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dotieeee · 3 months

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The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 8

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 8 Warnings:

Noncon elements, drugging, somnophilia, Snow being creepy af, experiments conducted on children (because it isn't Hunger Games without it lol), jealous Snow if you squint, violence

Replay Level 7

Ready? Level 8 Start:

You’re startled back to your senses when your communicuff beeps in your pocket. Not even halfway through the week and you’re already feeling the effects of not getting enough sleep since you began working for Coriolanus Snow. Even during the weekend before, when you were supposed to be resting, or going out for coffee or shopping, or whatever the hell it is that young adults such as yourself do during their spare time, you were hiding in your room, paralysed with worry for the direction your uncle’s project has gone to.

His name and yours, now part of the mindless slaughter of district children whose only crime was to be born poor in the wrong place.

You get nightmares almost every day now since you began working at the Citadel. Not that you can remember any of them; they slip from your grasp like smoke the moment your Uncle Cas wakes you. Every time he gently shakes you back to reality and tells you that you’ve been crying out for your parents again, all you see is his face, worn beyond his years of working, toiling, taking care of you, worrying about you, making sure you were happy. Knowing what you already know about where his life’s work is heading, kills you inside just thinking of telling him.

You play the voice message, thankful it isn’t from your tyrannical new boss who always seems to find new ways to hog your time all to himself. It’s embarrassing enough you got woken up by him to find his coat draped on you, with F3 arriving for his shift just in time to see him plant a kiss on your head. This morning, you had hardly placed your bag down on your desk when F1 made teasing remarks about you being in denial.

What’s the old saying? About denial not only being a river in Egypt? Did it also say anything about being willing to drown oneself in it to be put out of misery?

The message you play is from F2. She says there’s a shipment waiting at the gates for Acacius Innis, which they suspect are the drives your uncle supposedly ordered for his station, and you need to sign off on it as his replacement. Maybe he ordered them before discovering he was going to be promoted.

You take your barely coherent self to the entrance where a man in courier uniform flipping through receipts on a clipboard is waiting for you, a few medium-sized boxes stacked by his feet with the Innis Tech logo and a District 3 seal. He looks up from his clipboard and greets you with a smile as soon as you get near him. You know that greying hair and the lines at the corner of his eyes.

The bartender at Strabo’s party.

“Sign here, please,” he says as he hands you his clipboard and a pen.

He doesn’t seem to recognise you, but even in your sleep-deprived state, those features are unmistakable. He acknowledges your signature with a tip of his hat, a small ‘thank you,’ and walks away.

Maybe he works two jobs, you surmise. You think nothing of it any further as you head back to your work, while a couple of peacekeepers lug the boxes along. They take them to your office where you pore through their contents – as expected, they’re just empty drives, plus a single floppy disk with a blank label. You stow the disk in your drawer, thinking it must’ve been just a freebie or some playful inside joke between your uncle and his ex-wife.

It's almost nine by the time your final batch of unit testing is finished, and when Coriolanus Snow arrives in your office to check your progress, you give him the news he’d been waiting for:

“We’re ready for integration testing.”

The perversely delighted expression that grows on his face is something you’d never like to see in many other circumstances.

This night’s sleep proves elusive, just hours of tossing and turning, drifting in and out, only for you to fall asleep then wake up again with your uncle’s worry-plastered face, your lack of proper rest affecting the both of you. In the end, you don’t get any more shut-eye aside from the three or four hours you already had.

As you take your third cup of coffee at a quarter past eight in the morning on a Wednesday, that’s when you know you’re eventually going to crash. You just hope to anyone who bothers to listen that it doesn’t happen during your presentation to Volumnia Gaul.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re making your way to the designated testing room a few doors away from your office. The night shift crew from last night scrambled to finish the set-up according to the end-of-day report from F3, and since you’re early anyway, checking for last-minute adjustments can’t hurt.

You flick the lights on inside the room, gasping at the sight that greets you.

The space is humongous, with its high ceilings and carpeted floors. The room slopes towards a flat centre which has already been fitted with several computer sets, just like you instructed, arranged in the form of a pyramid, with the three in the middle set-up with multiple screens. The entire set faces a total of twenty-nine monitors built into the wall: twelve on either side, with four more below the largest one at the centre. To your left are three windows made of glass, covered from the inside with curtains you can’t see through. You find it peculiar that three more sets of computers are installed just before the windows, but you decide to ignore it, thinking it might just be something they couldn’t remove before this day. The thing is massive, after all.

You look around, your eyes landing on the glass observation deck where you assume Dr Gaul would stay. From that cushy little box, she would observe the entire experiment with her piercing, mismatched eyes, revelling in the future horrors your work will bring about.

The door to the testing room echoes as it opens, making you almost jump in place. You can’t tell whether it’s the nerves, or the caffeine, or the lack of sleep that’s making you more agitated than usual, but also maybe it’s because of the person who had just arrived, taking calculated steps towards you with his footsteps echoing despite the carpeted floors.

“Good morning, Nellie,” Coriolanus Snow greets you with a tilt of his head and a smile, and as warm as that greeting might look, it’s often hard to tell what lies behind that mask of his. Whatever it is isn’t good.

Still, you greet him back just as warmly as if the fact that he’d be evaluating your performance today isn’t bothering you at all. “Good morning, Coryo.”

Your mentor comes close inches before you, invading your space as always. He peers into your face with those striking blue eyes before worry etches into his. “Sugarplum, you have not been sleeping well,” he deduces correctly. “Are you okay?”

You wave off his concern with a shake of your head. “I’ll sleep better when the tests are over.”

“Tell me about it,” he says with a chuckle. He pauses for a while, his gaze never straying from your lips. You quell the need to move away from him. As an afterthought, he assures you, “You’ll do perfectly today; I know that much.”

You wish you had the same confidence he has in you as you have for yourself.

The twins arrive for a final inspection thirty minutes before your presentation to Dr. Gaul. You spend the rest of the remaining time inspecting the equipment with them, ensuring everything is in place. Every monitor mounted on the wall is turned on, and the computers begin powering up, prompting the screens to flash the Hunger Games screensaver. They check the computer facing the glass windows last, which as far as you remember, isn’t on the list of equipment you had asked them to prepare. You ask them why it needs a look over, but their response is vague.

“It’s the first agenda for after lunch’s presentation. Mr Innis supervised the testing for this before, so we’ll take care of the demo,” F2 says.

