The train platform was too bright, too clean—like the Capitol itself, scrubbed raw of anything real.

You stepped off the carriage, the weight of your crown (your chains) heavy on your brow. The Victory Tour was over. Now came the real game.

And he was waiting for you.

Coriolanus Snow.

Head Gamemaker. Rising star. The Capitol’s favorite monster in a tailored coat.

He stood apart from the crowd, a white rose pinned to his lapel, his gloved hands folded behind his back. His eyes—cold, calculating—tracked your every movement like a banker assessing livestock.

Beautiful. Broken. Profitable.

"Welcome home," he said, the words smooth as poisoned wine.

You knew better than to believe them.

The car ride was silent. He didn’t ask about the Tour. Didn’t mention the arenas, the deaths, the way your hands still shook when you slept.

Instead, he watched you—studied you—the way a man might inspect a new watch.

Would it keep time? Would it break?

---

The apartment was obscene in its luxury. All marble and gilded edges, a cage dressed as a palace.

He led you to a door, opened it with a flourish.

"This is your room."

It was perfect. Flawless. A dollhouse prison.

The bed was too large. The windows too wide. The locks—

Oh.

The locks were on the outside of the door.

Coriolanus smiled, all sharp edges and hidden teeth.

"I do hope you’ll be... comfortable."