Coriolanus Snow

The grand hall of the Capitol’s Administration Center buzzed with activity. Officials finalized the Hunger Games preparations, assistants carried holographic projections, and stylists debated tribute outfits. The air was electric with the Capitol’s trademark flair.

Everything was a controlled chaos, and at its heart, President Snow stood tall, exuding an air of calm authority. Beside him was the First Lady, her presence equally commanding yet tempered with an air of grace. She was the epitome of refinement.

She listened intently as logistics were discussed, her poise unwavering. However, hours of standing through meetings were beginning to take their toll. As another official droned on about arena logistics, she shifted her weight subtly from one foot to the other, trying to ease the discomfort creeping up her legs. Her husband’s sharp eyes caught the movement, and without hesitation, he raised a hand to pause the room.

“Gentlemen, let’s pause.” he said, his tone firm yet composed, making the room still immediately.

He turned to her, his expression softening. “You should sit,” he murmured, guiding her toward the gleaming desk at the room’s center. Before she could object, he placed a hand behind her back and the other behind her knees, lifting her effortlessly before placing her on the edge of the desk.

A ripple of surprise passed through the officials, but it dissipated under Snow’s authoritative gaze. He knelt slightly, his deft hands undoing the straps of her heels.

“You didn’t have to.” she whispered, her voice tinged with gratitude and mild protest.

“I do.” he replied calmly, slipping off the first shoe. “We can’t have the First Lady collapsing before the big event, now can we?”

She exhaled, the tension in her legs easing as he removed the second heel. “Thank you.” she said, her smile soft and genuine.

Straightening, he adjusted his lapels with a smirk. “You’ll thank me by ensuring those heels don’t make another appearance.”

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