Volumnia Gaul arrives exactly at nine, escorted by two stoic peacekeepers in their grey-blue uniforms. Today, she wears her usual lab coat, pristine white morphing into scarlet, her gloves made of leather of the bloody shade. You join in when everyone in the room welcomes her.

“Mr Snow.” Her drawling voice greets your mentor. “You have been hard at work, you and your little apprentice,” she glances at you, drumming her gloved fingers together her smile widening in anticipation. “Now I gather you’ve a little show for me, Mr Snow. Let the theatre commence!”

At her cue, Coriolanus officially welcomes her to the integration test, while you initiate Begin Game on the main command console.

You step aside so you can show Dr Gaul the main command console’s user interface: everything from camera control, drone management software, motion tracking and the tribute odds system, the vital signs tracking software, and overall game environment controls software, each displayed on a single monitor hooked on main – everything you and your uncle spent blood, tears and sweat on, contained in a single computer station.

“...In other words,” you conclude, “The main command console is the brains of the entire operation. It oversees everything, even the consoles used by the gamemakers, the mentors, and the operators. This is what we use to begin the Game, and it’s programmed to automatically save game data when only one tribute remains, which it detects because of the vitals tracking device. Override requests go to this console, as well.”

Dr Gaul’s eyes are glowing, but you know that it isn’t because of the lights on the monitors. A despicable grin dances on her features as she chuckles lowly to herself.

“My, oh my, what a promising start, Ms Innis,” she says softly with delight, her eyes shifting only from screen to screen. “This is just magnificent.”

You move on to the console beside the main, the one you’ve programmed as the gamemaker console which F1 will demonstrate. She navigates the interface while you expound the functions: the ability to shift camera angles, alerts for donations made to a tribute on the tribute status screen, tribute status and odds percentages onscreen...

“...and most importantly, the game environment control. Basic commands such as the activating of traps and releasing of any mutts...availability, of course, depends on the environment.”

F1 chimes in, “If I may direct your attention to the test arena being flashed on the monitors, please.” He waves a hand to the camera angle showing the Citadel basement: nothing but grey walls and decommissioned equipment archived or otherwise abandoned.

“Putting that useless old space to use, I see,” Dr Gaul smirks.

“The team has installed several mini explosives in the space, which we can activate with a single click,” says F2.

“That, and an artificial weather control system – bring on the heat, or the cold, or the rain,” F1 adds proudly. F2 runs a command on the console, letting artificial rain down on a small section of the makeshift arena, which darkens the grey walls and initiates a spark in one of the abandoned equipment.

“Some of those might still be plugged into an electrical source, which could prove hazardous,” you comment, but F1 brushes off your concerned look.

“Oh yeah, we hooked it up to a separate source,” he just replies vaguely.

“Add acid rain.”

Everyone’s heads turn to Dr Gaul at her suggestion. Her smile just widens, revealing her white teeth, her eyes brimming with barely contained excitement. She drums her fingers together and elaborates, “Acid rain, acid rain; melt their skins, o what great pain!”

You turn away to feign browsing through the console’s tabs, while Coriolanus clears his throat and casually suggests adding burn medicine and burn relief ointments to the mentor inventory.

F1 and F2 merely nod, and you three move on to the mentor console.

“We decommissioned the bulkier communicuffs from the previous games to make way for this,” you gesture to the computer F2 navigates. A wave of nausea hits you, but you attempt to mask it by leaning into the back of a computer chair for support. “The mentors will be assigned one of each console, which they will use to send items and gifts and track their tribute’s odds.”

You go on further by establishing the best modification yet to the way the mentors send their items: mentors can now send multiple items at once, with a maximum weight of five kilograms.

“That way, we minimise drone damage and repair costs. Also, before the mentor hits send, they will get a preview of how their tribute’s odds will approximately change when they receive and use the items, thus helping drive mentors’ decision-making in looking out for their tributes and ensuring their win.”

Your boss’s boss tilts her head in curiosity. “I just love it when they get competitive – that drive, you could almost smell in the air, it just makes it all the more fun to watch.”

You nod once at F2, who clicks on a bottle of water and a slice of bread on the inventory and hits send, and all of you watch with bated breath as the drone circles the area and drops it gently on a flat surface, directly on top of an ancient analogue computer.

“We don’t have a tribute registered as an official player yet, but once we do, it will deliver the goods just like before, but with better accuracy rates owing to enhancements in the facial recognition software,” F2 explains.

Dr Gaul hums. “And what of the sponsor system?”

F1 takes care of the operator console demo, and your mentor chooses this moment to draw closer to your side, his face radiant with pride. I guess that means he likes your performance. His eyes then hone on your hand still clinging to the chair’s backrest, but before he can say something, you approach F1 and look over his shoulder as he explains how the last console works.

Pretty simple, actually: the operator receives a call for a sponsorship; they enter the sponsor’s bank account details, the amount or the item on the system and their designated benefactor, the system alerts the mentor who received the gift and gets an alert on their console, and an alert goes to the gamemakers’ and the main as well.

F2 adds helpfully that the operator console should be run by a representative from the Citadel’s finance department, to which Gaul agrees.

You surmise it’s the same entity running the betting system where the Games rakes the most money.

To finish the demo, you mention the existence of backup computers on standby in the event of a hardware malfunction. While it’s unlikely as all the equipment is brand-new, it’s something your uncle would do: to be one step ahead of everything.

Something you wish you would’ve done before ever engaging with Coriolanus Snow.

The first part of the integration tests finishes with you and your team opening the panel for questions, which you all answer with practised ease. When she seems satisfied with everything, she announces lunch on her, and within minutes, you’re being driven by a large van to The White Knight, where you’re all waited on graciously by the restaurant staff. Everyone takes their seat at a rounded table, with you beside Coriolanus, who has taken you here for dinner a few times since last week.

And all of those times, you made sure to order the angel food cake.

Today, however, you can’t bring yourself to eat that much, so you skip the cake, thinking it doesn’t deserve a half-assed digging-in, and opt for an affogato instead. That counts as dessert, right? Still, the ever-observant Coriolanus squeezes your thigh gently under the table, making you peer into his face, subtly questioning you. You just flash him a smile and concentrate on your dessert. You could slap that hand off too, but then he takes it off slowly, dragging your skirt up a little in the process.

