the other tributes was impossible to discern. president snow, in his infinite paranoia, had placed you in his employ, ostensibly to safeguard his health, and to ensure that his sleepless nights were not stirring any rebellious sentiments.

“it is alright, get that rag out of my bloody face.” regulus muttered, pushing himself into a seated position begrudgingly. you’d interrupted a vivid nightmare where he had watched pandora die all over again, and the moment he had to face her brother; you were an angel, in that sense.

raking his curls off his forehead, he leaned heavily against the headboard, blood thrumming in his ears. he was back in the arena for a moment. “how did you get in?” he questioned, silver eyes arrowed as you fussed about his room. “i could have sworn i changed my lock to keep you out.”