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Chapter Text

They didn't whisper the name Thorne anymore. Not like they used to.

Once, it glided through marble halls and ballroom air, a name laced with gravitas and old money. It meant something. Elegance. Distinction. Legacy pressed into bone. But now it loitered in the mouths of Capitol elites like an aftertaste—something spoiled left too long in gold-plated dishes; forgotten in daylight; remembered only when convenient.

Virelle never corrected the whispers that claimed her family was still well off. Let them believe the façade. Let them think the estate still glittered with chandeliers instead of dust. That the Thornes still dined with the Cranes, the Ravinstills, the Heavensbee family.

The truth was far less operatic than rebellion. No disgraceful trial. No televised execution. Just quiet ruin. Investments drained dry by backdoor politics and bad luck, then sealed behind tight smiles and tighter bank accounts. The fall had been silent—but steep.

She was young when the wine stopped flowing and the doors stopped opening. When friends became polite strangers and creditors circled like mutts around a carcass. The house emptied room by room: first the marble lions, then the imported tapestries, then the staff who used to bow without being asked. Her mother began wearing old dresses re-hemmed into new ones. Her father locked himself behind ledgers and liquor.

Still, the Capitol pretended not to notice. It was easier to believe in ghosts than watch one die.

Now older, Virelle Thorne wore her ruin like a velvet cloak—dark, dramatic, and tailored to fit. She still walked like a girl who belonged on a balcony. Still smiled like she had secrets no one could afford. But her charm had teeth. Her gaze, a ledger.

And she never forgot who had watched her family drown and called it weather.

So when she was summoned to the Headmaster's office, and the words "Mentor Aide, 10th Hunger Games" sat cold on ivory parchment, she understood. This wasn't redemption. It was reclamation. A favor disguised as punishment. A leash dressed up like gold.

She signed the paper with a practiced flourish.

Let them think she was grateful. Eager to serve. Let them think a ruined name could be polished clean again with loyalty and Capitol blood.

They had no idea.

She wouldn't grovel. She wouldn't beg.

She would rise.

Not with honor.

With hunger.

And when they remembered her name again, they would bleed on the thorns.

Chapter Text

The debriefing room was far too clean.

No clutter. No warmth. Not even a clock on the wall to mark time. Just cold lighting, a steel table, and a single chair—the kind of emptiness that made people feel watched. Virelle didn't mind. She was used to feeling watched. Scrutinized. Measured.

Judged.

She remained standing, posture immaculate, legs crossed at the ankle in her knee-high boots. One hand rested on the table beside her navy tote, the other nestled neatly at her waist. Her blazer was buttoned, sharp at the seams, cinched tight like the last grip on an old reputation. The pleated black skirt, flaring just above mid-thigh, softened the look with calculated precision—just enough flirt, not enough scandal. Capitol fashion, tailored like a weapon.

It wasn't a uniform, but it was still armor.

The door hissed open.

And in walked Coriolanus Snow.

He didn't announce himself. Didn't need to. The air cooled slightly when he entered— not from any shift in temperature, but from the sheer precision of him. Crisp white shirt, black slacks, sleeves rolled exactly once, no watch, no excess, a blood red rose in the lapel of his black waistcoat. His movements were efficient, quiet, practiced. Like everything he touched was either beneath him or part of his inheritance.

Virelle watched him the way a snake might watch another snake. 

"Thorne," he greeted, a nod, no warmth.

"Snow." She offered the same, voice smooth as glass. They both stood. Neither moved to take the single chair.

Their eyes met across the sterile divide.
Two names.
Two shadows.
Two ticking clocks.

The only sound in the room was the soft rustle of her tote as she unhooked it from her shoulder and placed it on the table. She didn't open it, just made sure it was seen; quality leather. A splash of brown against navy blue. It was the only soft thing about her. 

On the table between them lay a single page, folded and stamped with the Academy's seal. 

Mentor Aide Assignment – Virelle Thorne
Shadowing: C.Snow

"They could've sent a letter," she said lightly. "Or a death threat. But I suppose this was more cost-efficient."

Snow didn't rise to it. "I assume you've read the details."

"There weren't any."

"Then I assume you've read between the lines."

"Oh I've practically written a thesis."

He didn't smile, not really, but one corner of his mouth tightened like he might have—in another world.

She took a step closer, boots clicking gently on the tile. "Let me guess what you think: some charity assignment. A political afterthought. You get to prove you're still worth of the Snow name, and I... well... get to polish boots and fetch coffee."

"I don't drink coffee," he said simply.

Virelle laughed once, under her breath. "Shame. I make a killing blend."

That made him look at her — really look. His expression didn't shift, but his eyes narrowed by a fraction. She didn't flinch. That was the test, she figured. The first of many.

"You seem... self-aware," he said, finally.

"I have to be," she replied. "The Capitol does so hate a woman who forgets her place."

"You don't strike me as someone who's forgotten anything."

"Not a thing."

The silence stretched again, thick as wet wool. She leaned back slightly against the table, gaze never leaving his. Her tone had turned pleasant, conversational, but her body language held steady tension—the kind found in live wires, not socialites.

She saw the moment he decided to reset.

"How involved are you expecting to be?" he asked. Not condescending; not generous, either. Clinical.

"Involved enough to be useful. Not so involved I get blamed why you inevitably fumble  a spotlight."

"I don't fumble."

She raised a brow. "Hm. We'll see."

Another flicker passed between them—recognition, perhaps; or resentment; or just the uneasy thrill of being paired with someone who might actually understand what it meant to want something sharp and impossible. 

"We're being watched," she murmured, nodding once at the camera in the ceiling corner. "No audio, most likely. Just optics."

"Then play your part," he said without missing a beat.

She smiled—sharp, white, dazzling—and posed slightly for the invisible eye. "How's this?"

"Too obvious."

"Good. I like obvious. Obvious gets under the skin faster than subtle."

Snow stepped forward then, close enough to share the same breath. He was taller by a few inches, but she didn't back down. The air between them turned razor-fine.

"I don't care what Dr. Gaul's reasons were," he said quietly. "If you get in my way, I'll move you; Nicely if possible."

"Violently if necessary?" she offered, arching a brow.

"Efficiently."

Her lips curled. "That's the thing about knives, Snow. We're both carrying one. So let's agree not to trip."

He gave her a long look, then turned to the door.

"We'll be expected at the reaping ceremony in two hours," he said, already halfway into the hallway. "Wear something photogenic. And try not to make enemies we don't need."

She waited until the door closed before whispering, "Where's the fun in that?"

The silence returned. Deeper this time. Settled like dust.

Virelle reached into her tote and pulled out a compact mirror. She checked her lipstick—flawless, still. She wasn't doing this for Snow. She wasn't even doing it for herself. This was for them. The ones who whispered her name like it was an echo of failure.

They had assigned her as a burden. A symbol of disgrace. 
But they would remember her, in time.

Not with reverence.

With regret.

And Coriolanus Snow?
He could play the Capitol's golden boy all he wanted
She'd be the shadow under his crown. 

Chapter Text

The smell of lacquered floors and hair tonic choked the auditorium like an old secret.

The Academy's grand chamber had been polished to sterility, lined with velvet drapes and gold trim as if to distract from the bloodless undertones of what the mentores were really here for: selection day. Or, as Virelle preferred to call it, market day for the damned.

Coriolanus sat like a marble bust in the front row, chin high, shoulders taut with the weight of invisible eyes. Virelle Thorne, stationed one seat behind and two degrees to the left—her assigned angle—watched him rather than the screen.

She always preferred the predator over the prey

The tributes scrolled by on the giant screens, one by one, accompanied by grainy footage and static-heavy sound. A sea of trembling, hollow-eyed names, easily forgotten. The Capitol might dress it up with music and formalwear, but the children on screen were little more than bodies waiting to be counted. Most wouldn't survive a week. Some wouldn't even survive the first day. 

Snow looked ill. Not obviously—never obviously—but his jaw had clenched a fraction too tightly when the Districts reached the double digits. Twelve. The number that spat in his face.

The girl is from Twelve.

Even before they showed her, he knew. Virelle could read it in the way his fingers twitched slightly over the crease in his slacks. His body gave him away. He was not as composed as he liked to believe. 

The screen flickered and gasps were heard as a dark-haired girl in a vibrant dress dropped a snake down another's (probably the mayor's daughter by the way she was "finely" dressed) back. As the dark-haired girl came onto the stage, she was slapped harshly by the mayor; she fell; she almost started crying. 

A child's voice rose faintly from the audience, singing something low, yet not mournful. 

You can't take my past.
You can't take my history.

Lucy Gray Baird's head rose at the sound. Another male voice chimed in.

You could take my pa,
but his name's a mystery.

Then Lucy Gray Baird stepped forward and sang herself, brazen and strange and spine-tingling.

Nothing you could take from me was ever worth keeping.

All at once, the room fell still, and even Virelle leaned forward, just slightly.

You can't take my charm.
You can't take my humor.
You can't take my wealth,
'Cause it's just a rumor.
Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping.

The girl had something. Not just a voice. Something sharp in her. Something that refused to be caged. Virelle recognized it like a mirror, and so did Snow.

Thinking you're so fine.
Thinking you could have mine.
Thinking you're in control.
Thinking you'll change me, maybe rearrange me.
Think again if that's your goal.
'Cause...

She didn't miss the way his disdain softened. Not melted—he was too proud for that. But he shifted. From disgust to interest. From insulted to intrigued. She saw the moment when Lucy Gray went from burden to asset in his mind.

You can't take my sass.
You can't take my talking.
You can kiss my ass
And then keep on walking.
Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping.

A flicker of greed passed behind his eyes.

"You're not even subtle," Virelle whispered, smirking.

Snow didn't look away from the screen. "She's unpredictable. That makes her marketable."

"She's feral," Virelle replied. "Songbirds don't do well in cages."

"She's memorable."

"You mean loud." Her voice curled, playful and cruel. "I'll admit, you've got luck. What are the odds you'd pull the lowest District and still get Capitol bait? Your odds are better than hers. That must be poetic to you."

His jaw twitched again. "She's a means to an end."

No, sir,
Nothing you can take from me is worth dirt.
Take it, 'cause I'd give it free.
It won't hurt.
Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping!

Virelle tilted her head, letting a dark strand of hair fall across her cheek. "So are you."

That got his attention. He turned his head slowly, blue eyes locked on hers with the heat of a furnace just shy of bursting.

She met it.

Unblinking.

"You think I don't know why they paired us?" she said, voice a silk-draped dagger. "Dr. Gaul could've picked any aspiring vulture in this room, and she picked me to follow you. Why? Because we're both reminders. Of what happens when powerful names rot."

She leaned in. "You're not her star. You're her experiment. And I'm the control."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Snow snapped, voice low but lethal.

"Oh, I do," she said, smile sharpening. "Because we're the same. Don't pretend you don't feel it."

He didn't deny it. Just rose from his seat, coldly composed, and walked away as if her words couldn't touch him.

But she'd already seen the crack.

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The Capitol's reception hall bled with light and flattery. Crystal chandeliers glittered like fangs overhead. Glasses clinked. Laughter rang false. Everyone was pretending not to calculate how many of them would fade into nothing after the Games.

Coriolanus Snow was the golden boy again, surrounded by peers and parasites alike. Sejanus plied him with nervous jokes. Festus bragged about the odds of his tribute. Livia Cardew preened in gold sequins, drawing comparisons between the tributes and vintage wines—some worth aging, some only good for the slaughterhouse.

Virelle didn't enter the ring.

She drifted along the marble outskirts, half-shadow, half-specter. Her boots clicked softly. Her expression remained unreadable behind a glass of posca and eyes lined sharp enough to slit throats. She wasn't made to mingle—she was made to study.

Snow was too good at pretending.

But his smile didn't reach his eyes.

She saw the moment Dean Highbottom approached, stumbling slightly, reeking of old rage and older bourbon. The Dean said something to Snow, low and close. The tension in Coriolanus's back spiked like a heartbeat. His face barely moved—except for the tightening at the corner of his mouth, the kind that came right before a collapse.

He recovered, of course. Nodded. Walked off.

