The Princess of Panem | Finnick Odair x oc

LIV

The Gamemakers' headquarters rise before me, an imposing testament to the Capitol's mastery of control and spectacle. Its sleek exterior gleams like a polished jewel in the heart of the city, just steps from the Presidential Palace. The sharp edges of its architecture cut into the sky, a reminder of the precision and power housed within.

I walk briskly, my heels clicking against the stone streets of the Capitol, the sound swallowed by the ever-present hum of the city around me. Brightly dressed pedestrians bustle past, their chatter a symphony of exaggerated accents and laughter. Yet, as I move, their attention shifts.

First, it's subtle—a lingering glance here, a whispered word there. Then it spreads, like a ripple on water. Heads turn. Conversations falter. A growing tide of recognition follows me, and soon the whispers reach my ears.

"Is that her? Ophelia Snow?"

"Yes, yes, it's her. Isn't she breathtaking?"

"She'll make a perfect leader someday," someone says, their voice brimming with reverence.

A woman steps forward, her bright magenta dress swishing as she clasps her hands together. "Miss Snow," she begins, her voice trembling slightly, "you're truly an inspiration. So young, yet so poised. The future of Panem is safe with you."

I force a polite smile, the kind my grandfather taught me—serene, unshakable. "Thank you," I murmur, inclining my head just enough to appear gracious.

Before I can take another step, a man with glittering gold eyeliner steps into my path, his expression almost awestruck. "The President must be so proud of you. You're everything we could ever hope for—smart, brave, and utterly brilliant. You're going to change this world."

I nod again, murmuring another thank you, but the weight of their words presses against me, heavy and suffocating. The Capitol adores me. To them, I'm not just a granddaughter; I'm a symbol of power and control, the embodiment of their ideals. Yet with every compliment, I feel the cracks widening, the truth gnawing at the edges of my composure.

For the districts, I am the opposite of all they admire. To them, I'm not Ophelia Snow, the promising young successor. I'm the face of their suffering, a reminder of the oppression they endure, the wealth and power they will never touch. The thought is a splinter lodged deep in my chest, one I can't remove, no matter how hard I try.

I press forward, the headquarters looming closer with every step. The crowd around me thins, their whispers fading into the background as I step through the massive glass doors. The air inside is cool, sterile, and silent—a stark contrast to the chaos of the streets outside.

Plutarch Heavensbee is waiting for me just beyond the entrance, his warm smile breaking the austere atmosphere. "Ophelia," he greets, his voice calm but welcoming. "You're right on time."

I nod, offering a faint smile in return. "Thank you, Plutarch."

"Follow me," he says, gesturing toward a hallway lined with glowing panels. His steps are measured, confident, and I force myself to match his pace.

The main control room is unlike anything I've ever seen, despite years spent at my grandfather's side. It's vast, almost cavernous, its high ceilings adorned with intricate lighting that casts an ethereal glow over the room. Massive screens line the walls, displaying live feeds from the arena—endless forests, glistening rivers, jagged mountains. The landscape looks pristine, untouched, but I know it won't stay that way for long.

Rows of consoles stretch across the floor, each one manned by Gamemakers clad in crisp white robes, their faces focused and expressionless. In the center of the room, a massive circular table holds the holographic projection of the arena. The image hovers in the air, its details so vivid it feels like I could reach out and run my fingers along the rivers or the sharp edges of the cliffs.

"This is where you'll be stationed," Plutarch says, leading me to a console near the hologram. "You'll be monitoring specific zones, analyzing the tributes' behavior, and suggesting modifications to keep the Games engaging. Your input will be invaluable."

He pauses, glancing at me as if gauging my reaction. "Unlike last year's mentor program," he continues, "your shifts will be structured. Eight hours on, eight hours off. You'll have time to go home, rest, and return refreshed. This isn't a role where exhaustion is an option."

The mention of going home catches me off guard. I hadn't expected breaks, hadn't anticipated any reprieve from the intensity of what's to come. "Eight-hour shifts?" I repeat, the disbelief clear in my voice.

Plutarch chuckles softly. "I know it seems strange, but trust me, you'll appreciate it."

He hands me a folded garment—a pristine white robe with subtle gold embroidery, the same as those worn by the other Gamemakers. "You'll need to change into this," he says, gesturing toward a door at the edge of the room. "The changing room is just down the hall."

I take the robe, the fabric cool and crisp in my hands, and make my way to the changing area. The room is stark, its fluorescent lights reflecting off the mirrored walls and the rows of lockers. I slip out of my dress and into the robe, the weight of it settling around me like an unspoken expectation.

As I adjust the fabric, something catches my eye in the mirror—a tiny braid woven into my dark blonde hair near my temple. My fingers hover over it, confusion rippling through me until realization strikes. Finnick.

Yesterday, as we sat together, his hands had been in my hair, twisting and playing with the strands. He must have done it then, a careless gesture I hadn't even noticed. Now, though, it feels deliberate, a quiet mark of his presence.

Tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them back, my throat tightening. The braid is a reminder of him—of his warmth, his steadiness, his promises. But it's also a cruel contrast to the reality I now face.

I smooth the braid back into place and steel myself before stepping back into the control room. The hum of the machines fills the air as I take my place at the console. Plutarch glances at me, his expression approving. "You look the part," he says simply.

I settle into my station, my hands brushing over the controls as I familiarize myself with their functions. The holographic arena glows just beyond, its serene beauty a sharp, mocking contrast to the chaos that will soon unfold.

Around me, the Gamemakers work in focused silence, their faces betraying no hint of emotion. I wonder if I look the same—calm, composed, detached. But inside, a storm brews. My thoughts drift back to Finnick, to the promise of his braid, to the nightmare that still lingers in the corners of my mind.

I am Ophelia Snow, granddaughter of the President. To the Capitol, I am everything they admire. To the districts, I am everything they hate. And here, in this room, I must somehow be both.

A/N:
sorry for the delay guys, i was kinda experiencing writers block and didn't know how to continue... also, thank y'all so so much for 16k!!! 
xoxo, Nastja <3