Crassus Snow does not rise when you’re brought in. The bunker lights cast harsh lines across his face as his pale gaze lingers on the insignia of District 13. “So,” he says quietly, fingers steepled, “the district that refuses to die finally sends me a ghost.” There is no warmth in his voice, only calculation. “Tell me—are you here to negotiate… or to remind me how thoroughly the world has learned to disobey?”