Straight into the columned shadows at the edge of the room.

Right where she was waiting.

"That went well," she murmured, sliding beside him with the elegance of a guillotine.

"Get lost."

"You say that a lot," she said, tilting her head. "I think you like having me here. Someone who actually sees you."

"I don't need your analysis."

"Of course you do. You're starving for it." She circled around him, studying the seams of his composure. "You think you're the lead in a tragedy, but you're just another boy dancing for scraps."

"Careful."

"I'm always careful. That's why I'm not the one spiraling after a five-minute chat with a washed-up dean."

He turned toward her. "He doesn't matter."

"He does to you. That's the difference." She paused. "That's your flaw."

Snow's fists clenched at his sides. "I'm not flawed."

"Oh, darling," she purred. "You're cracked down the middle."

Her voice lowered, like a curse or a confession.

"Want to know what I think?" she asked.

He didn't answer.

She leaned in until her breath touched his neck.

"I think you're trying so hard to prove you're the last Snow worth remembering, you'll kill anyone who says otherwise. I think you'd let the world burn if it meant they'd say your name with reverence before they choked on the smoke. I think you're afraid that if you don't win this—whatever 'win' even means—you'll vanish. Like your fortune. Like your father. Like your family's relevance."

She stepped back.

"And you know what, Coriolanus?"

He looked at her, a blade behind his eyes.

She smiled, sweet and cruel.

"Same."

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He didn't speak. Didn't move.

But something in him shifted again. Something in the space between them cracked open and let something awful breathe.

They were oil and fire.

And something in both of them wanted to burn.

Chapter Text

The train station smelled like steel and ghosts. Not the polished, perfumed kind the Capitol paraded during broadcasts, but the raw, unwashed truth of things the city preferred to keep hidden—flesh and iron, desperation and dust. Virelle Thorne watched the breeze curl around the waiting platform, eyes narrowed beneath the clean lines of her tailored navy blazer. Her Academy uniform fluttered slightly in the warm air, the pleats sharp, precise. Nothing about her said out of place, and yet everything about this felt wrong.

She glanced sideways at Coriolanus. He looked as though he belonged here less than she did.

He stood ramrod straight, the signature white rose trembling only slightly between his fingers. The smell of it, sweet and artificial, barely masked the metallic scent that hung over the platform. She imagined it wilted in his hand not from heat—but from fear.

"Stunning," Virelle muttered, voice low and silken. "You'd think if we're going to welcome the tributes, we could at least spring for a window."

Snow didn't respond. His eyes were locked on the approaching boxcar. A cattle car. Rusted. Screaming metal brakes shrieked as it halted, slicing through the tension with a screech that felt deliberate.

Peacekeepers swarmed forward.

"Showtime," Virelle whispered.

The doors creaked open. The stench hit immediately—sour, organic, the kind of rot no Capitol cleanser could scrub away. One by one, the tributes were forced out, blinking in the harsh Capitol light like half-dead animals dragged into a slaughterhouse. Dirt crusted their faces. Chains clinked around ankles and wrists. Several stumbled. One vomited.

And then she stepped out.

Lucy Gray Baird.

The girl's feet landed on the cement like she was stepping onto a stage. Her dress was absurd—a patchwork of color, mismatched ruffles and faded ribbons, like a child's fever dream—but the effect was immediate. She was unforgettable. The other tributes sagged and slumped, but Lucy stood straight. Eyes wide. Lips curled; a strange grace to her chaos.

Virelle didn't breathe for a moment.

Then Coriolanus moved.

He stepped forward, holding out the white rose like it meant something sacred. "Welcome to the Capitol," he said, smoothing the sharp edge from his voice.

Lucy Gray cocked her head, one brow lifting. "When I was little, they used to bathe me in buttermilk and rose petals," she said lightly, and took the flower with fingers that didn't tremble, eating one of the rose petals. "Tastes like bedtime."

Virelle stepped in beside them when she saw the intrigue on his face. "You'll be seeing me too," she said, tone airy. "I'm Virelle Thorne. I'll be assisting your... charming mentor here." She cast Snow a brief smile, all teeth. "It's my job to make sure things run smoothly."

"Which means what, exactly?" Lucy Gray asked. Her voice held none of the fear Virelle expected.

"It means I'm watching," she said simply. "Helping. Listening. Making sure the Capitol sees you clearly."

The girl smiled. "I tend to be hard to miss."

The moment broke as Peacekeepers barked orders and began shoving tributes toward the next transport—if the cattle car was the prelude, then the truck was the punchline. A steel box with slatted walls, no seats, no light, no dignity. Just chains and bars. A cage with wheels.

Snow stiffened beside her. "They expect you to—?"

"I believe the phrase is 'get in if you want to make an impression,'" Virelle said dryly, sneaking past the Peacekeepers toward the vehicle.

Snow hesitated, jaw tight. Virelle didn't wait. She climbed in without flinching, boots clicking on the grimy floor. The stench was worse inside—weeks of sweat and excrement, maybe longer—and the air was thick and stifling. She didn't flinch. Instead, she turned and extended a hand to Lucy Gray.

"Come on," she said softly. "Might as well ride with someone who'll remember your name."

Lucy Gray studied her. A long pause. Then she took the hand and climbed in.

Snow followed a beat later, lips pressed into a pale line.

Inside, the tributes shifted, animal-like. The truck lurched into motion, and something feral stirred. A boy from District 11, Virelle recognized to be Clemensia's tribute, stepped forward, "You in the wrong cage?"

"No, this was the cage I was exactly waiting for," Virelle practically purred.

"I say we kill em'," a tiny boy says, clenching his fists.

"No," said another. "They're meat."

Snow straightened. "I wouldn't—"

"Careful," Virelle interrupted, voice low and razor-sharp. "They can smell weakness."

He gave her a look like he might kill her later. She welcomed it.

Then Lucy Gray spoke. "Leave them. You've got family back home? You got someone they could punish there?" she said, not loudly—but her voice carried. Clear. Commanding. It wasn't begging. It was final.

And somehow, it worked.

The crowd slunk back into the shadows. The engine roared. Chains jangled.

Snow looked shaken. He wouldn't admit it, of course.

Virelle leaned close, her mouth near his ear. "She's doing your job better than you are."

"Shut up."

"Oh, Coryo," she cooed sweetly. "Is this what failure smells like? Sweat and blood and no way out?"

His hand clenched, but he said nothing.

Virelle leaned back, satisfied. She turned her gaze to Lucy Gray, who was seated now, knees drawn up beneath the fabric of her garish dress, humming softly to herself like the truck wasn't rattling toward some grim execution site.

"You were very calm back there," Virelle said, letting a touch of warmth bleed into her voice. "Most girls would've screamed."

"I've been through worse," Lucy Gray said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Back home, you learn to survive quick."

"I imagine so," Virelle said, and her voice dropped to something quieter. "But surviving here... that's different."

Lucy Gray looked at her. No fear. Just curiosity.

Virelle offered a small, almost genuine smile. "Make them like you. Make them talk about you. But never let them own you."

Snow turned to look at her, but she was already shifting away, boots clicking as the truck began to slow.

The truck came to a sudden halt, and Virelle would have smacked her face against the door if it wasn't for Snow to strategically hold onto her arm and pull her back.

There were no thanks.

The relief was short lived as the back of the truck opened up and began to lift into a slope. Coriolanus, Lucy Gray, and Virelle all held onto the back of the truck until they came sliding down. Virelle and Coriolanus would (ironically) hold onto Lucy Gray until they landed.

Virelle groaned as she got up, her head pounding. Her face paled as she realized where she was...

The Capitol Zoo.
The Monkey House. 

Chapter Text

The bars were cold, thick, and very real.

Virelle resisted the urge to curl her lip. There were many things she had imagined when the mentors were told they'd be "observing tributes up close" for Capitol News. She had not imagined standing behind steel bars in a zoo enclosure, shoulder to shoulder with barely-fed District children and the stench of rotting hay. But here they were—caged, catalogued, and being watched.

The monkey house.

She stood beside Coriolanus, both of them dressed impeccably despite the indecency of the setup. Her Academy blazer was spotless, her gloves immaculate, even in the heavy, stale air of the enclosure. Snow looked similarly composed—except for the flicker of nerves beneath his sharp features.

"Smile," she said, keeping her voice low and her posture poised. "You're on the wrong side of the bars, but still on the right side of the screen; own it."

Snow didn't answer. His eyes were scanning the crowd outside the bars—the Capitol children giggling, their chaperones murmuring, the cameras stationed just behind the thick glass window to film it all live.

A little girl eyed Lucy Gray curiously, pressed up against the railing. She didn't seem to mind. On the contrary, she was already working the audience.

"Look at her," Virelle murmured, more to herself than to Coriolanus. "She's magnetic."

Lucy Gray twirled slowly in her rainbow dress, the ruffles fluttering with each spin. A little girl on the other side of the glass clapped, then pointed at the frayed ribbons sewn into the hem.

"How'd you find that snake?" the girl squealed. "Was it your friend?"

Lucy Gray beamed. "Well, you're right there, Precious, that snake was a dear friend of mine."

The children gasped, delighted.

"And what's your name, sweetheart?" Lucy Gray asked, squatting to meet the child's eyes.

"Venus... I'm four...," the girl whispered.

"Well, Venus," Lucy Gray said, smiling, "I think four is a very smart age."

The girl took it like it was treasure. The other children erupted in applause.

Coriolanus stiffened at Virelle's side.

"She's charming," Virelle said, "when someone else pulls the strings."

Snow gave her a sharp look. "I didn't pull anything."

"Not yet," she said, smiling without warmth. "But someone will. That kind of sparkle doesn't shine on its own for long."

At that moment, a familiar voice called out from behind the glass: syrupy, theatrical, and smug.

"Well well, if it isn't our dazzling District Twelve tribute!"

Lepidus Malmsey.

He was standing just behind the railing, microphone in hand, waving dramatically at the crowd—and at Lucy Gray. The children cheered again. Cameras pivoted.

"Mind if I ask a few questions for Capitol News?" he trilled.

Lucy Gray curtsied. "I'd be offended if you didn't."

Lepidus turned slightly. "And I see we have two of our brightest mentors here as well—Coriolanus Snow and Virelle Thorne! Let's give them a round of applause!"

Applause from the crowd.

Virelle inclined her head politely. Snow nodded, rigidly.

"You've both had quite the morning," Lepidus said. "Tell us—what's it like, meeting your tribute like this?"

Snow cleared his throat. "Unexpected," he said. "But Lucy Gray has made a strong first impression."

Lucy Gray winked at him from beside the feeding trough.

"And you, Miss Thorne?"

Virelle folded her hands behind her back and spoke with practiced poise. "It's not the setting I'd choose, but sometimes adversity brings out true character. Lucy Gray clearly adapted well."

Lucy Gray gave her a warm smile, and Virelle returned it—graciously, with just enough softness to be believable.

"That's kind of you," Lucy Gray said.

"Well," Virelle replied, voice low and sweet, "we're in this together, aren't we?"

Snow's eyes flicked between the two of them, wary.

Lepidus clapped once, dramatically. "Delightful! Lucy Gray, you've already got young fans. I hear the children want to know more about your very colorful ensemble!"

"Oh, this old thing?" Lucy Gray laughed. "Well, the Covey love color, and me more than most. But this was my mama's, so it's extra special to me."

"Such spirit!" Lepidus gushed. "So is your mother in District Twelve?"

She smirked, "Just her bones, darling. Just her pearly white bones."

"I'm not District Twelve born," she then clarified, leaning casually on the bars. "The Covey came from elsewhere, before the war. Some of us got caught up in the aftermath."

Lepidus raised a brow, "So, currently District 12?"

Lucy Gray just nodded.

Virelle watched carefully as Lucy Gray talked—how she knew just when to smile, just when to flirt with innocence, just when to let sadness soften her voice. She wasn't just charming. She was strategic.

"Smart girl," Virelle said under her breath.

"You're admiring her now?" Snow muttered, clearly irritated.

"I'm admiring the performance," Virelle corrected. "Don't confuse sentiment with skill."

