A Game Of Justice ✭ Cato Hadley

Thirteen - Traitor

September 10th

For the last two and a half weeks, Cato has spent most of his time indoors, living off his mother's cooking, Brutus' smuggled snacks, and Enobaria's entertainment packs. He's realised that the more he goes out in the district, the more people realise Clio isn't here and the more he realises that her reputation is getting worse and worse. It's slowly destroying him, the idea that he's tanking the district's opinions of her; who used to adore her. His parents and mentor have spoken to him, telling him that he needs to do something to help himself, to take his mind off the issues in the district without exposing him to the acts of the rebellion.

He finally agrees, after what feels like excessive nagging. The house is quiet, his sister at school and both his parents at their jobs all day, so now is the perfect time to venture into Clio's house for the first time.

I'm not prepared, Cato thinks to himself, trying to talk himself out of the very thing he's been putting off for weeks but he's going with a purpose. I need that photo.

Cato throws the blanket off his body and immediately heads to the front door, thankful that he decided to wake up early today and follow Brutus' tip to instantly change.

The early September breeze hits him the moment Cato steps out onto his porch, despite the lingering summer heat. It's the first time he's left the house in weeks, because of his unofficial house arrest and the disapproval of his recent Academy decisions. He slowly turns, walking diagonally to approach Clio's house.

Cato's face drops as he steps closer. The pristine beauty of the grand white stone and sharp lines has been defaced, the walls no longer gleaming like polished ivory in the late morning sun. Crude streaks of red paint stream out at Cato from the walls, laid out in a pattern akin to blood splatter against the pale masonry. Angry, jagged and violent words, shapes and symbols have been scrawled on the side of the building in thick, dripping red letters. The paint glistens wetly, a vibrant red that pulses against the perfect white canvas, and the smell of aerosol lingers in the breeze. This is brand new, Cato thinks, the cowards chose the time when no one is around to stop them. Of course.

The front door, once a pristine, polished red colour, has been defaced with a large X in the same vicious red colour, dripping down like an open wound – only visible to those close enough. The smooth stone columns that frame the porch at the entrance are tainted and smeared with meaningless graffiti. It bleeds down the house's sides, splashing over the window frames and onto the ground below; scattered symbols blurring near the foundations.

Cato twists his key in the lock and pushes the door open, still as silent as it once was, a heavy scent of the remnants of cinnamon candles and vanilla perfumes. His shoes echo against the hardwood floors and his breath catches in his throat. He feels sick. It feels wrong to be in here without her. The navy blue living room is untouched; starry curtains, the glass coffee table that he smashed, the burnt-through candles and shining mirror. The hallway only increases the nausea; the photo frames on the wall including several of himself, of her friends, of Clove. But none of them are the specific photo that he's after, he knows that's upstairs and so he climbs the marble staircase, tightly gripping the crisp white bannister to force himself to continue.

Upstairs, the landing is the same pale white as the lower floor but the air is heavier as if it hasn't be disturbed since the Reaping. The bedroom door stands ajar, just slightly and Cato pushes it open.

The bedroom is simple, so effortlessly put together in such a way that could only be Clio; the large rug underneath the bed, the forest green sheets and matching accent wall, wood furnishings and sunlight gleaming through the star-encrusted curtains that she'd had commissioned in the Capitol. Everything is in place, exactly as it was left; neat but also lived in – and there's even certain items of clothing that he recognises as his own, strewn over the vanity stool, immortalising his presence in the house for as long as possible. His eyes stray upwards to the top surface of the vanity and they immediately lock onto the photo frame resting atop the dresser.