You lose whatever remaining appetite you have, but you push through. Only half a day left, and you can maybe just hand in your resignation tomorrow and forget about this whole thing. And then maybe live in the woods, after.

Everyone is taken back to the Citadel at twelve-thirty, and Dr Gaul gives the go-ahead for the second part of the integration test at one.

Nursing an incoming headache courtesy of the espresso from lunch, you miserably accompany F1 and F2 to prepare for their demo on the computers right before the glass windows. Dr Gaul makes her entrance on time, so you stand back and watch with Coriolanus as the siblings take the reigns on the stations they set up before the windows.

F1 runs a command on his computer, which turns the lights on behind the curtains before they’re drawn to the side, and what you thought were initially windows reveal a shocking sight – something else you hadn’t been expecting to see.

Behind each glass pane, separated by thick walls, are three captives, one male and two females, all of them looking not much older than in their late teens. They seem to have been awakened by the sudden blaring of lights inside their enclosure and are stirring awake from their cots. They look a little thin and pale, but there is not an ounce of confusion in their expressions, as if they had been there for a while and are used to being woken up like so. The brown-haired male mouths something that you read on his lips as ‘hello.’

You could feel your own eyes widen at the sight of them, your mouth opening on its own accord to let out a protest, but your throat dries up as a cold, firm hand closes on yours. Coriolanus Snow’s cold cerulean orbs, pinning you to place, spell a single, well-understood warning:

‘Don’t.’

F2’s voice floats in the space as she introduces the second stage of the integration test.

“What you’re currently seeing is one of our many additions to the game interface: we’ve inserted a microchip into the test subjects you see in the windows which transmits real-time data to our system: heart rate, pulse, blood pressure, and other vital signs, plus levels of cortisol, serotonin...”

F2 drones on with her explanation of how the microchip works, just as you watch while the three teens are served food through a small slot at the far end of their cells.

“We will spend the next three hours observing how the chip works and how it transmits data that could influence audience betting, sponsorship, and decision-making. Mr Innis designed a learning algorithm that makes use of motion-tracking software to study the tributes’ every move in real-time, which contributes largely to the accuracy of the odds on our screen. We hope to gather their responses to a number of stimuli we’ll be exposing them to within the said time to demonstrate the software’s capabilities.”

When they begin eating, F1 begins explaining to Dr Gaul, who approaches the computer screens to look at the data, how the system measures hormones related to food intake, among others.

You could feel your head start to throb and can’t help wincing at the pain. Coriolanus’s hand is still on yours, he feigns looking over at the computers then meets your eyes, shooting you a questioning look.

Are you okay?

You blink once, indicating you’re fine and break the eye contact just as he releases his grip on you. He doesn’t really care, you know that much; his only concern is the success of this presentation, and you’re not about to fuck it up for him. Instead, you peer curiously at the food they served the three teens, noting how little they’re given: a slice of stale, brown bread, a small bowl of soup, and a single bottle of water.

The male, however, finishes his meal rather quickly and raps on the glass impatiently, mouthing something you can’t quite make out.

“Their enclosure is soundproof, even their walls so they can’t hear each other; they can’t see through the glass, either. In each cell, however, we placed a screen on a corner of each wall, where they could see and hear us individually when we address them through the intercom,” F1 says. That’s when you notice that each computer station is equipped with a small, built-in camera on top of the monitor.

F2 nods and elaborates, “We figured they’d be more likely to cooperate if they see a face guiding them through the experiments.”

You take the remaining computer station beside F2, activate the teenage male’s intercom and place him on speakers.

“...Hey, hey, I can see you!” He shouts at the screen, waving frantically. “Can you hear me? Been talkin’ for a while now, did anybody get that?”

“No, I’m sorry...” you say through the microphone. You scan through his uploaded background information on the computer. “Callahan, you’ll have to say that again, please.”

“Whoa,” Callahan stares in wonder at the intercom screen in his room. “Uh, I was just askin’ when ya’ll’re gon’ let me out, but...it’s nice to hear from anyone, really. Been cooped up here a long time.”

You inhale sharply as you turn off your mic. This is going to be a long three hours. “Honestly, I don’t know,” you confess to him on the mic. According to all the files on the test subjects, they're promised a sum of money and a year’s worth of grains once they’re sent home. In seventeen-year-old Callahan Brody’s case, home is District 3.

Where the Innises began building their empire.

“Our timetable is based on the success of the experiments you’re recruited for,” you add.

He bats his eyelashes at the monitor, his eyes innocently bulging in awe. It’s odd to see him ogle at the piece of tech, knowing he’s seen much more impressive stuff in his line of work if his file is to be believed. “Hey, as long as...I’m not talkin’ to meself all the damn time.”

Coriolanus approaches your side, placing his hand on the back of your chair.

“Whoa, you’re really pretty.” Callahan chuckles bashfully at the screen. “I wouldn’t mind gettin’ stuck here for days if it means I get to see you.”

He was staring at you and not the tech, you belatedly realise. Your glance automatically goes up to your mentor, whose hardened eyes betray his displeasure at the interaction, no matter how blank he keeps his expression.

“Flattery won’t get you out of this sooner,” you say.

F1 casually mentions an increase in oxytocin and testosterone levels detected by the software on Callahan’s profile tab.

You could feel Coriolanus’s ire radiating off him in waves.

“Hey, what’s your name?” Callahan asks through the intercom.

You give him a false name for the experiment’s sake. This a scientific pursuit, you remind yourself. You and the siblings take turns getting him to talk about himself, so the software can continue logging his vitals in the process.

He tells you that his favourite food is roasted chicken and gravy, but that he only gets to eat it on special occasions. During his spare time, he likes taking apart the family radio and the old television that he inherited from his grandfather, and he had two siblings who’d help him put them back before their father got home. He says he used to work for one of your family’s factories before he came here, confirming the data logged on his file. He talks about the assembly line he was a part of before A.I.-powered machinery replaced him, rendering his job, and him, obsolete. He says he was just one of the hundreds laid off and replaced by robots.

Does your uncle know about this?

“I used to be a computer technician,” he continues. Really? That isn’t on his file, you note. “But then I lost my drive.”

You had to put your hand over your mouth to stifle your laugh brought about by that unexpected joke.

“Nerd.” F2 pokes your arm teasingly as she laughs along.