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By late afternoon, they were removed from the monkey house by Peacekeepers and escorted to the Academy for their debriefings. The rotunda's marble floors gleamed beneath their shoes, a sharp contrast to the concrete and filth they'd been standing on only hours earlier.

Coriolanus walked like a man about to be executed.

Virelle trailed half a step behind, watching him closely.

Then the familiar click of boots echoed through the marble chamber.

Dean Highbottom.

His bloodshot eyes landed on Snow with eerie precision.

"Unauthorized contact with tributes during public exhibition," he said flatly. "Violation of proximity protocol. One demerit."

Snow froze.

Virelle folded her arms, as if disappointed. "You told me you had clearance," she murmured, not bothering to make it sound genuine.

"I didn't touch anyone," Snow said, voice low and defensive.

"Still inside the cage," Highbottom said, already walking away.

Virelle waited until they were alone again, then leaned in. "One down. Just two to go."

Snow turned on her. "You wanted me to screw up."

"I wanted to see how close to the edge you'd walk." She smiled sweetly. "You've got nerve. That's useful. Until it kills you."

Snow didn't speak. His hands were fists at his sides.

Virelle stepped forward, adjusted his crooked collar with a soft tug, and let her fingers linger just a second too long.

"Don't sulk," she said, eyes meeting his. "The Capitol doesn't like losers. But they love a comeback."

She let him stew in silence, heels clicking as she walked off, leaving the faint scent of violets behind her—pleasant, polished, and poisonous.

Chapter Text

She told the gatekeeper it was for Satyria Click, something about verifying a food order, checking security for Dr. Gaul. The Peacekeepers didn't care. She was wearing her Capitol ID, her smile was sharp, and her voice was dipped in just enough boredom to pass.

She could have said she was delivering a bomb and they would've waved her through.

She walked the halls of the zoo alone, heels echoing on concrete, the iron smell of rust and beast shit clinging to the air like fog. Around her, empty enclosures yawned in the shadows. The monkey house was still drawing a crowd, but fewer now. Morning was for spectacle. The afternoon was for quieter, more curious minds.

Virelle preferred it that way.

She stepped into the shaded alcove across from the cage and leaned one shoulder against the wall, invisible to the children and Capitol voyeurs crowding near the bars. Her gaze landed on them instantly.

Lucy Gray. Coriolanus Snow.

The rainbow girl was perched cross-legged on a ragged blanket, laughing as she broke a biscuit in two. Coriolanus sat beside her, too close. Smiling too much. Like some smitten Academy fool playing at charm.

It was all so... pathetic.

The way he handed her a sandwich like it meant something. The way Lucy Gray smiled like it did. They were putting on a play. He just didn't know she was the one writing it.

And yet-

Virelle's eyes narrowed, lips parting slightly.

-he looked... happy.

Or something near it. That fragile, haunted kind of happiness, thin as tissue, desperate as a dying breath.

What are you doing, Snow?

She clenched her gloved hands behind her back. She could already feel it-the Capitol latching onto the spectacle. The boy with the rose. The rainbow girl. What a narrative. What a gift-wrapped fable.

If they liked her too much, they wouldn't see him.

If he liked her too much, he wouldn't see Virelle.

And that wouldn't do.

Not at all.

She imagined, vividly, what it might feel like to drag Lucy Gray by the braid to the bars, to slam her face into the steel until her teeth spilled out like broken pearls. Would Snow still smile then? Would he cry for her? Or would he finally see that attachment was just a leash they used to hang you?

Virelle smoothed her hair. Fixed her collar. Breathed in slow.

Too soon for that.

She would wait. Watch. Let him dig himself a little deeper.

That's when she saw Sejanus Plinth.

Of course, she thought bitterly. The bleeding heart himself. Holding out a bag of sandwiches like some simpering Peacekeeper reject.

Snow looked annoyed. No-worse. Cornered.

She leaned a little closer, watching as Sejanus passed him one sandwich. Then another. Snow took them reluctantly. Words passed between them, lips moving, expressions tightening.

She couldn't hear them. But she could feel it.

The air shifted.

Snow stood now. Sejanus stepped closer. Something passed between them-a shared shadow, a truth too ugly for cameras.

She narrowed her eyes.

This was about the tributes.

Sejanus, ever the hypocrite, likely begging Snow to switch. To spare his conscience. Maybe even guilt him over Twelve. Over her.

Virelle nearly laughed aloud.

Coriolanus Snow-guilted into kindness?

She didn't believe in ghosts, but if kindness lived inside him, it was dead and rotting.

Still, the conversation lingered. No shouting. Just intensity. Low and private.

He's not saying yes.

Virelle could feel it in her stomach, the tension like a drawn wire.

He wasn't giving Lucy Gray up.

And not for Plinth, not for guilt, not for anything.

A dark pride flickered in her chest.

So, he had claws after all.

She stepped away from the wall and drifted into view, heels deliberate on the pavement.

Snow noticed her instantly. His expression cooled.

"Come to feed the animals?" he asked.

She smiled thinly. "Just checking on the livestock."

Sejanus looked uncomfortable, glancing between them. Virelle gave him a look like he was an insect too fat to squash without leaving a stain.

"I'll let you two talk," he muttered, walking off.

Virelle waited until his footsteps faded before speaking again.

"She sings for you now."

Snow folded his arms. "She sings for the audience."

"You sure about that?" She tilted her head. "She looks at you like she's forgotten the bars."

He didn't respond.

"She'll use you," Virelle added. "If she's clever. I'd almost respect her for it."

Snow bristled. "You're not here to observe tributes. You're here to watch me."

Virelle stepped closer, enough to see the tightness in his jaw. "You're not wrong."

"Was it Gaul's idea?"

"No." Her voice was cool, nearly amused. "I chose to see what you'd do with a girl who doesn't need you."

His nostrils flared. "She does need me."

Virelle raised a brow. "To survive? Or to shine?"

Snow didn't answer.

She took a slow breath. "You're not the only one who lost everything, Snow."

His head snapped toward her.

"My family was stripped like carcasses. They left our furniture on the curb. Took my mother's wedding ring from her hand while she was still crying over the garnet chandelier. I watched them auction off the silver lions from our gate, and I wasn't allowed to bid."

The words were sharp. Not angry-exposed.

Snow looked at her like she'd just cracked.

"And do you think charming a tribute will fix it?" she said softly. "Because it won't. They'll never let us forget who we were. But they will punish us for who we pretend to be."

He stared at her, something unreadable in his eyes. "So why are you pretending to care?"

Virelle smiled.

"Because pretending works."

She stepped back, smoothing her skirt.

"You want to survive, Snow?" Her voice was velvet over steel. "Start remembering that no one cares who you love. Only who wins."

Then she turned, leaving him alone with the echo of her words and the rainbow girl behind the bars.

Chapter Text

The Academy's grand doors slammed shut behind Virelle with a sharp finality, the muffled chatter of students and mentors fading as she stepped out into the slick Capitol streets. Twilight hovered like a veil, dimming the city's usual brilliance into muted shadows. Around her, voices whispered and eyes glanced—secrets, rumors, thinly veiled hostility. This was a world where everyone was watching, but no one trusted.

Virelle's thoughts were dark and deliberate, focused solely on the game ahead. She wasn't here to play innocent, to charm or plead—she was here to manipulate, to carve a path of sharp edges and ruthless precision. Lucy Gray's performance wasn't just entertainment; it was a weapon. And Virelle was the one holding the trigger.

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The Thorne's once-majestic estate stood on the edge of the Capitol's silver-veined streets like a wounded beast, proud but broken. Marble floors cracked, gilded mirrors dulled by years of neglect, and tapestries moth-eaten and threadbare hung limply on peeling walls.

Inside, the atmosphere was heavy with unspoken despair. Her father, once a titan of the Capitol's investment elite, sat slumped in the dim drawing room. His once-proud posture was gone, replaced by a shadowed shell clutching a glass of brandy as if it might restore his dignity. His eyes barely lifted when Virelle entered.

"Did you make a spectacle of yourself today?" His voice was a dry rasp, devoid of warmth or curiosity.

"Only where necessary," Virelle replied with a thin smile, her voice calm, almost amused. "A show for the Capitol's amusement. That's all they want."

Her mother lingered by the window, pale and quiet, the years of loss etched into her face. She said nothing, only watched the fading daylight as if waiting for a miracle that would never come.

The house echoed with the ghost of their former life—luxury turned to dust, pride turned to shame. The Capitol had not needed to disgrace her family publicly. Their fall was silent, a slow bleed of fortune through bad investments and covertly seized assets. There was no trial, no fiery spectacle—only the quiet suffocation of a name once whispered with reverence, now barely spoken at all.

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In her small, spartan room, Virelle sat at a worn desk, hands moving methodically as she pinned fresh clippings and notes to her corkboard. Pictures of tributes, news headlines, and scraps of Capitol gossip littered the board like a map of her ambitions.

Lucy Gray Baird's name was underlined and circled repeatedly. Virelle's lips curved into a faint, predatory smile.

The Capitol loves a songbird—only if she's caged, she wrote in neat script.

Beneath it, another line:

Make the cage glitter. Make them beg to watch her die.

Her thoughts darkened as she imagined the crowd, mouths agape, waiting for a spectacle. But this time, the spectacle would be hers to control. Not Lucy Gray's. Not Snow's.

They think I'm a puppet. They don't know I'm the one pulling the strings.

She reached for a jagged shard of glass from her desk, tracing its sharp edge absentmindedly with her finger. Her mind flickered briefly to darker fantasies—blood, broken promises, and the sweet, sharp taste of power taken by force.

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The next morning, the mentors gathered in the vaulted briefing chamber of the Academy, the air thick with tension and forced smiles. Gaul arrived last, her presence slicing through the room like a blade. Her voice was calm, precise, but held a menace that tightened throats and clenched fists.

"We will speak of entertainment," she began, "and the power it holds over the Games."

As Gaul's words settled, Virelle's eyes scanned the room—mentors shifting nervously, others attempting to mask their fear with forced bravado. Sejanus Plinth sat beside Coriolanus Snow, pale and tense under Gaul's gaze.

"Compassion is a liability," Gaul intoned, "yet one that can be exploited, sold, and weaponized."

The announcement that gifts would now be allowed to the tributes sent ripples of speculation through the room. Virelle caught the flicker of surprise—and calculation—in Snow's eyes.

As the session ended and mentors filed out, Virelle brushed past Snow, voice a low hiss only he could hear.

"Well played in there. Not a single secret spilled."

His glare was sharp, but he said nothing.

"Keep your friends close," she whispered, "and your weaknesses closer."

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Later, drawn by morbid curiosity and a deeper need to observe, Virelle returned to the Capitol Zoo.

The "Monkey House" was grim and overcrowded, its iron bars cold and unyielding. Inside, the tributes were packed like animals on display, their every movement scrutinized by the curious crowd and the unblinking eyes of Capitol cameras.

Children pressed their small faces against the bars, captivated not by the prison but by the girl who moved through it like a storm of color—Lucy Gray, in her rainbow dress that seemed to shimmer and shift with every step.

Lucy Gray's laughter was soft and lilting as she wove between the children, handing out bright wildflowers plucked from the sparse bushes. Their wide eyes followed her every move, enchanted by her defiance, her sparkle.

Virelle watched, noting every glance Lucy Gray cast toward the cameras, every calculated smile. The girl was a performer, yes, but also a survivor—someone who understood the power of charm and spectacle. But unlike Lucy Gray, Virelle's charm was a blade beneath silk, a trap hidden beneath a smile.

Near the edge of the cage, Coriolanus stood awkwardly, his posture stiff and uncertain, a boy thrust too quickly into a man's role. Unlike Lucy Gray's natural grace, his discomfort was palpable—a fact that Virelle mentally bookmarked.

At another corner, Arachne Crane, mentor for District 10, prowled like a predator over her tribute, Brandy. The tension between them was electric and brutal.

Arachne dangled a piece of food just out of Brandy's reach, voice sharp and cruel, "Want it? Come and take it."

Brandy lunged, desperate and fierce, but Arachne pulled the prize back with a cruel smile.

