Only Hunger

The Capitol glimmered brighter than ever that night.

The interviews were being held in the City Circle, its grand stage lit with sweeping lights and garish gold. The audience buzzed with excitement, dressed in absurdly lavish attire. The Victors lined up backstage in silence, each waiting for Caesar Flickerman to call their name, each knowing that this interview could be their last.

Cordelia stood with her arms folded tightly across her chest, her breathing measured but shallow. Her outfit shimmered like liquid sapphire, cascading down her form like waves under moonlight. Her stylist had gone with a sea nymph motif again — a callback to her Games, as always — but this time, her makeup was darker. Sleeker. There was a coldness to her look that the Capitol loved to romanticize but never truly understood.

"Try not to glare at the cameras," Johanna teased behind her. "They might think you actually care."

Cordelia didn’t turn to look at her. “You ever think about how we’re all dressed like we’re going to our own funerals?”

Johanna snorted. “Please. I plan to be buried in something flashier.”

Then Caesar’s voice echoed through the speakers: “And now, the Capitol’s very own siren of the sea — the beloved Victor of the 66th Games — Cordelia Odair from District Four!”

The applause was thunderous.

Cordelia walked onto the stage with a confidence that had been drilled into her, a practiced sway of the hips, a delicate smile tugging at her lips. She sat beside Caesar, who beamed at her like she was a miracle come to life.

“Cordelia, you look ravishing as always!” Caesar declared, taking her hand with a flourish. “You’ve always had a way of stealing the show, my dear.”

“Old habits die hard,” she replied smoothly, her voice velvet and steel.

“Oh, I love it,” Caesar said, leaning in as if sharing a secret. "

"Now, let’s talk about the Games. Everyone’s curious — what’s it like to return? What’s it like knowing you’re back where it all began?”

Cordelia paused.

She could lie. Say something poetic, something that would keep the Capitol swooning.

Instead, she said, “It feels quite close to Zyaire. Maybe, I'll soon follow him." Her and Zyaire's story had always been loved by the Capitol. They were the first star-crossed lovers. It was a nightmare to her losing the love of her life.

The crowd echoed "No" and shouted their protest. Of course, Cordelia was loved by the Capitol.

Caesar blinked, caught off guard for only a second, before pasting on his polished smile again. “Oh, Cordelia, ever the poet. Always turning tragedy into beauty.” He chuckled nervously, but Cordelia didn’t smile back.

Her expression remained still, almost serene—like the ocean before a storm.

“I’m not turning it into anything,” she said softly, yet the weight of her voice cut through the noise. “I’m just surviving it.”

A silence settled over the crowd, uncomfortable and heavy, like static before a lightning strike. Even the Capitol, in all its glittering oblivion, could feel something crack beneath her words.

Caesar, ever the professional, cleared his throat and tried to steer the mood back. “Well, we know you’re a fighter. And the people of Panem believe in you. We all do.”

Cordelia tilted her head. “Do they?”

Applause erupted again, eager to drown out the tension. Cordelia let them. She leaned back slightly, crossing her legs with that familiar air of poise she’d mastered over the years. Let them cheer. Let them pretend.

“Cordelia,” Caesar said, voice warm again, “before we let you go, any last words for your fans watching tonight?”

Cordelia’s eyes flicked up, not to the cameras—but to the sky dome above them, where not even stars were real.

“If this is a love story,” she said, “I hope it ends in fire.”

The silence was sharp, and then the music swelled as if on cue, Caesar rising and laughing like it was all part of the show.

“Cordelia Odair, ladies and gentlemen! Stunning and fearless as ever!”

She stood, bowed ever so slightly, and walked off the stage. Her heels struck the floor like clockwork, deliberate and final. As she stepped back behind the curtain, Johanna met her with a slow clap and a smirk.

“Nice touch,” she said. “The Capitol’s gonna be writing poems about that line for weeks.”

Cordelia didn’t answer. Her heart pounded not from nerves—but from the taste of defiance she’d just placed on the Capitol’s tongue.

Let them remember.

Let them all remember.