F1 verbalises a spike in endorphins in between soft bouts of laughter. “Sorry,” he tells Dr. Gaul, whose eyebrow is raised in mild amusement. “We’re a sucker for puns.”

“Of all the people they could get from the districts, they settle for another nerd,” F2 says under her breath.

Callahan seems to be delighted to entertain. “Hey, I got ‘nuther one: why do programmers hate going outside?”

F1 quips excitedly. “Ooh, I know that!”

“Because outside’s full of bugs.”

F1 and F2 both crack up, with F2 suggesting ‘we should keep him.’

You decide to play along with Callahan if only to get a rise out of your mentor, the only one who isn’t finding anything amusing out of the exchange.

“What’s a computer’s favourite snack?” you ask him on the intercom.

“What?” He and your computer engineers ask in unison.

With suppressed smile you say, “Chips.”

The laugh you get out of your subject from District 3 records the spike, while Coriolanus rolls his eyes in exasperation. He suggests moving on to the other test subjects, and the three of you oblige, repeating the same experiment.

The girl beside Callahan’s cell is significantly more reserved, and it takes a while for the three of you to elicit a response from her. Tansey Page, barely fourteen with her curly red hair and wide, almost scared eyes, is from District 11. Based on her file, she’s been living with an aunt, her only living relative, since her parents perished in the war. Her aunt had been unable to work due to a bad fall from a nectarine tree from which she never recuperated, and Tansey had to earn a living for both of them at the age of nine. As your software does its job logging spikes to her vitals, you can’t help but think about how dire her situation was that she had to enlist for this test and leave behind an aunt who barely seems to have the capacity to take care of herself.

Once Tansey opens up, you discover she’s a soft-spoken, sweet girl who loves jellied blackberries. She says she loves to read, but since they couldn’t afford books, she would often copy stories by hand on paper from borrowed books. Hearing her recount this pains you, but you follow the siblings’ example and not let it affect you. Besides, there isn’t anything you can do for her at this point but succeed in the tests so they can all go back home to their families in the districts with the payment they’re promised.

The third and last subject, Audrey Mills, blond and pale with shifting reddish eyes, is the most difficult to work with out of the three. She barely looks at the screen in her cell, just huddled on her bed with her knees to her chest, only tensing slightly when she hears anyone of you three ask her a question through her intercom. The uploaded file tells more about her than she does: she’s from District 7, aged sixteen, abandoned by rebel parents who are presumed dead, and raised by her grandmother who recently passed away. She was targeted by a trafficker nicknamed ‘The Wolf,’ probably due to her unique features, but she fought him off and murdered him by bashing him on the head repeatedly with a blunt axe. It took four peacekeepers to haul her away from the body, and unlike the other two teens, she didn’t willingly sign up for the tests and was sent here with only the promise of being pardoned for her crime.

In the end, F1 gives up with an annoyed sigh, and having only an hour left for the tests, he decides to move on to another pursuit.

“This last portion of the test will showcase the software’s ability to record vital signs in the event of negative stimuli. The subjects will be injected with a slow-acting compound laced with a hallucinogenic that targets the amygdala, or the fear centre of the brain, and mimics anything the test subjects may define as hostile. We hope to gauge the effectivity of our software by recording any physiological and hormonal changes on each subject as they would in a natural, stressful environment.”

F1 fishes out a walkie-talkie from his lab coat and through it, he says, “Begin with Test Subject 3.”

Even before you can open your mouth to object to the experiment, two peacekeepers enter Audrey’s cell from a concealed door behind her bed, followed by a female nurse carrying a large syringe. Audrey puts up a fight and tries to evade what to her would be an unknown chemical being forced upon her, but her weakened state proves no match to the peacekeepers who pin her arms and legs to the floor, while the nurse injects her with the compound. She just lies on her belly, presumably screaming, and they eventually leave her alone in her cell, having done their job. She gets to her feet and back to cowering on her bed, visibly shaken by the way she was manhandled.

These are the kind of tests Uncle Cas had to endure conducting under his supervision.

F1 commands through his walkie-talkie for Test Subject 2 to be injected with the same compound.

You and F2 exchange looks. She explains, trying to keep her voice straight, “We’re dosing them at the same time because it takes about fifteen to thirty minutes for the drug to take effect,” she glances sideways at her brother and asks, “Aren’t we going to give the dose to Test Subject 1?”

F1 considers the question, but replies, “No, we leave him as control. Besides, he’s the only one that didn’t piss me off today.”

You watch numbly as the peacekeepers and the nurse from a while ago enter Tansey’s cell. Compared to Audrey, Tansey keeps perfectly still, her eyes fearful and wary and darting from between the peacekeepers’ guns to the syringe needle. She exposes her arm mutely to the nurse, who promptly sticks the syringe into her before stepping out of the enclosure and taking the peacekeepers with her. The wait begins – a long, depraved contest of who gets affected first between Test Subjects 2 and 3.

Tansey’s breathing rate begins to increase at the fifteen-minute mark. She slowly rises from her perch on the cot while she stares with wide eyes at something in the air. Her heart rate increases, according to the system, along with rising levels of adrenocorticotropin.

“Cortisol levels are also rising,” F2 observes aloud. “Test Subject 2 exhibiting signs of stress.”

“What are you seeing, Tansey?” you ask the teen.

But all you get from her is panicked screaming, so you put her to mute at once, helplessly watching as she flails her arms and runs around in her cell in an effort to swat away whatever she’s seeing, which seems to be attacking her from the air in all directions.

“I think she’s seeing tracker jackers...” you whisper to no one in particular. “Which makes sense, given her work environment...”

You’re about to ask if they also developed an antidote for this compound, but a dull thud on the glass startles you – Audrey just banged on the glass with her palms, her vitals are a disarray, and her blonde hair is matted with sweat. She keeps glancing behind her and screaming and hitting the window with her balled fists, almost like she’s begging to be let out.

F2 urgently asks through the intercom, “Audrey, I need you to describe what you’re seeing.”

For the first time today, Audrey opens her mouth to speak, her voice hoarse and filled with despair. “The Wolf.”

“She’s hallucinating her attacker,” F2 says as she turns her mic off.

“That means the drug is working, and the software seems to have an accurate read on all physiological and hormonal spikes. Control subject is fine and his vitals are stable,” F1 notes in a matter-of-fact tone. “Everything in their cells, by the way, is being captured by our motion tracker and being fed to the algorithm in real time.”