The crowd gasped as Brandy's hand flashed through the bars, scraping Arachne's arm—a sharp warning, a desperate plea.

Arachne laughed, venom dripping, "Careful, little lamb. Don't forget who's in charge."

Virelle's lips twitched with cold amusement. Power was a game, a dance of knives—some played it with elegance, others with brutal force. But she knew better than to underestimate the fury lurking beneath.

And then the moment shattered.

Brandy's hand moved again—swift, merciless—a slash across Arachne's throat from the broken bottle.

Blood bloomed, bright and savage against the pale fabric.

The mentor stumbled, eyes wide in shocked disbelief.

The cage erupted into chaos.

Virelle's heart didn't race with fear, but with a dark thrill. Control was slipping. The game was changing.

Chapter Text

The blood hit the pavement with a sound Virelle would remember for the rest of her life.

Not because it shocked her. Not because it startled her. But because in that terrible, beautiful moment when Arachne Crane gurgled on her own blood, wide-eyed and clawing at the slice across her throat, Virelle had never felt more... present.

She hadn't screamed. She hadn't stumbled. She hadn't even blinked.

She'd turned her head, tilted slightly, and watched as Brandy—a girl who'd been spit-shined for slaughter—snapped. It was an ugly thing, a visceral thing. There was no grace in the kill, just feral rage and dirty nails and a stolen knife and red, red, red.

Arachne twitched. Virelle exhaled, slow and shallow, her breath fogging just slightly on the cool glass pane of the monkey house. Her mouth curled.

Perfect.

The first to move, Virelle didn't run. She didn't panic. She lifted a sleek black communicator from the inner pocket of her navy coat and keyed in the emergency line to the Zoo Peacekeeper barracks.

Her voice was crisp. Controlled. Almost amused. "We have a situation. District 10's tribute just made a mess of Miss Crane's throat. You'll want to clean up before the cameras catch on."

She clicked it off before they could respond. Her gaze stayed locked on Brandy's face—now being battered by the butt of a Peacekeeper's rifle. The girl didn't flinch. She spat a blood-mixed glob into the dirt.

Virelle respected that.

But the Capitol didn't reward spirit. It rewarded spectacle.

Within moments, the buzz of hovercams descended like insects. Peacekeepers shouted orders. Children screamed. Families fled. Somewhere to her left, someone sobbed, and Virelle couldn't tell if it was a parent or a Capitol brat who'd never seen death before.

She smiled faintly to herself.

Let them choke on the horror. Let them see what the Hunger Games were meant to be. It wasn't about honor. It was about rot. Spectacle. Power.

She turned and stepped lightly away from the enclosure as Arachne's corpse convulsed its last beneath the glass.

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The apartment reeked of boiled cabbage and perfume. Her mother’s signature scent—cheap rosewater and denial—saturated every room like a disease. They lived three floors beneath where they used to, the ceiling lower, the air thicker. The curtains were drawn in perpetual shame.

“Did you hear?” her mother gasped from the doorway, holding a tremulous cup of tea in both hands like it was the last thing tethering her to existence. “About the Crane girl?”

Virelle gave a small nod and draped her coat over the back of a faded velvet chair. “Terrible. Predictable.”

“She was a Crane,” her mother whispered. “They’ll never let the family forget this.”

Virelle didn’t reply. Her eyes flicked to her mother’s shaking hands, to the chipped porcelain cup. To the hairline cracks in her foundation, in her spine.

Once, her mother had worn diamonds and issued commands from marble staircases.

Now, she flinched at kettle whistles.

Virelle moved closer. Her gaze was soft. Her voice gentle. “It’s all right, Mother. They’ll forget her soon enough.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Virelle smiled and plucked the teacup from her fingers. She held it for a moment, admiring the floral pattern before taking a sip.

Virelle leaned close, her lips brushing her mother’s ear. “Because I’ll give them something else to remember.”

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The atmosphere in the mentor’s briefing room was tighter than a noose. No one dared speak above a whisper. The Crane seat remained empty—scarlet and untouchable. Clemensia’s eyes were red-rimmed. Livia’s hand trembled when she reached for her coffee. Gaius Breen just kept swallowing.

Virelle, by contrast, was all polish.

Hair slicked into a razor-clean ponytail. Gloves. Gloss. She sat with her hands folded, long legs crossed, a study in composed menace.

Satyria Click muttered something about grief counseling.

Dean Highbottom looked hungover enough to vomit into his papers.

And Coriolanus Snow… was watching her.

She didn’t meet his gaze. Not yet. She wanted him to stew.

She was the one who had called in the Peacekeepers. The one who had spoken to the Capitol press. The one who’d smiled, softly, sweetly, and said, “Such a tragedy. But perhaps it proves the tributes must be properly incentivized—or restrained.”

And they’d listened.

They’d eaten it like honeyed poison.

Later, when Gaul summoned Snow and Clemensia to discuss “monetization,” Virelle wasn’t invited. That was fine.

Let them think she was out of the loop.

Let Snow think he still had the edge.

Chapter Text

The hem of Virelle's coat swished like a knife through water as she stepped into the marble rotunda of the Academy, her heels clipping with purposeful sharpness. The morning sun poured through the stained glass dome, bleeding golden light across the checkered floor, gilding everything it touched—including her. It made her look almost holy, she mused. Fitting, perhaps, for a girl who'd come to offer the Capitol a new gospel: suffering, neatly packaged for mass consumption.

She made her way through the eastern corridor, toward the administrative offices, the freshly waxed floors reflecting her silhouette like a shadow cast in ink. Each step, calculated. Each breath, a performance. Satyria Click had offered to present her ideas to the Dean herself, but Virelle had declined—smiling sweetly, demurely. Let the dove coo in her cage; Virelle would speak for herself.

Dean Highbottom's secretary, a brittle woman who looked as though she might shatter if spoken to too harshly, blinked up at her. "You don't have an appointment."

"I won't be long," Virelle said smoothly, brushing past her. "But I do have something... pressing."

She didn't knock. She never knocked.

Dean Highbottom looked up from behind a fortress of paperwork, bleary-eyed and already resigned. "Miss Tycorra."

"Dean Highbottom," she said with a voice lacquered in honey. "I've had the most dreadful thought."

He sighed. "That seems likely."

She didn't sit. Instead, she approached the desk like a vulture circling a fresh kill. "The incident at the zoo—it's tragic. Unforgivable, really. A mentor torn to ribbons on live broadcast? I'm certain the public is reeling."

His silence encouraged her. Encouraged her too much.

"And yet," she continued, "there's opportunity in tragedy. Pathos. Fear. Vulnerability. They're the greatest levers of public sentiment. If we staged a moment of unity—mentors draped in mourning silk, perhaps, swearing loyalty to the Capitol despite our losses—we could recast the Games as a symbol of resilience. Make the public feel that the Capitol bleeds too."

She paused, the pitch hanging in the air like a perfume.

Highbottom stared at her. "You want to... emotionally manipulate the people using a child's death?"

"Well, when you phrase it that way," Virelle said with a saccharine laugh, "it sounds almost ghoulish."

"It is ghoulish," he snapped.

She tilted her head, just slightly. "So you're rejecting the idea."

"I'm rejecting the premise that any of this should be made palatable," Highbottom said coldly. "If you want silk, Miss Tycorra, sew it yourself."

Virelle only smiled. "Of course. Thank you for your time, Dean."

She swept from the office without waiting to be dismissed. She didn't need his approval. She never had. What mattered was that the idea had been spoken aloud—planted like a seed in the rotting soil of his conscience. It would grow, whether he wanted it to or not.

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Later, when the snake-bitten girl began to shriek, Virelle stood at the back of the laboratory with her arms folded, her expression unreadable. Coriolanus had told her to come... She assumes this is why. The scent of antiseptic and hot metal coated the air like poison. Clemensia writhed on the floor, her skin pale and slick with sweat, her hand pulsing with a foul, luminous pus that oozed between her fingers like melted wax.

Coriolanus had gone white. Even Gaul had gone still.

But Virelle—Virelle simply watched, yet she tried her best to seem shaken by the display.

Watched the girl's dignity unravel. Watched the venom turn her from prim Capitol princess to sobbing, snarling animal. She memorized the shape of the panic on Snow's face, the way he held himself too rigid, afraid that if he moved wrong he'd be bitten too.

"I told you," Gaul said idly, watching the snakes return to their coils. "They don't forget a scent."

When the assistants dragged Clemensia away, Virelle sighed and brushed a stray curl from her cheek. "Such a waste," she murmured. "She had such lovely handwriting."

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It was nearly dusk when she rejoined Coriolanus on the Capitol steps, the long shadows slicing the promenade like scars. He didn't greet her. He looked shell-shocked, still damp with guilt and fear, his jaw clenched as though he feared his teeth might chatter.

"Walk with me," she said.

He did.

The route to the zoo was familiar now. They moved like conspirators, silent and alert, flanked by Peacekeepers who didn't speak unless spoken to. The air reeked faintly of smoke and chlorine. When they reached the monkey house, Lucy was chained behind the bars like an animal—and yet, she still held herself with a sort of pride.

"She's thinner," Virelle noted aloud, voice neutral. "They're starving them."

Coriolanus pressed forward, holding up the crackers he'd smuggled in his coat pocket. "I brought something."

Lucy Gray eyed the food, then Coriolanus, her voice cracking with effort. "You always bring something."

Virelle stood behind him, watching—watching Lucy Gray's eyes, her posture, her hunger. "Tell her she matters to you," she whispered in Coriolanus's ear, low enough the Peacekeepers wouldn't hear. "Let's see what she does with that."

He hesitated, then turned back toward Lucy Gray. "You matter to me...," he said stiffly, awkwardly, like the words were knives in his mouth.

Lucy Gray froze, then blinked. Her face shifted—but not into gratitude. Into calculation.

Virelle's heart beat faster. Oh yes, she thought. She knows how to use it.

When the Peacekeepers ordered them to leave, Coriolanus lingered.

Virelle lingered too, but for different reasons. She filed away every detail—the way Lucy Gray devoured the crackers with half-starved elegance, the way Coriolanus's fingers hovered near the bars as though he wanted to touch her. Virelle could see it now, gleaming like a gem beneath the blood and filth.

Lucy Gray Baird was dangerous.

And Coriolanus was starting to care.

Which meant, soon, he would be dangerous, too.

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That night, Virelle lay on her chaise, draped in old, worn velvet, a glass of posca (she assumes her mother got it off of the black market, yet she doesn't exactly know with what money) in one hand and a file of mentor dossiers in the other. Her mother's portrait stared down at her from the mirrored ceiling— Virelle was an echo of her mother's face, but sharper now, crueler.

Coriolanus had taken a step toward vulnerability today. So had Lucy Gray.

And she?

She had taken two toward the throne.

Let the others mourn, weep, flail in their grief.

She would tailor it.

She would sell it.

She would win.

And if that meant burning Lucy Gray, and even Coriolanus himself—

Then so be it.

Chapter Text

Brandy still swung.

It had been hours—maybe a day, maybe more—but in Virelle's mind, the body never stopped. The image replayed itself like a silent broadcast in the back of her skull: brown limbs jerking, slack mouth gaping, eyes frozen wide with the expression of someone who had made a choice and then, just before the end, understood exactly how little it would matter.

The crane had hoisted her high—high enough that the camera crews could pan dramatically from the chains binding the tributes to the corpse dangling like a broken marionette. High enough to inspire fear. To stoke outrage. To build a martyr.

Just not the right one.

Virelle watched Arachne's funeral with dead eyes, her black dress steamed, her pin polished until it gleamed like a blade. The anthem blared. Snow's voice carried, pure and dutiful, ringing out across the marble square as if grief could be nationalized. The tributes were chained in the flatbed below, heads bowed, Lucy Gray among them, her wrists rubbed raw.

And above them, Brandy swung.

The crowd wept.

Virelle took notes.

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At the Academy, they were fed lies like sacrament. Satyria Click handed out the day's new assignments—mentor-tribute interviews, arena tours, footage assessments. "Unity through sacrifice," she chirped. "Every lens is a battlefield now."

