Only Hunger

Cordelia let out a sigh of relief as she watched their female tribute exchange a nod with the others in the Career pack. For now, she was safe. For now. How long that would last, Cordelia didn’t know. The Careers turned on each other eventually — always did. But safety, even borrowed and brittle, was still something.

She slumped back in her seat, rubbing her temple with two fingers, the flickering light of the screen casting shadows on her face. Her body was still, but her mind raced with calculations, worst-case scenarios, and flickers of hope she didn’t dare name out loud.

Finnick was already gone — swept into the Capitol's inner circles, charming his way into sponsors’ pockets with that practiced grin and those haunted eyes. He played the game well. Too well. And Cordelia hated that he had to.

She had her own game to play.

A Capitol Peacekeeper had found her not long ago, his voice clipped and formal. “Miss Odair. The President requests your presence.”

Not an invitation. A summons.

Now, she sat in the too-cold waiting room outside President Snow’s office, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her back rigid. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint ticking of an ornate clock on the wall. Time dragged like a blade.

She knew what this was about. It was always about the same thing. Appearances. Control. Obedience.

President Snow liked to remind his Victors that they were still pieces in his game — not players.

Cordelia’s mind drifted as she waited. She thought of her tribute, somewhere in that twisted arena. She thought of Zyaire, of the salt on his lips and the warmth of his voice. She thought of the price they paid for survival, and how even winning left you hollow.

No one ever wins the Games. That was the truth they never wrote in Capitol history books. Even the Victors were just survivors of a different battlefield. Bruised. Branded. Owned.

The heavy doors creaked open. A Peacekeeper gestured her in.

Cordelia rose, spine straight, chin high. She slipped her mask back on — the poised, distant beauty the Capitol adored. But under it all, her heart beat with quiet defiance.

She would walk into that room like a wave about to break. And she would endure.

Because what choice did she have?

The office was just as she remembered it — sterile, clinical, and fragrant with a sickly-sweet perfume of blood roses. The walls were lined with vases of them, thorned and trimmed to cruel perfection. President Snow sat behind his desk, hands folded neatly, smile cold and calculated.

“Miss Odair,” he greeted, as if this were a friendly visit. “So glad you could make time.”

Cordelia stepped forward, refusing to bow her head. “You didn’t leave me much of a choice.”

Snow’s smile widened, teeth too white against his pale lips. “Oh, but that’s the illusion, isn’t it? Choice. Control. We let the Victors think they still have some of it.”

Cordelia didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Her silence had always been louder than her words.

Snow stood, slow and deliberate, and walked around his desk. “You’ve been a star since your Games, Cordelia. The Capitol loves you. Still tells stories about you and Zyaire. Tragic. Beautiful. Profitable.”

Cordelia’s jaw tensed.

He stopped just inches from her, his voice softening into something more venomous. “And now, it’s time to give the Capitol something more. You remember how this works, don’t you?”

She did. Finnick had been sold long before her. His charm, his body — offered to the Capitol’s elite as a living souvenir. Cordelia had lasted longer, protected somewhat by her haunting love story. But even tragedies lose their novelty.

She bit back the bile rising in her throat.

“Who is it this time?” she asked, her voice a dead thing.

Snow didn’t answer with a name. Instead, he extended a card — thin, white, with only a room number and a time written in delicate script. It was always like this. Quiet. Elegant. Disgusting.

“You’ll be discreet,” he said, “and grateful. These people are powerful. Kind, when they’re pleased.”

Cordelia took the card. Her hand didn’t shake. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

She turned to leave.

“And Cordelia?” he called after her. “Smile for them. You are, after all, a Victor.”

She didn’t look back.

That night, she sat on the edge of a lavish hotel bed, staring at herself in the vanity mirror. Her makeup was flawless, her dress obscene in its luxury, and she had never felt more like a weapon polished for display. Not a person. A prize.

Her fingers traced the edge of the Capitol card, now folded and torn at the corner.

There was a knock at the door.

Cordelia stood.

She smoothed the dress down with cold hands, let her face fall into that perfect, poised expression they loved so much.

And she walked to the door.

Because no one ever wins the Games.

They just keep playing.