But, what for, when you’ve already covered that portion in the first part of the integration tests?

You spend the last fifteen minutes of the tests completely dumbstruck, petrified and wishing everything to be over so you can put this horrible job behind you and move on with your life. You keep stealing glances at Coriolanus, but his face is as stony as ever, and Dr Gaul just seems to be having the time of her life watching the test subjects run about in their cells letting out screams only they can hear, tormented by horrors only they can perceive.

By the time F1 declares the tests a success, you’re barely paying attention to his words – you just stare at the computer monitor, waiting for the save progress to reach a hundred percent before you can shut it down. Coriolanus places a hand on your shoulder, which you take as your cue to stand while your department head gives her verdict.

The Head Gamemaker dons a pleased smile as she delivers her final feedback. She seems absolutely thrilled with the tests so far and commends everyone hard at work on seeing the program to completion.

Dr Gaul clasps her hands together as she asks, “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I heard your team mention a trial Hunger Games using the test subjects?”

It can’t be, it just might be your physically and emotionally exhausted state mishearing her. You just blink, careful to pay more attention.

F2 gives an affirmative nod as she adjusts her glasses. “It’s called grey-box testing. The idea is to pool in end-users, ideally those who have partial knowledge of the internal structure, to help us test the software. We have F3, whom we’ve already asked prior to this, and Mr Snow has also volunteered himself and his apprentice, Ms Innis, to participate as test mentors.”

Dr Gaul nods her head in approval. “Indeed. I am glad that your team understands the exigency of this project, Mr Snow. The Twelfth Hunger Games is upon us, and I’d like to see this thing of beauty put to great use.”

Your world is in a tailspin. Your grip on the back of your computer chair is the only thing that keeps you from falling. Your hands are shaking even as you pretend you only had to grab the bottle of water on the station behind you to dissuade your mentor’s worried looks.

So, this is what they were recording them for, you conclude. To top it off, your boss has enlisted you as a test mentor, which means you will be responsible for the death of one or more of the teenagers you had just observed minutes ago being needlessly tortured so more could take their place this July.

Unable to control your lightheadedness any longer, you fall sideways with nothing to break your descent but the chair you had been sitting on.

A pair of strong arms is on you at once, gathering you and carrying you bridal style, ignoring your weakened protests. Everything is a blur, and you get dizzier in its hold, but you fight to stay conscious no matter how fleeting. The world only steadies when you’re set down on what feels like soft leather.

You wince at the bright light that floods your eyes. There’s a muffled voice you can make out that seems to be calling your name. When your vision and hearing clear, you finally make out the source of that blinding light: a penlight held by Dr Gaul herself, which she turns off; that voice belonging to none other than Coriolanus Snow whose hands are clasping one of yours.

“There she is, your little pet. Poor thing is fatigued, by the looks of her,” Dr Gaul chuckles lightly and raises an eyebrow at him. “You ought to keep your hands away from her every so often.”

Coriolanus merely exhales in relief, but his jaw remains tense. “She is merely preoccupied with the program, Dr. Gaul. She hasn’t been sleeping very well for the past weeks.”

The woman simply clicks her tongue in impatience. The sound of peeling latex gloves breaks the quiet in the room momentarily, followed by the opening of a sliding door shelf, the clinking of glass bottles and the closing of said shelf. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the doctor hand your mentor something you can’t see.

Gingerly, you sit up on the infirmary bed, and Coriolanus helps steady you by placing his hands on your shoulders.

Dr Gaul’s voice echoes in the room. “I’d like you to be in tip-top shape, Ms Innis, so I will give you the day off tomorrow. I will delay the trial, but only for a day more. Take her home, Mr Snow. Get some rest, both of you. Come this Friday, we’ll continue.”

She turns on her heels and walks away. Coriolanus’s sharp eyes follow his mentor’s retreating form until she disappears from the room. He then turns to you, his concerned blue orbs raking your form.

He cups your cheeks as he whispers, “You gave me quite the scare, my sugarplum.” He kisses you on the forehead, then asks, “Tell me what you’re feeling. Are you hurt anywhere?”

“Other than my head pounding? I’m fine, I guess. I just need some sleep,” your hushed tone says. And other than your tights sustaining a rip on the right thigh from your fall on the computer chair, everything else on you seems to be intact, so you try to stand. The floor seems to move the moment you get to your feet, and Coriolanus catches you before another stumble.

“You’re coming with me to my place,” he says firmly.

You begin protesting, “Coryo, I can just go home –”

You’re interrupted by your own yelp of surprise – to your mortification, he carries you in his arms just as he did when he brought you to the infirmary.

He raises a chastising eyebrow at you. “I’m having none of your complaints. You’re in no state to walk, or to go to your home – it’s too far. My apartment is closer.”

You can’t find the words to argue this logic, so you burrow your face further into his coat in embarrassment. He carries you to his car and instructs his driver to head to his home. You count a few blocks before you arrive at the entrance to this new luxury apartment building. You remember this building from a flyer; despite its ridiculous markup, it targeted uni students, promising luxury features that somewhat rival that of The Corso’s.

It takes a while for you to assure him that you can walk fine on your own, but he relents in the end with a purse of his lips. You could tell he’s displeased by your refusal to be carried like a damsel in distress, but he settles for putting his arm around your shoulders as he walks you across the building’s fine lobby and to the elevator. It’s his private elevator, he says – a perk of owning the largest penthouse spanning the entire top floor. That and exclusive access to the rooftop, he adds.

All this extravagance bought and paid for by the family of a man he presumably betrayed, you bitterly think.

This begs the question: how much longer you can overlook the possibility that he had Sejanus executed?

You silence that snide voice in your head, only because it just served to amplify your pain.

He’s greeted by a maid right in his foyer, who takes both your coats, before he instructs her curtly to make some tea. With his hand on your lower back, he leads you to his spacious living room with windows overlooking the Capitol bathed in the orange gleam of the setting sun, and you can’t help but look around you in amazement at the sheer elegance of his unit. You could see why it would appeal to students; it certainly favoured contemporary interior decor compared to that of The Corso’s art deco leanings. He ushers you into the velvet crimson loveseat in a corner near a window adorned with silky throw pillows.

“Take your shoes off and lie down if you want,” he suggests. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

You lean against the backrest with a sigh of relief. Finally, a friendlier surface than the computer chair you’d been lounging around in all day. You’re almost tempted to do as he instructed and make yourself comfortable, if it isn’t for the fact that you’re technically in enemy territory, and you’re a war prisoner being lured with the promise of freedom in exchange for betraying your side.