Virelle nearly laughed. Battlefield? She'd grown up on one. This wasn't war. This was branding.

When they arrived at the arena, Virelle stepped out into the sun with an expression of calm curiosity. Her boots crunched over old rubble and dust. The place reeked of metal and mildew, still scarred from a war the Capitol pretended it had already won.

Tributes were herded like livestock through a rusted service gate. Lucy Gray was cuffed beside Jessup, both looking like they'd spent the night gnawing on hunger and regret. Snow kept glancing toward her, his expression a blend of worry and something harder—something Virelle recognized in herself. Possession.

"Charming, isn't it?" she said aloud, gesturing at the scorched seats and bombed scaffolds as she sidled up to Festus Creed, who was pale with nerves.

He didn't answer.

She leaned in. "If you faint, try to do it into the rubble. You'll be more photogenic that way."

"You're horrible," he muttered.

She smiled sweetly. "And you're expendable."

He flushed but stayed quiet. Virelle liked that. She filed his weakness away.

They were meant to circle the perimeter for the cameras, a staged show of Capitol solidarity and education. Virelle kept her gaze on the drone crews overhead, the camera angles, the light. She was mentally drafting speeches—ones to deliver when the mentors started dying. She could already see it: We stood on scorched earth and still chose loyalty.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to be the one dying... or the one telling the story.

And then—

Boom.

It didn't sound like an explosion. It sounded like the sky tearing open.

Searing light swallowed the far end of the arena. The ground jumped under her boots. Screams split the air—some high, some wet, some abruptly cut off. A second blast followed, closer, angrier, fire rolling across the dust like a beast unchained.

Many screamed.

Virelle didn't.

Her body hit the ground hard. Shrapnel hissed past her cheek, slicing a line across her jaw. She smelled blood, tasted it, the metallic tang mingling with smoke and ash. Her ears rang. Her breath came in sharp, animal gasps.

All around her—chaos. The camera drones had shattered. Two tributes—District 6—lay face down with their backs opened up like a burnt book. A mentor was howling, dragging her own arm behind her.

And Snow—

Snow was down.

Virelle's head snapped toward the cratered edge of the blast zone. Through the smoke and fire, she saw him—pinned beneath a broken scaffold beam, motionless, his white-blond hair stained red.

Lucy Gray was already there; She almost ran away... almost... yet she ran back.

She was on her knees beside him, trying to pull at the wreckage with trembling hands. Blood smeared her face like warpaint. She was crying. Screaming something that sounded like his name.

Virelle rose to her feet, every inch of her body protesting. Blood dripped from her chin to her collar, hot and fast. She limped toward them through the burning haze. Her leg was almost maimed, but that didn't matter now, no, she couldn't let Lucy Gray take the spotlight once again.

Lucy Gray looked up as Virelle approached, chest heaving.

"I—I need help, he's—"

Virelle didn't answer. She shoved Lucy Gray aside, none too gently, but disguised it as a trip and knelt over Coriolanus.

"Help me get him up!" Lucy Gray cried, clawing at her arm. "Don't—!"

"I got it, don't worry! I can do it," Virelle snapped, her voice low and brutal.

Lucy recoiled.

Good.

Virelle greatly struggled, her one leg practically shaking as she tried to throw the heavy, burning metal off of him. Once she did, she fell by him from weakness.

Virelle pressed her hands to Coriolanus's pulse point. Weak. Rapid. Still alive. The relief hit her like a drug.

She didn't know why she cared.

No—that wasn't true.

She cared because he was hers now. Her coconspirator. Her mirror. Her weapon.

And no one—not rebels, not Gaul (who's taken quite an interest in him), not Lucy Gray Baird—was allowed to take him.

"You matter to him," Virelle said, voice flat as she turned to Lucy Gray. "Go find a Peacekeeper. Now..." Her voice then wavered desperately, "Please. Not for me, but for him."

Lucy Gray staggered back, caught between fury and obedience, but she ran.

When they were alone, Virelle brushed the blood-matted hair from Coriolanus's forehead with a tenderness that surprised even her.

"Don't die," she murmured, lips almost touching his ear. "I haven't finished with you yet, please..."

Her voice was almost... desperate, pathetic. Was she... crying?! God, she needed to stop acting so weak, but she couldn't help herself from succumbing to weakness, clutching onto Coriolanus.

She stared into the smoke and fire and felt no grief for the rest of the fallen.

Only ambition.

And underneath it, the quietest whisper of fear.

Not for herself.

For him.

The Games had not yet begun.

But something far crueler had already. Obsession.

Chapter Text

The hospital reeked of bleach, morphling, and quiet desperation.

The ceiling was too white. The light is too pure. It made everything vulgar beneath it.

Virelle reclined in her hospital bed, bandaged leg propped up and suspended by metal and mesh, the flesh underneath torn open like a fruit, bruised black and yellow. She'd been conscious the whole surgery. They'd given her only a local anesthetic and a mirror to watch as they tried to reattach what was left of her shin. She hadn't looked away once.

The pain, she would keep. The scars, she would polish.

The story—she would sharpen into a blade.

Already, the narrative was forming. She'd told it three times now, letting the details shift ever so slightly with each telling, like a rot spreading under polished skin. She did not lie outright. She didn't need to. She simply left space. Created a quiet where suspicion could bloom.

"Oh yes," she told the first nurse who asked, "Lucy Gray was there when it happened. She ran to Coriolanus. But panic, you know—it makes people do strange things. I tried to help too, though—gods, with my leg—"

And then: "No, I never saw her pull him free. She just stood there, I think. Shock. Or maybe guilt. It's all so blurry, but I remember trying to get to him. I remember the smoke."

By the time the Head Gamemaker's assistant asked her for a statement, the tale had fermented beautifully.

"I think she might've run," Virelle whispered, her voice papery and worn. "I saw her silhouette. It wasn't until I cried out that she turned back."

A pause. A sorrowful smile.

"But it's not for me to say."

Let them wonder. Let them ask. Doubt was more effective than accusation.

And Snow—sweet Snow—still slept like the dead in the room down the hall, swathed in gauze and sedation and Capitol pity.

She had been there when they wheeled him in. Had demanded it. Had feigned a tremble in her hand, tears in her lashes. "Let me see him," she had pleaded. "Please. He's all I have left. My friend."

The nurse had looked ready to refuse. The cameras, hovering like hornets, had not.

She touched his burned hand through the sterile glove. Whispered something she didn't mean. And let the audience believe she was broken by it.

Inside, she felt radiant.

Chaos had cracked open the Arena and spat out opportunity.

Now she only had to gather the pieces.

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The visits came in slow waves.

First professors. Then classmates. Then Capitol officials and quiet men in unmarked uniforms asking for a recounting of her memory—what she saw, who she saw, what the girl in the rainbow dress did or didn't do.

"I was in shock," she said again. "And pain."

Always in pain.

Let them pity her. Pity was a currency the Capitol had never devalued.

When Dean Highbottom finally slouched in, reeking of rose gin and decay, she gave him a smile so sweet it made him recoil.

"You look well, sir," she murmured.

He gave her a glare. Said nothing. Left a rose on her nightstand. Virelle crushed the stem the moment he turned away.

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Tigris was quieter when she arrived. Older. The light caught the lines near her eyes.

"Coriolanus is waking up," she said, fingers tight around a thermos of broth. "He's still groggy, but he's asking about Lucy Gray. He's worried."

"Of course he is," Virelle murmured, eyes flicking toward the hallway. "He owes her something. That always makes a boy anxious."

Tigris narrowed her eyes.

Virelle's grin was all teeth. "But he's lucky. Lucy Gray is very... forgiving."

She sipped her morphling-laced tea, suppressing a wince as her leg throbbed. The prosthetic talk had started already. The surgeons had done their best, but the tendons wouldn't hold. She would never walk quite the same again.

So be it.

A limp could be played. So could pain. She would lean on a cane and wear her scar like jewelry.

When Coriolanus was well enough to leave his bed, she'd be waiting—crippled, tragic, resilient.

And Lucy Gray would look small in comparison.

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Late that night, after the machines beeped in lullabies and the morphling numbed her mind just enough to dull the burn, she allowed herself to remember the moment the bomb went off.

The beauty of it.

The heat. The scream. The sudden, exhilarating chaos.

It had been like falling into a god's mouth.

For a brief, blazing second, the Capitol had lost control. The mentors had screamed. The tributes had wept. The cameras had cut out. And anything could have happened.

Anything still could.

She turned her head and stared into the dark.

"I'll burn for it," she whispered, "if it gets me there."

Her fingers twitched beneath the sheets, phantom pain echoing down the leg that was no longer whole.

But she had saved Snow.

She'd lied about Lucy Gray.

She'd earned sympathy, mystery, attention.

And in her silence, in her performance, Virelle had become something more than a mentor.

She had become a myth in the making.

Tomorrow, Coriolanus would wake and ask for answers.

She would be there—tea in hand, eyes red-rimmed, voice quivering.

And whatever Lucy Gray said next?

Would not matter.

Because Virelle had already planted the fire.

And now she only had to feed it.

Chapter Text

The Capitol was still weeping.

Black silk fluttered from every tower, every balcony, every screen. Morning programs aired with sad-eyed hosts and string quartets in the background. Reporters used words like tragedy, honor, and legacy as they broadcast images of blood-soaked concrete and twisted iron. The bombing had cracked the surface of the Capitol's self-image—and everyone scrambled to re-polish the mask.

Everyone but Virelle.

She lay stiff in her hospital bed while stylists hovered like gnats, powdering bruises and adjusting the hem of her robe. Her leg, reattached only hours prior, was now gone. Useless tissue, they said. "For aesthetics and mobility," they told her, "the prosthetic will be far more dignified."

Dignified.

Virelle gritted her teeth as the nurse ratcheted the silver limb tighter. It felt like a barbed bracelet around a stump that still itched with phantom pain.

"How's the fit?" the nurse chirped.

I hope you choke on your clipboard.

"Uncomfortable, but I'll get used to it," Virelle muttered sweetly.

She watched the nurse go, then turned her gaze to the polished metal where her calf had once been. A smooth, elegant design—gleaming silver, jointed like some obscene jewelry. It was grotesque. And she would make it iconic.

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At the Academy, some the mentors were gone. The ones who remained looked like war refugees in designer clothes—bandaged, limping, hollow-eyed. The bombing had taken limbs and lives, but more importantly, it had taken control. Now, everything had changed.

And she still had Snow.

He was waiting for her on the marble stairs outside Heavensbee Hall. For once, he wasn't smiling. Not fully. There was something thoughtful in the way his arms were crossed, something guarded in the way he watched her navigate the hover lift with her clinking, unnatural gait.

She hated that he saw her like this.

She loved that he didn't look away.

"Still walking," she said as she approached, breath tight with pain. "Aren't you impressed?"

"You're back earlier than expected."

"They said I'm brave," she replied with a small, brittle smile. "I told them I'm bored."

He let out a quiet breath of laughter, a puff of mist in the cool morning air. "Do you want to go slow?"

"Gods, no. I want to go fast. But I'll settle for pretending not to limp in front of the vultures."

He offered his arm.

She stared at it—pale and steady and bare to the cuff of his dark coat.

Don't, she told herself.

But she did.

His arm was warm under her fingers. Solid. The only part of her that felt human just then.

They walked slowly—he walked slowly—and she focused not on the pain, not on the stares or the sharp hiss of her prosthetic with each step, but on the rhythm of his stride beside hers. On the quiet solidarity. On how he didn't try to help, didn't call attention to her struggle, but simply moved with her.

Like she wasn't broken.

Like she mattered.

It wasn't love.

Not yet.

But it could be something worse.

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Their private meeting with Lucy Gray took place in a room that smelled faintly of blood and antiseptic. Capitol chic.

Lucy Gray sat like a queen in exile—head high, hands folded, body draped in borrowed Capitol fashion that clashed with her wild hair and scuffed boots. She didn't look fragile. She looked like a girl who had survived something unholy and come out stranger, sharper.

Virelle liked her. She liked her rage, her poise, her thorned charm.