Instead, you make do with hugging one of the pillows, cursing yourself for landing in this situation – after all, it’s partly your fault that you’re here instead of home where you’re sure you're safe, and most importantly, away from Coriolanus Snow’s clutches.

Coriolanus is back within minutes, taking a seat beside you. He’s taken off his waistcoat and unbuttoned his white shirt halfway through, you observe. He rolls up his sleeves as the maid enters with a steaming teapot, cream, and sugar bowls on a tray along with two sets of teacups. She sets them all down on the coffee table in the middle. He instructs her to bring out the cake from the fridge as she exits.

He pours you a cup of tea, the inviting aroma of a rooibos and valerian root blend drifting in the living room air before he adds just the right amount of milk and sugar as you would make it yourself.

“Drink this, sugarplum. It’ll help, trust me,” he says as he pushes the teacup towards you. He pours some himself, only adding two cubes of sugar and a lemon wedge squeeze, as is his occasional preference. You watch him take a sip before you do.

And of course, your cup tastes perfect. It’s almost scary how he knows the littlest of details, including how you take your tea, of all things.

The maid arrives with what looks like a matcha-flavoured angel food cake from The White Knight before he instructs her to go home early for the night.

You try not to be nervous at being left alone with him in his apartment and focus on the tea.

Coriolanus takes the liberty of slicing you a piece of the cake and placing it on the empty plate the maid had brought in. He urges you to eat.

“I noticed you didn’t order that angel food cake you seem to be partial to when we had lunch. I thought you might like to have a bite after such a successful day.”

The smile he gives you is full of pride, while you feel nothing but shame at the abomination you had just willingly participated in. Still, you take a few bites of the cake to placate him. You’re in his turf where his rule is absolute, and heaven forbid any missteps on your part that would warrant any sanctions.

He watches you quietly for a short while over sips of tea while you contemplate the best exit strategy. Even with your slice of cake gone and your cup of tea empty, you come up with nil excuses. Surprisingly, the food helped a bit with the nausea, and you could feel your limbs starting to relax further into the couch. You can’t even fight your yawn, only stifling it with your hands, as you sink into the pile of throw pillows.

Okay, maybe just a little nap…surely, he wouldn’t mind.

The last thing you see as you drift off to blackness is Coriolanus and his lopsided grin, his slender fingers brushing off the hair framing your face.

According to Coriolanus’s watch, it took about thirty minutes for the sleeping draught he put in the milk bowl to take effect, but he allows ten more minutes to make sure you’re deep in your sleep and won’t be waking in at least a few hours. He still had some of the draught in his medicine cabinet as he’d used in the past, making sure not to touch the other bottle he’s supposed to give you courtesy of Dr Gaul.

He spends the rest of the ten minutes just admiring your face, finally deep in your own little world, blissfully unaware of your reality. For the first time in a long while, he’s completely alone with you, so allows himself this little treat of brushing your cheeks and stroking your hair. He wonders what you dream of. He wishes it was filled with the things you love. He wishes he was in it somewhere.

He eventually decides that this loveseat is no place for his sweet, little sugarplum to spend the night in.

He carefully removes your shoes and places them neatly by the foot of the couch. He carries you with ease like a prince claiming his princess bride before walking off to the sunset. He is gentle when he sets you down on his bed. He doesn't need to close his door; it’s just you and him on the entire floor, after all. He straddles your hips as he climbs on top of your sleeping figure. His eyes greedily take you in: your hair spread out on his pillow, your lips slightly parted, the curve of your neck beating your pulse...it’s what he’s dreamed of for so long; you sprawled underneath him ready for his taking...

He finally just lets his intrusive thoughts take over and licks that enticing pulse point of yours.

The moment his tongue latches on your skin, Coriolanus knows he wants more. He hurriedly unbuttons your blouse and gently peels it off your torso, exposing the swell of your breasts, modestly covered in a cream-coloured bra. Watching your exposed bosom rising and falling in steady breathing has his blood rushing from his head to his groin.

And then you had to let out a tiny, adorable whine from the back of your throat.

Coriolanus groans in frustration as he wipes a bead of sweat off his temple. The rational part of him tells him to stop, put your shirt back on and keep away from your sleeping figure because he’s aware your first time with him shouldn’t be while you’re asleep and unable to respond to his touches. He knows you’re a virgin and he’d prefer that you remember your first experience with him, and that taking you on the night of your wedding means you’d have no reason to refuse him as your husband.

But there’s this other side of him – primal, impatient, irrational, and ravenous, that part of him he normally conceals from you, most especially – that’s threatening to surface. The part of him that knows he’s been so good to you, and he’s waited long enough for even just a taste of how right at home you’d make him feel when his rock-hard cock is burrowed deep inside you...

As his gaze dips further down the skirt you’re wearing, now slightly hiked up and revealing your stocking-wrapped thighs, a thought successfully marries his rational and irrational side: he doesn’t have to fuck you tonight – he can still save you for your wedding night and still get to taste you and satisfy that painfully growing erection of his.

He seals your lips with a searing kiss, which eventually dips to the valley between your breasts, which he then squeezes through your bra. He fights the entire time not to suck on your skin and leave bruises, figuring you’d easily see if he did. He kisses and licks and massages every part of your body he can reach, while his hand travels underneath your skirt. He gathers the material to your waist, revealing your lower half and peels off that pesky pantyhose, careful not to aggravate that little tear.

And once again, Coriolanus pulls away to admire the sight of you, on his bed, in your underwear, his breathing turning shallow in anticipation.

Just a taste, he assures himself, as he removes your panties, leaving your cunt bare to him and sending more blood to his already-engorged cock. He hastens in taking your legs apart and hooking them under his arms, and from there, he begins his worship.

The kiss he plants on your inner thigh slowly travels downwards, and he allows himself to suckle on your soft skin while still avoiding any visible welts. He does the same with your other thigh, but this time, he suckles and bites down on a tender spot near that hole in your stocking, and he only stops when an angry little red blotch begins to bloom on the flesh. He kisses it one more time for good measure, just before he dives in to feast on his main course.

Coriolanus moans indecently when his tongue begins to part your folds. He chuckles to himself when he feels you jerk a little in his hold – his sweet, delicious sugarplum, so sensitive to his touch...