She also wanted her bound. Owned. Cracked open.

"Nice dress," Virelle said.

Lucy Gray didn't answer. Just tilted her head, a glint of teeth behind her painted lips.

Coriolanus broke the tension first. "We've been working on some... ideas. For your image."

"Oh?" Lucy Gray's voice was sweet. Too sweet. "Am I a songbird again?"

"No," Virelle purred. "You're a tragedy."

She circled behind Lucy Gray like a predator dressed in silk. Her limp was audible now—click, step, click—but her voice was smooth. "Your lover betrayed you. Left you to die. The Capitol saves you, and in return, you find strength. Defiance. Beauty in grief."

Lucy Gray's jaw tightened. "That didn't happen."

Virelle leaned down near her ear. "But it could have. That's all they need."

Coriolanus frowned. "It's dishonest."

"So is every headline ever written," Virelle replied. "She's a tribute. She's not allowed the truth—only what's useful."

"I'm not a puppet," Lucy Gray said sharply.

"No," Virelle said. "You're a survivor. Use that."

The room hung quiet for a moment.

Then Lucy Gray straightened. Her eyes, when they locked on Coriolanus, were diamond-sharp.

"If I do this," she said, "if I sell your little fiction, then I want something real in return."

He blinked. "What?"

"I want you both to act like I can win."

Neither answered right away.

"I don't want sympathy. Or pity. Or wide eyes from your Capitol friends," Lucy Gray continued. "I want strategy. Belief. If I don't believe it, I lose. If I lose, you both lose."

Coriolanus nodded slowly. "You have my support."

Virelle smiled. "You have my stagecraft."

"And if I die?"

"We don't let that happen," Virelle said.

Lucy Gray didn't thank them. She didn't have to. She simply stood, nodded once, and left with the power of a girl who had walked through fire and learned to breathe in smoke.

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Afterward, Virelle and Coriolanus walked in silence. The stairs outside the hall were cruel today—long, high, polished to a cruel gleam. She paused at the top, her leg aching, her teeth grinding against a snarl she refused to show.

He didn't speak. Just stepped in beside her, slow and steady, as if the world could wait.

They descended together. She stumbled twice.

The second time, his hand caught her elbow. Barely a touch.

But it burned.

"I hate this," she muttered.

"You're doing fine."

"I'm not. I look pathetic. Weak. Broken."

"You look like someone who's still standing."

They stopped on the second landing. She leaned against the banister, and when she looked at him—really looked—she saw that same quiet storm behind his eyes. Not softness. Never that. But something sharper. Something cold. Something like understanding.

She hated how badly she wanted him to touch her again.

She hated how much she liked this version of him—this quiet, coiled, careful boy who walked slow for her and bled ambition with every breath.

She straightened. "You know I'd let the whole world burn to keep winning, don't you?"

His eyes met hers. "So would I."

She smiled.

It was not a smile of comfort.

It was a beginning.

Chapter Text

The Capitol was always at its ugliest when it pretended to be civil.

Virelle adjusted her prosthetic with a hiss of impatience. The latest model was a sleek chrome-and-carbon blend that clinked faintly when it met the Academy marble—modern, efficient, and repulsive. She despised it. Not only because it pulled unnaturally at her thigh with every step or because it forced her to move just a breath slower than she liked—but because it reminded her that she'd survived. And survival, she'd come to learn, had a price.

She caught her reflection in the windowpane as they waited for the mentors' briefing: hair immaculate, red mouth perfect, chin high. Only the occasional falter in her gait betrayed her. That—and Coriolanus.

He didn't rush her. Ever. Not once. She'd noticed. Even today, as they walked together down the marble halls toward the high biology lab, he had deliberately slowed, his gait adjusting without comment. Gentlemanly. Graceful. A Capitol prince.

She hated how it affected her.

The limp, the pain—those were tolerable. But the way his hand always hovered near her back when she wavered? The subtle way his arm brushed hers, never pushing, never guiding, but always present—like a leash without the pull? That made something obscene coil in her.

What would it be like, she wondered as they walked, if he stopped being polite? If he slammed her prosthetic into the wall just to hear the metal clang and see her flinch? If he pressed her down into the polished Academy floor with his hand wrapped tight in her hair and whispered that he preferred her this way—maimed, cornered, cruel?

She nearly stumbled again.

Coriolanus caught the motion, slowing further.

"Are you all right?" he asked, voice low and smooth.

She tilted her head and smiled sweetly. "Never better."

His eyes lingered. And for the first time, she thought she saw it—not pity, not concern. Curiosity. A flicker of it. Darker than it should've been.

Good.

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They gathered in the high biology lab, the mentors all tense and exhausted. Virelle had already started laying her traps. She'd whispered something to Festus about how the District 7 boy was sick with something "contagious"—planted the seed, let it grow. Then she left a heavily edited Capitol clip on the school feed featuring Lysistrata's tribute weeping into the camera. Taken out of context, it looked cowardly. The kind of thing the public would mock.

But that wasn't the fun part.

The fun part was Sejanus.

She had been feeding him soft cruelties all week—seemingly harmless comments about how Marcus had probably deserted him. About how the bombing hadn't taken him, which must say something, right? She never outright mocked him. That would be too obvious. She simply played the role of concerned classmate. Quietly stoking the flame.

Now, as Dr. Gaul explained their next task—an essay on what they loved about war—Virelle leaned forward and whispered just loud enough for Sejanus to hear.

"Maybe you'll finally figure out why Marcus left you."

Sejanus snapped.

"What the hell is wrong with all of you?" he roared, standing up. "You want us to romanticize war? The Hunger Games? You want us to love it?"

Dr. Gaul didn't even blink. "I want you to tell me the truth. If that's not love, it must be something else."

The room fell to silence. Virelle lowered her eyes with the smallest smile and feigned surprise.

Poor, sweet, unraveling Sejanus. So easy to pull apart.

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Later, Coriolanus left to find a guitar for Lucy Gray. Virelle lingered, watching him go from the upper balcony of the Academy courtyard, her hand resting on her cane.

She imagined him pinning her to a piano, blood still crusted in his hair from the bombing. Imagined him gripping her bad leg with white-knuckled cruelty and snarling that he hated how much he needed her. That he didn't know if he wanted to hurt her or fuck her. That both felt the same.

She clenched the balcony railing.

She wanted him to drag her back into the Zoo. Throw her into Lucy Gray's cage and make them both admit the truth: that Capitol kindness was just violence done up in silk and charm. That domination could taste like courtship.

And if he ever let himself want her that way, she'd make him bleed for it.

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When Coriolanus returned with the guitar in hand, she made a show of being unimpressed.

"Sweet of you," she said, tracing the instrument with her finger. "Romance or strategy?"

He didn't answer. But he looked at her for a moment—really looked—and something shifted.

His mind was a mirror of hers, she was certain. He just hadn't admitted it yet. The hunger was there. The contempt, the craving. He admired Lucy Gray, yes—but he'd never fear her. Not like he would fear someone like Virelle. Someone with teeth.

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The mentors were eventually dismissed, and preparations began for Lucy Gray's televised performance.

Virelle returned to her private quarters, leg throbbing, face perfectly composed. She watched the camera feeds setting up on the public screens. She would let Lucy Gray sing. Let the Capitol weep for the songbird with sorrow in her throat.

But Virelle knew better.

It wasn't sorrow the Capitol wanted.

It was spectacle.

And soon, she would make sure they got it.

Chapter Text

Virelle leaned against the doorway of the practice room like she owned it. Her cane was balanced neatly against the wall, her arms folded, her expression unreadable but not unkind. That was the trick—be warm, be watchful. Be everything Lucy Gray Baird needed her to be.

Across the room, Lucy Gray was strumming half-heartedly at the guitar Coriolanus had found for her. The strings buzzed; her fingers were stiff. Her eyes flicked toward the glass where the Peacekeepers watched.

"That's not the song you played yesterday," Coriolanus said.

"No." Lucy Gray met his gaze with tired defiance. "It's a different one."

He stepped forward. "I just think... if we want to keep the audience on your side, maybe something with more hope—"

"Hope?" Lucy Gray scoffed, but the sound lacked heat. "I'll sing what I know."

"You'll sing what gets you sympathy," he said, firmer now. "That song was a death sentence."

Virelle cleared her throat softly, drawing their attention like a hand on a string.

"I disagree," she said, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps—slow, because of the prosthetic, and because it made him watch her. "I think your song was beautiful."

Lucy Gray blinked. "You heard it?"

"I hear everything," Virelle replied sweetly. "And what the Capitol wants more than anything is to feel something. Tragedy... longing... fear dressed as bravery. They want a girl too doomed to live, and too exquisite to look away from."

She stopped in front of Lucy Gray, her gaze piercing. "You're not just a tribute. You're Panem's heartbreak. Their songbird."

There was silence for a beat. Coriolanus's jaw ticked.

"She'll look like she's asking to die," he muttered. "How is that—"

"She won't ask." Virelle turned her head toward him, sharp. "She'll warn us. That's different. That's what sells."

Coriolanus said nothing. His fists were clenched behind his back.

Virelle smiled, soft and poisonous. "Unless you'd prefer her singing your stupid idea about sunshine."

Lucy Gray stared at the floor. The guitar was trembling slightly in her lap.

Virelle crouched slowly in front of her, lowering herself with a quiet hiss of pain from her prosthetic. Her fingers grazed Lucy Gray's knee.

"They'll love you. They have from the start," she whispered. "Even as they bury you in their hearts."

Lucy Gray gave an irregular nod.

The performance would go forward as Virelle wanted.

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Coriolanus stood in the hallway, watching as Lucy Gray took her seat beneath the spotlight.

The moment the lights hit her, she was no longer a girl. She was a vision. Tanned, balanced, bones made of smoke and sorrow.

She opened with a soft pluck of the strings. The melody was haunting, a lullaby in the key of graves. And her voice... her voice hollowed the room out.

It wasn't just about dying. It was about her whole being. Made entertainment. Chewed up by silence and love, consumed by song.

He should've been proud. He should've felt victorious.

Instead, he was seething.

She hadn't sung that song for him.

She hadn't looked at him once.

Virelle stepped up beside him during the final verse, her cane tapping rhythmically against the floor. She leaned in just slightly, her perfume dark and heady.

"You look like someone strangled a dove in your crib," she murmured.

Coriolanus didn't respond. He was watching Lucy Gray, watching the way the crowd leaned forward, their Capitol eyes gleaming with tears.

"She's good," Virelle said. "But she's mine now. I made this. I'm the one they'll remember."

Coriolanus turned to her sharply. "She's mine."

"Oh?" Virelle cocked her head. "Then why is she performing the song I  told her?"

She smiled, slow and wicked. "You're very good at being noble. But tell me, Coriolanus... when you handed her that guitar, was it generosity?" She leaned closer. "Or did you just want to make her sing for you?"

He didn't answer.

But something in his chest twisted.

Virelle turned back to the stage, smug, the prosthetic whirring softly as she shifted her weight. She liked the song. She liked the despair it invoked. She liked the way the Capitol would eat Lucy Gray alive and call it love.

But what she liked most was the fury vibrating off Coriolanus's spine.

That was desire, all tangled up in control. And she would feed it, carefully. Slowly. Like a knife slid under silk.

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The interview ended. Applause erupted. Lucy Gray bowed, ethereal.

Virelle clapped softly.

Coriolanus said nothing.

But his eyes never left Virelle.

Not Lucy Gray.

Virelle.

He was imagining things. Terrible things. Her mouth split open in gasps. Her breath hitched under his hand. Her prosthetic ground against the tile as she writhed and clawed.

She wasn't pretty like Lucy Gray.

She was dangerous.

And that, somehow, made her perfect.

Chapter Text

The Capitol had taken Lucy Gray's performance like communion. Even now, two days later, there were whispers and imitations echoing in salons and classrooms. The song had gone from somber to sacred. Capitol girls tried to hum it in public without weeping. Capitol boys asked who she'd written it for.

But Coriolanus Snow wasn't asking.

He already knew.

And that knowing gnawed at him, a rusting blade somewhere between his ribs.

"She must've had a lover back home," someone said behind him in the Academy corridor, giggling.

"Or she's just a really good actress," another chimed in. "Whoever shaped that image is brilliant."

Brilliant.

That word had been following him around like a fly. And every time he turned to swat it, Virelle Thorne was there.

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He found her in the amphitheater, speaking to a small gathering of mentors and Capitol officials. Her tone was casual but captivating. She wore navy velvet today—formal but soft—and her cane rested lightly against her thigh like a scepter. She never let them see her limp now. She took the pain without a flinch.

"...her tragedy isn't just survival," she was saying. "It's seduction. She sings to a ghost and the Capitol falls in love with her ache. It's timeless. Classic. It works because it's honest—because it hurts."

Someone applauded. Another mentor asked how Virelle had gotten Lucy Gray to agree to such a performance.

Coriolanus stepped forward. "She didn't."

Heads turned. The room quieted.

Virelle raised a brow without turning. "Didn't what?"

"You didn't get her to do anything," he said. "I gave Lucy the guitar. I coached her. I found her song." He stepped beside her, refusing to look at her face. "You didn't write her story—you're just spinning it."

There was a pause. A beat of cool Capitol air.

Then Virelle turned to him with a smile like frostbite.

"Of course, Coriolanus," she said sweetly, her voice pitched just loud enough for everyone to hear. "You gave her the instrument. How terribly romantic. Perhaps you'll also take credit for her hands? Her voice? Her soul?"

He stared at her.

She stepped closer, lowering her voice now, just for him. "Careful," she whispered, her breath grazing his cheek. "You're starting to sound jealous. It's very unseemly."

Then, louder again: "We all just want our tributes to win, don't we?"

The room tittered politely.

He said nothing, burning.

She turned her back on him without hesitation.

He stood frozen. The humiliation settled over his skin like ash.

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Later, he found her alone in the Academy's cafeteria.

"You humiliated me," he said.

"I did," Virelle answered simply.

Coriolanus gritted his teeth. "Why?"

"You accused me." She didn't turn to face him. "And you're not good at it."

"I don't trust you."

"Darling," she said coolly, "that's the first clever thing you've said all day."

She finally turned to him now, and there was something shimmering in her expression—dark, intimate, invasive. "You don't trust me. But you watch me. I see it. Every time I struggle with the prosthetic. Every time I win without smiling. You like the idea of me suffering. But you don't want to be the one who caused it." Her voice dropped. "You want to be the one who owns it."

He swallowed.

"Isn't that what love is, in the Capitol?" she murmured. "Pain wrapped in velvet?"

They stood in silence a moment too long.

Then Virelle gestured lazily to the enclosure below. "You should give her something."

"What?"

"Anything. A keepsake. A token. Make her remember you." Her voice turned syrupy. "Or maybe you're worried she already has someone else to remember."

He turned on her. "You don't know that song was about anyone."

"Yes, I do," she disagreed. "But I know you think it is."

And that was worse, wasn't it?

She gave a single, cutting smile. "Tell her she can win. That'll make her trust you. Then give her something deadly." She glanced at the monkey cage below. "Plenty of options there."

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When he descended to see Lucy Gray that evening, the weight of Virelle's words clung to him like perfume.

Lucy Gray looked up at him warily. Her cheek was bruised from a fall. She smiled anyway.

"I keep thinking it'll get easier," she said. "But I can't stop shaking."

He knelt beside the cage. "You're not alone."

"You say that." She stared at the cracked pavement. "But what happens when it starts?"

He hesitated. Then slowly, from his pocket, he drew the silver compact. His mother's. Cold and ornate and hollow.

She blinked. "I can't take that."

"You can," he said. "It's... for luck."

"Luck?" she repeated. "Or poison?"

He gave a small smile. "Whatever you need it to be."

Something passed between them, unspeakable. Her hand closed over the compact.

And just like that, he felt her slip further from him.

Later, hiding in the dark, Virelle watched them part.

He didn't look back.

Lucy Gray clutched the compact like a charm against death.

Virelle exhaled. She could feel her prosthetic joint locking beneath her, but she didn't shift. Didn't flinch. Her eyes burned.

He'd given her something beautiful. Something useful. Something private.

She hated him for it.

She wanted him more than ever.

He wanted to own Lucy Gray.

She wanted to own him.

And she wasn't losing.

Not to a girl in a cage.

Chapter Text

She saw the kiss.

From her little corner, Virelle watched as Lucy Gray stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips to Coriolanus Snow's. It wasn't long. It wasn't lustful. It was tender. Sweet. A Capitol-safe kiss that sent a nation swooning.

And Virelle didn't blink.

She merely smiled—small and strange, like the twitch of a knife before it goes in.

Let them swoon.

Let the Capitol believe the little rainbow bitch had feelings.

Let Coriolanus believe she was his.

He hadn't even looked to see if anyone was watching. He didn't care.

That—more than the kiss—was what Virelle would remember.

She waited a full minute before turning away, the prosthetic joint in her left leg groaning faintly as she shifted. It still wasn't right. Still clicked too loudly, still tugged the nerves wrong when she bent. And Coriolanus, ever the gentleman, never acknowledged it—but always slowed his pace, always offered a hand without being asked.

He kissed another girl with those hands.

Virelle fantasized, briefly, about sawing off Lucy Gray's lips. Just the lips. She wouldn't scream too loudly if her vocal cords weren't left intact.

But that was sloppy thinking.

Virelle didn't whine or wallow. She strategized.

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Their final mentor-tribute meetings were brief. Sanitized. Overseen by Peacekeepers behind one-way glass. Virelle’s meeting with Lucy Gray Baird was performed under the full theater of cordiality. No cameras—yet still, a performance.

Lucy Gray sat on the opposite side of the table with folded hands and guarded eyes. Her wrists bore healing bruises from the shackles. Her hair was messier than usual. Her voice was hoarse from singing so much in rehearsals.

“You’ve been… helpful,” Lucy Gray said flatly.

Virelle smiled. “Helpful? That’s practically a Capitol love letter.”

“I think I’ve got a chance,” Lucy added after a pause. “I know I’m not the strongest. Or the fastest. But people like me, they’ll send donations for gifts.”

“You’re not wrong,” Virelle murmured, folding her hands. “But don’t confuse being liked with being loved. And don’t confuse being loved with being safe.”

A tense silence settled between them.

Virelle’s tone shifted, silk turning to steel. “Charm them. Sing. But never forget: you are not their songbird. You are their spectacle.”

Lucy Gray blinked. “You’re saying they’ll turn on me.”

“I’m saying,” Virelle leaned in ever so slightly, “you should be the one who turns first.”

Another pause.

“I'll try to look out with Jessup,” Lucy Gray said softly.

Virelle smirked. “Oh, I’m sure he’s looking out for you.”

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Later, she passed Sejanus in the biology corridor—he was alone, pacing, muttering. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Have you ever been to District 2?” he asked her suddenly, when he saw her.

Virelle tilted her head. “Only in nightmares.”

“Marcus was my friend,” Sejanus said. “Before all this. I shared food with him.”

“And now?” she prompted, eyes gleaming.

“He’s in the arena somewhere,” Sejanus said, voice thick, “and no one will tell me where. They say he’s gone. I know he’s not gone.”

Virelle laid a hand lightly on his arm. “Then maybe he’s waiting. For someone to help him.”

He blinked at her. “What?”

She smiled. “You care too much, Sejanus. That makes you dangerous.”

She left him there—confused, trembling, on the edge of another outburst.

Just where she wanted him.

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The broadcast began in silence.

All mentors were present. A few wore black ribbons for the dead. The rest wore masks of composure. Coriolanus sat to Virelle’s left, his expression unreadable, but she could feel the tension roiling off of him like heat.

On-screen, the camera was set to pan over the arena. The audience was expecting spectacle: the tributes clustered, a dramatic countdown.

But the image that bloomed into focus was not the arena floor.

It was Marcus.

Crucified.

Not on wood, but on stone. Chained like a monument. His body bruised, bloodied, shirtless, one eye swollen shut. A stone beam ran behind him like a spine, and from it, rope bound his arms in a grotesque T-shape. The wind tugged at his matted hair. His lips barely moved.

There was no audio. Just the sight of his broken, breathing body, displayed for all of Panem.

A girl two seats down from Virelle vomited.

Sejanus let out a scream—an actual scream—and threw his desk away.

"You're monsters! All of you," before storming away and outside.

Coriolanus stiffened beside her, but said nothing. His jaw twitched once.

Virelle didn’t move. Her eyes glowed with calculated interest.

“It’s perfect,” she murmured.

Coriolanus turned toward her sharply. “What?”

“He’s not dead,” she whispered. “He’s barely surviving. Unkillable. It’s not a death sentence—it’s a warning.” Her fingers flexed against her cane. “Panem doesn’t just punish. It displays.”

“You’re sick.”

“Am I?” She tilted her head. “Or do I simply understand the point of the Games?”

Their eyes locked.

Coriolanus saw then, for the first time, not just a rival, or even a manipulator.

He saw a mirror. Distorted. Hung at a wicked angle. But undeniably reflective.

“Lucy Gray won’t survive you,” he said quietly.

Virelle smiled.

“No,” she replied. “But you might.”

Chapter Text

The gong sounded like a funeral bell.

From the Capitol viewing balcony, high above the arena, the sky looked unnaturally clear. Sunlight slanted across the cracked dirt, catching the jagged remnants of the bombing—metal, ash, the bones of buildings, the bones of children. The cameras tracked the tributes as they spilled into the wasteland. Somewhere among them: Lucy Gray.

Coriolanus leaned forward in his seat.

So did Virelle.

"Look at her," Virelle whispered, her voice almost reverent. "She's dressed for death."

Lucy Gray's rainbow dress, dulled by grime and sleepless nights, flared slightly as she darted toward the shade of a collapsed pillar. She was clever—not running toward the middle, not hesitating. Just weaving. Just vanishing. With Jessup by her side.

Coriolanus said nothing.

"She doesn't need your protection anymore, Snow," Virelle added silkily. "She's something else now. The Capitol's daughter. My invention."

He glanced at her. Her prosthetic leg was draped neatly beneath her flowing red uniform skirts, the polished chrome catching flashes of light. She wore a pin in her hair—Capitol pearl—and lipstick three shades too dark. The kind of color someone wore when mourning, or seducing.

Virelle's eyes glittered. "Would you rather worship her from afar... or rule her through us?"

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The broadcast flickered, cutting to the mentors’ commentary room. Rows of sleek silver chairs, walls lined with blinking monitors, and in the center: Lucky Flickerman, all teeth and hair gel.

“With me now is Capitol Academy’s own Virelle Sarrano, mentor to District 12’s Lucy Gray Baird,” he chirped. “Virelle, Lucy Gray’s made quite the impression with her song, but now the bloodshed begins. How do you see her odds?”

Virelle smiled—a lazy, calculated thing.

“She’s an underdog, yes. But we forget the underdog always sees the ankle first.” She tilted her head. “People say she’s fragile. I say she’s willing.”

Lucky blinked, thrown. “Willing to what?”

“To be remembered,” she said simply. “The Capitol will never forget the girl who smiled into her execution. Or the mentors who helped her sharpen her smile.”

She didn’t look at the camera. She looked at Coriolanus, seated silently beside her. His jaw was tight.

And that smile—his mother's compact tucked in Lucy Gray’s pocket—had been his idea.

Hadn’t it?

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When the feed cut to Dr. Gaul's interview segment, Virelle crossed her legs with a soft metallic clink.

“She’s got a new scent, you know,” she said idly, sipping her Capitol tonic. “Lucy Gray. Half tragedy, half sugar. You fed it to her like milk.”

Coriolanus didn’t answer. She leaned closer.

“But she doesn’t know how to use it,” she whispered. “She’s not cruel enough.”

Her voice lowered. “We are.”

He turned to her slowly. Their faces were too close.

Virelle’s fingers brushed his hand, then moved upward—hovering near his jaw but not touching it. “You want something you can break, Snow. That’s why you picked her. But tell me the truth—”

She tilted her chin. “When I fell on the stairs last week, and you bent down and helped me up, your hand against my spine—”

He flinched slightly.