What was that thing they used to say as children? I licked it, so it’s mine.

He runs this tongue over his lips before continuing his quest of lapping at your cunt, making sure he takes everything you offer him. He sucks on your clit as he listens to your breathy little whines, your body tensing in your sleep as he drinks and licks your juices – you taste just like honey on his tongue – he’s parched like he’s been that way since he can remember, and your cunt is the only thing that could quench that life-long thirst, and he doesn’t stop drinking you in until your entire body is tensing up and your thighs are quivering in his arms. He pulls away in time to watch your pretty face, frozen in pure bliss, your mouth parted as you let out those airy little moans and whines.

Did he just give his little sugarplum her first-ever orgasm in her sleep?

Your limbs relax eventually as he releases your thighs. Still drunk on the taste of you in his mouth, he quickly takes his shirt off and wastes no time unzipping his pants. He can only ignore his raging erection for so long, after all.

Like he’s done countless times, he takes his cock in his fist and begins pumping himself as he watches you – as per usual, he indulges himself in fantasies about you, moaning and screaming his name, writhing underneath him in pleasure and making a mess of his bedsheets, except your face in his mind is clearer than ever before, now that he’s seen the expressions and the sounds you’d make as he makes you come around his cock again and again. He imagines himself taking you over and over even as you stay limp underneath him, too fucked out to moan anything coherently.

It doesn’t take Coriolanus long to reach his peak. With a loud, guttural groan, he finishes on your stomach, making sure he doesn’t spill anywhere else even amidst the waves of pleasure engulfing him. He brings his forehead close to yours as he steadies his breathing and lets his high fade. Once he’s regained his composure, he pulls away from you, zips his pants back up and gets off you completely, opting to sit beside you as he leans against the headboard to collect his thoughts.

He knows he couldn’t leave you in your half-dressed state for long lest you catch a cold, so he begins to erase any evidence of the little bit of fun he had with you. Shame, really, when you look so inviting covered in his spend.

He starts by gently wiping his cum off your stomach with a damp towel, ensuring that he leaves no trace of himself on you. He finds wiping you clean easy and satisfying, vaguely wondering what it would be like to have the two of you soaking in a bathtub together and doing the same for him. The next task, getting you back in your stockings, isn’t as easy as the previous, given that he has to arrange the run on the cloth back where he remembers it to be. Miraculously, he too, gets that task out of the way, and putting your shirt back on proves way less challenging. By the time he’s done, the only sign he’d been on you is the little love bite he left, now purplish-black, conveniently camouflaged by that little tear on your stocking you’d be quick to dismiss it as a byproduct of your fall.

For now, that little beast in him has been sated and has retreated to the far corners of his psyche. He kisses your crown as he tucks you in the covers, but notices how troubled your expression looks.

Are you having a bad dream, he wonders?

You stir in your sleep as you turn away from his side of the bed, muttering a word he couldn’t catch. He climbs back in beside you, leaning against the pillows, his eyes landing on the vial of smelling salts on his nightstand. If this worsens, maybe he could use that to tear you away from the dream that’s bothering you.

Then he hears sniffling.

You curl up in a ball beneath the sheets as the sniffling grows more audible. He peers further into your face, finding fresh trails of tears on your temples.

Coriolanus almost internally panics.

Did he do this to you? Had he somehow given you a dream you’re now struggling with because of what he did? He rubs his face as he thinks of the possibilities.

Maybe you’re dreaming of Sejanus. Perhaps in this dream, he’s breaking your heart, or he’s hurting you, maybe even cheated on you and you had caught him in the middle of messing around with another girl.

Things Coriolanus would never, ever do to you.

He finds comfort in the thought somehow, and he can at least hope this dream version of himself would come in and punch the daylights out of dream-Sejanus for making you cry.

“Mommy…”

It’s faint, but he hears it.

“Mommy, wake up, please…We have to find daddy..."

Ah, you’re dreaming of that day.

Coriolanus recalls the day Sejanus approached him with good intentions (like always, he couldn’t help his nature) and began talking to him about you. It was one of his many deluded attempts at igniting friendship with him. He didn’t really care back then whatever he had to say, much less about you, but then he had to reveal how your parents died.

Such needless deaths brought about the vindictiveness of rebels who were bitter about your parents choosing the correct side.

And Coriolanus knew, better than anyone, and certainly better than Sejanus, what it was like to lose a parent the way you did.

For a moment there, he sees his younger self in you, calling out for his dead mother in the middle of the night and waking up realising she’ll never come back.

His heart wrenches at your pain, so he gathers you in his lap as you sob in your slumber. He’d never thought he’d see you this vulnerable around him, so it gives him an odd sense of ease knowing he’d seen a side of you you’d normally hide from him, and making you feel safe in his arms like this is something a dutiful husband would definitely do.

He almost ignores the phone ringing in his living room in favour of keeping you in his embrace.

Except the call drops and the phone rings insistently three more times, making him gently peel you off his lap and wanting to yank it off the plug.

Instead, he picks it up. What compelled him to do so, he doesn’t know, and he can’t pinpoint whether it was a good or a bad decision.

“Coriolanus. This is Acacius Innis.”

Fuck. Just when he’s finally got you to himself.

Acacius Innis inquires more persistently on the other line. “Is my niece with you?”

“Yes, Mr Innis. She –”

“Why?”

Coriolanus does not appreciate Innis senior’s tone, nor the way he just cut him off. “She almost passed out at work this afternoon, sir,” he says. “My place was the closest I could bring her to.”

A pause on the other line. “I’m coming over,” says Mr Innis.

“I can bring her over instead, sir –”

“No, I’m picking her up,” Innis says, as sounds of scuffling are heard in his background. “I know where you live. And, young man, if you so much as try anything funny with my niece, if you dare lay a finger –”

“I have no such intentions, Mr Innis,” Coriolanus replies with just as much conviction.

My tongue did all the work. He licks his lips, extremely pleased he could still taste you on them. “Nellie is safe with me; you have my word.”

“Good to know. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Coriolanus hears the click of the receiver, followed by the dial tone.

The meddling prick.

A sharp sensation in your nose stirs you awake, followed by fingers softly stroking your hair to help you come out of it.

“Sugarplum, I’m sorry to have woken you up, but you were crying in your sleep.”

The compassionate voice of none other than Coriolanus Snow makes you rise at once and assess where exactly you have ended up.

You remember falling asleep on his couch, and yet, here you are, on a bed with his shirtless self, and a just few seconds ago draped all over his lap, apparently crying in your sleep again.

"What was I saying?” you ask as you wipe your tears with your palms.

“You were calling for your parents,” he explains. “I assume you were dreaming about the day they died.”

Damn this day. You just had to fall asleep in his presence. It’s a stupid move, you berate yourself. You extricate yourself at once from what obviously looks like his bed. Coriolanus's eyes follows you with a doleful look. “I had no idea you still had nightmares about them.”

He too, gets to his feet, picking his shirt up from the sheets and putting it back on. What the fuck even was it doing off? He approaches you with eyes cold enough to freeze your blood. “And we know gave us this pain, Nellie. We’ll make them pay for it. Every single one of them.”

You’re relieved when he finally leads you away from his bedroom and back to the living room where your shoes are. You sit on the loveseat so you can put them on, but he’s on his knees at once, assisting you with your shoestraps.

“Your uncle knows you’re here,” he says as he ties your laces. “I told him you had a long day and you were resting. He’s on his way to pick you up. He also mentioned a subtle, tasteful threat of bodily harm if I ‘tried anything funny.’”

He looks up at you, smiling as he brushes his knuckles on your cheek.

“Like I’d ever harm my little sugarplum.”

The two of you retrieve your coat in the foyer, and you quietly thank him for letting you stay at his home. Instead of responding, he just fixes your hair and wipes your cheeks with his thumb, which later brushes over your lips.

Please, don’t let him kiss me…

“Coryo? Please…” you whisper shakily.

But then he releases you, donning a satisfied look. “There, all better.” When you look at him with questioning eyes, he adds, “I don’t think your uncle will ever forgive me if he thinks I made you cry.”

“Th-thanks.”

“You can thank me by getting better,” he says lightly. He leads you to the elevator with his hand on your back. “You have the entire day off tomorrow, so get all the rest you need. In fact, I have something that may help you get better sleep.”

He fishes this small, crimson vial from his pants pocket and places it in your hands. The cork stopper on the bottle is still sealed with wax.

“That should help. Take a teaspoon before you go to bed. It’s a non-addictive formula they developed at the Citadel. Tell me if it works for you so I can get you more.”

You nod and mutter your thanks. “Coryo, can I ask you something?

“Of course, sugarplum.”

“When do you think I can start working for my uncle again? Now that I’ve already finished fixing the code?”

His eyes darken at your question, but he blinks and it’s gone, replaced by simple curiosity.

“Why, sugarplum? Are you that eager to wriggle free from me?” he jests.

“No,” you deny, no matter how much his observation rings true. “It’s just that he’s been looking unwell lately, and he won’t tell me anything. He’ll never tell me if he’s sick or what, and I worry about him.”

What you said is partly true, but you also just want to be done with everything that has to do with him. If you don’t work for him anymore, you won’t ever have to interact with him ever again and be part of whatever he’s building. He’s not your friend, no matter how much he tries to make it look like so. He’s dangerous, you know that, and the faster you can keep him at arm’s length, the better.

“I’m sorry to hear that, sugarplum. I know the past week has been stressful for you. For both of you. But you don’t want to leave the program now, do you? Not when we’re so close to accomplishing what your uncle had started. And if you really want to help your uncle, finish his work, and help build his legacy.”

So, it seems you’re stuck with him, and you’ll still be participating in the trial Hunger Games this Friday.

The air is knocked out of your lungs as you’re pinned against the cold, steel walls of the elevator, and the gasp you let out is silenced by Coriolanus’s mouth latching onto yours.

Having caught you off-guard, you attempt to push him off, but he’s always been leagues above you in physical strength. As his tongue finds yours, you simply close your eyes and let him.

However, just as soon as it happens, he releases you, just in time for the elevator door to reveal the lobby with a ding.

“How about I recommend people I know who’d be perfect as his apprentice?” he suggests as if nothing happened. “After all, I have a track record for finding the perfect one. I’ll have it sent to his desk next week.”

You’re exhausted beyond words, not having the will to snap, so you just nod along. Through the glass doors, you spot your uncle leaning against his car with his hands inside his coat pocket, looking more cross than you’ve ever seen him in public. Still, you have never been more relieved to see him.

You open your mouth to greet him as you step outside, followed by Coriolanus, but Uncle Cas’s eyes land on the tear on your stocking. Acacius Innis’s eyes harden, and the next thing you know, he’s lunging at the younger man behind you. You hear a dull thud, indicating he landed a punch somewhere.

“Uncle Cas, no!” You squeal, wrapping your arms around his torso and attempting to wrench him away from Coriolanus.

“What the fuck did you do, you little – !”

“Uncle, I fell, and I tore my tights. He didn’t do anything!”

Uncle Cas simmers down upon hearing your words. “Is this true?” He asks Coriolanus.

Your friend holds a slightly bleeding lip with his thumb, but he smiles just as disarmingly as if he wasn’t at all fazed by your uncle’s outburst. “Yes, sir. It was merely an accident.”

Your uncle huffs to himself. For a moment, he seems like he's considering punching him again with the way he furls his fist, but then he dips his head in apology. “Then you’ll have to forgive me, young man. I truly am sorry for jumping to conclusions. Are you alright?”

Coriolanus merely chuckles, but it's bereft of any humour. “I was a peacekeeper once, sir. I have certainly taken much worse.”

This was a clear challenge, and you wish with all your might that your uncle wouldn’t take the bait. Fortunately, the older man just tenses his jaw and nods. “Once again, you have my apologies. I thought you had hurt my niece, and it was wrong of me to not reign in my temper.”

Snow straightens to his full height and graciously replies, “I completely understand, Mr Innis. I’d protect Nellie just as ferociously as you would.”

Your uncle all but drags you to the car’s passenger seat and follows you inside, taking his place in the driver's seat. Now, even with everything that happened that day, this is a bizarre sight, as Acacius Innis has not driven a car himself in a long while. You remain quiet as the engine roars to life, almost swearing to yourself that you hear him mutter “insolent fucking cunt” under his breath as he drives off at full speed.

Enter Level 9

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!!

Sorry for any typos, I am not the best of health rn and I will be editing this when I wake up 😊 please stick around!! Snowball has more tricks up his sleeve 😈😈😈

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