“Did you think about what it would feel like to press my mouth against the floor?” she asked softly. “Just a little? Did you think about kissing me just to see if I’d bite?”

Coriolanus’s throat worked, but the sound of his voice never came.

“Did you?”

Virelle smiled.

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The air in the control room turned electric as the broadcast cut back to the arena.

Marcus’s body still hung like a warning.

Lamina crept forward, silent and trembling. A blade in her hand, bloodless face contorted in something like mercy. She reached him. And with one clean stroke, ended it.

The Capitol fell quiet.

Coriolanus swallowed.

Pup, Lamina’s mentor, stood and clapped. “That’s my girl,” he shouted into the camera. “Send her everything. She’s the kind of tribute Panem needs!”

The sponsors erupted.

Coriolanus sat back in his chair. Virelle watched his reaction carefully.

“I see it now,” she said softly. “You don’t want Lucy Gray to win. You want her to owe you forever.”

“And what do you want?” he asked.

Virelle leaned in. “To be the voice she hears when she kills.”

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Hours passed. The tributes disappeared into hiding. Lucy was silent. Hunger crept into the quiet. The Capitol buzzed with rising restlessness.

Then—

Mrs. Plinth was in the Snow apartment. Crying. Shaking.

“He’s gone,” she wept. “My boy—he didn’t come home last night—”

Tigris went to comfort her. Coriolanus turned to the screen.

A figure walked through the arena under moonlight. Steady. Familiar.

Mrs. Plinth gasped. “Sejanus…”

Virelle stood behind Coriolanus now. The room smelled like copper and rosewater. Her fingers brushed his shoulder. Just once.

“Now it really begins,” she murmured.

Chapter Text

The screen in the Snow apartment flickered violently, awash in grayscale static before stabilizing. It showed Marcus's mangled body still on the ground, but something was different now. Someone—no, Sejanus—stood before it, solemnly laying down what appeared to be breadcrumbs.

The Grandma'am gasped.

Mrs. Plinth made a strange keening sound in her throat, one hand flying to her mouth.

Virelle, standing in the shadows, didn't move. Not even to blink. Her arms were folded, her weight shifted onto her good leg. The prosthetic—an experimental Capitol model forged from carbon fiber and synthetic sinew—ached like a phantom limb might if ghosts could scream.

She studied Sejanus on the screen with detached curiosity, as if analyzing a glitch in a machine. Not admiration. Not sympathy. Just interest. He was fragile, idealistic, so easily breakable. A cracked teacup pretending it could still hold water.

And Coriolanus... His name was summoned like a prayer by the sudden ringing of the phone.

Dr. Gaul.

Virelle watched him from the periphery as he took the call. His mouth grew tighter by the syllable, jaw set, voice clipped and formal. He hung up and turned to the room, eyes scanning the faces as if hunting for the most painful thing he could say. "They want me to retrieve Sejanus from the arena."

"You?" Virelle's voice was velvet and venom. "What a poetic choice. Send the snake to collect the lamb."

But there was no amusement in her tone. Just calculation.

At the Snow apartment, the screen was darkened.

The Capitol couldn't signal a cut, it would be too suspicious.

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At the edge of the arena, Peacekeepers were prepping Coriolanus with body armor and the illusion of safety. Virelle remained behind with Mrs. Plinth, tucked just beyond the line of cameras and sponsor tents.

She wasn't meant to be there, not really. But she'd insisted—under the guise of emotional support for the Plinth matriarch. In truth, she wanted proximity to chaos.

"You're certain he'll bring him back?" Mrs. Plinth asked, white-gloved fingers twitching.

"No," Virelle said simply.

The silence that followed wasn't comfort, but consequence. As Coriolanus stepped through the barricade and into the cratered dust bowl of the arena, something in Virelle twisted. He looked smaller, insignificant beneath the sickly Capitol light, a boy who'd swallowed ambition and called it a backbone.

But he moved with purpose. And purpose was power.

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The chaos at the barricade was already deafening by the time she reached the edge.

The Peacekeepers had formed a partial line, shouting orders, weapons drawn. Somewhere beyond them, gunfire echoed across concrete and scorched metal.

Then the figures emerged—Coriolanus first, limping, bloodied, dragging something heavy. Sejanus followed, half-collapsed, one leg slick with crimson. Between them, Marcus's corpse hung like an anchor.

A tribute's scream rang out. Bobbin—or what was left of him—lay sprawled just beyond the line.

The Peacekeepers moved, yanking the boys toward safety.

And Virelle—against every rule and every scream—ran in to help.

She reached Coriolanus just as he stumbled, his body slumping sideways. Her hands found his collar, his belt, anywhere she could grip. She heaved with him, dragging him from the dirt and heat—

And her prosthetic snapped.

The sound was clean and sharp, a metallic crack that jolted through her bones. The stabilizer rod bent inward with a shriek of warped tension, and the world tilted as she collapsed beside him, the jagged edge of her brace digging into the ground.

Pain—white and absolute—ripped through her thigh.

Coriolanus groaned beneath her, still conscious. Their eyes met for half a breath. He tried to push up. She moved with him.

Together, they dragged themselves across the threshold as Peacekeepers closed in.

Then black boots descended around them, and hands tore them apart.

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When she came to in the medical transport, her leg was braced, and her mouth was open in a scream she didn't remember making. She thrashed against the straps. "Where is he?"

"In surgery," someone muttered. "Quiet down."

"I helped him," she snarled. "Don't you dare take me somewhere else—"

But the drugs were already pulling her under again.

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Dr. Gaul's clinic was sterile and humming with unspeakable things. Virelle didn't flinch when they lifted her onto the table. She did flinch when Gaul herself entered.

"My little vulture," Gaul drawled. "How poetic that it's your leg that gives out, and not your spine."

"I'd prefer my brains remain unmolested," Virelle replied through clenched teeth.

A lab assistant numbed the leg. Gaul supervised with the morbid interest of a butcher observing a soufflé. They examined the shattered prosthetic, muttering about tensile strength and experimental upgrades.

"She held," Virelle said, voice low. "Until it mattered."

"That's when all things fail," Gaul murmured. "Including people."

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When Coriolanus finally arrived—arm in a sling, shirt torn, face pale with exhaustion—Virelle was propped upright in one of the private recovery rooms, her ruined brace replaced with a reinforced exoskeletal model.

"You're limping," he said flatly.

"You're bleeding," she countered. "What a pair."

He didn't respond. Just sat on the edge of the chair opposite her, eyes darting over the bruises on her wrist, the pressure clamp on her thigh. And then, unexpectedly, his hand reached out and adjusted the pillow behind her back.

Not out of care. Not truly.

Just control.

Virelle stared at him, silent for a beat too long.

"I saw you kill him," she said finally. "Bobbin. You crushed his skull in."

His hand paused mid-air. "It was him or me."

"I know." Her voice lowered, thick with something half-formed. "And you chose you. You'll always choose you."

His jaw clenched. "I don't have the luxury of choosing otherwise."

Virelle leaned forward, teeth bared in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "That's what makes you... exquisite."

And something shifted in the room then, thick as ash and silent as regret.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Two monsters stitched together by war and expectation, sitting in whitewashed silence. Blood on his hands. Fire still in hers.

And the Games had only just begun.

Chapter Text

The new prosthetic was sleeker than the last. Glossier, smoother, engineered for stealth and speed—though Virelle loathed it all the same. The Capitol engineers praised it as a marvel of synthetic engineering, but to her it felt like a leash. One she hadn't asked for.

It hissed faintly when she walked, and every step reminded her she was now incomplete.

Virelle waited in the marble vestibule of the Academy, its stained-glass dome painting the stone floor in ruby and gold. She could hear the voices of her fellow mentors beyond the doors—some still whispering about the explosion, others already gossiping about the Plinth prize.

A full ride to the University.

Sponsored by the Plinths, announced by Sejanus, who had nearly died in that same arena.

It should've been a triumph. Virelle should have smiled and clapped like the rest. But her jaw clenched instead.

Not for Sejanus. Not for the University.

For him.

She saw Coriolanus enter through the side door, stiff in his uniform, his left arm still bandaged from Bobbin's knife. He looked tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix—but the kind that came from guilt gnawing at the bone.

And yet, when his gaze slid over the room and landed on her, something taut in her chest thrummed.

He didn't look at her with pity.

He looked at her like she was still whole.

He came to stand beside her without a word. She didn't glance up. Not right away. It was always more satisfying to make him wait.

"Your limp's improved," he murmured.

"Yours hasn't," she replied sweetly. "How gallant. We match again."

He smiled thinly. "As ever."

There was something terrible and beautiful in it—this dance of theirs, two people bound by shared ruin and mutual hunger. His politeness was a knife she wanted to turn in her own hands.

And yet... he still slows his step beside me. He doesn't mind the rhythm of the limb. He doesn't look away.

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Inside the auditorium, the mentors gathered in neat rows before the main screen. Strabo Plinth sat at the center dais, with Sejanus at his side. Sejanus sat awkwardly by his father, face stiff, eyes slightly glazed. He looked like a boy pretending to be a man, mouthing the script written for him.

A University scholarship.

For the mentor of the winning tribute.

Virelle didn't look at the Plinths. She looked at Coriolanus instead.

He said nothing. Not a word. But she saw the shift in his shoulders, the slight curl of his fingers where they rested on his lap.

Oh, it burned him.

It burned him that the prize was now attached to Sejanus. That the future he wanted had strings now—strings tied to the boy who'd betrayed the Games by stepping into that arena.

Virelle leaned closer, her voice a whisper of silk and smoke.

"You know," she said, "you could still win. But it won't be by holding Lucy Gray's hand. You'll need to own her. Shape her. Break her, if that's what it takes."

Coriolanus didn't turn his head. But she saw the muscle jump in his jaw.

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Later, they watched the feed together from the mentor lounge.

It began with Coral, Mizzen, and Tanner gutting the District 5 tribute like he was a fish pulled fresh from the Capitol River. It was messy and efficient. No flair.

Virelle made a sharp note on her tablet and murmured something cutting about Coral's lack of camera awareness.

Then Lucy Gray burst out of a tunnel. Her braid was caked with dust, her face streaked with tears. Behind her, Jessup stumbled like a storm, his face wild, his mouth frothing.

Foam.

Rabies.

Virelle stilled.

Coriolanus's hands gripped the edge of the console, knuckles bleaching white.

"What—what is he doing?" he muttered.

Virelle watched with dark fascination. "He's going to kill her. Look at his eyes. They're gone."

Onscreen, Lucy Gray screamed.

The horror in her voice sent a shiver down Virelle's spine—and not of fear.

She leaned forward, riveted.

A weaponized breakdown. A live unraveling. Perfect.

Coriolanus was already ordering water to be sent. A foolish, useless gesture.

Jessup shrieked at the sight of it.

Hydrophobia.

Virelle remembered the posters from the war—Capitol mothers duct-taping their children's mouths shut to keep the foam from spreading. She smiled faintly.

Lysistrata, to her credit, acted fast. Waterbombing him with sponsor packages until he turned and fled.

Then the fall. The final scream. The sickening crunch.

Jessup died.

Lucy Gray didn't run.

She crawled to him. Cleaned the foam from his lips. Covered his face with a cloth.

And Virelle's smile vanished.

The screen pulsed in silence.

Then Coriolanus whispered, "She's going to win."

His voice was hollow.

She turned to him sharply. "Not unless you take her back from them."

He looked at her.

And Virelle let him see it—just for a second.

All of it.

Her want. Her jealousy. Her fury. Her twisted worship.

"She's not you," she said.

It was a fact. A threat. A promise.

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That night, Virelle watched the interview segment from her personal TV in the dark, run-down house she called home.

Lucky Flickerman was listing the mentors still in play. She let his voice wash over her as her fingers traced the edge of her new brace.

Coriolanus would never belong to Lucy Gray. Not truly.

He didn't love her. He needed her.

And someday soon, he would learn the difference.

Virelle would teach him.

Lesson by lesson.

Scar by scar.