#ren everdeen

[sheisjoeschateau]

I SEE FIRE

🕊️ A Stranger Things AU Fanfic from Misha’s Masterlist Library. 📚 Full Fanfic Saga & Infodump File here

BOOK ONE: Chapters 5 -> 6 -> 7

Steve Harrington x OC!fem!reader hometown strangers to friends to lovers. ultra dark, heavy angst and hurt/comfort. alternate universe -> upside down apocalypse.high suspense, dystopian game-of-survival plot with morbidly dry humor sprinkled along the way. eventual plot-driven angsty smut (...but with hella plot). 18+

A fever dream multi-crossover au inspired by Hunger Games and The Purge universes, merged with Stranger Things. 🏹

🏹 Summary: The Capitol grows nearer, and so does your likely demise. But despite the ever ticking clock on the wall, you continue seizing every minute you’re granted, one passing second at a time...

Steve is just ready for this week to be over and done with. But the last stretch of hours onboard this death train is the farthest thing from cold, when he rounds the corner and finds you stepping out of a hidden car that contains rows of knowledge, secrets and stories that long to be read.

Little do you know, the untold story is being written between the two of you, every stolen hour — and glance — you both reclaim as your own.

Every childhood dream that Steve’s ever had, died inside of him. However, your childhood dream has always been him. And every moment you steal with him is another reminder that some fairytales take time.

A Thief of Time -> Meeting Cinna -> Rewriting the Rules

Chapter Five A Thief of Time

The afternoon slanted itself into gold across the glass of the train, the world outside blurring into streaks of fields and dark woods. It was a kind of beauty that didn’t belong to you, didn’t belong to anyone on board. The Capitol could claim it, the rich could own it, but for you (and for Steve Harrington) it was just another reminder that the earth itself didn’t care who lived or died.

Steve had gotten restless. He couldn’t sit still in that little compartment any longer, after breakfast was finished and you’d let yourself wander as Hopper and Steve finally began talking without hostility. But eventually, it died off all over again, whenever the former chief of police reached for another decanter of liquor, which only made the volunteer tribute silently bristle again while he drowned in the poison and Effie decided to take a phone call on the swanky landline, putting on her best “talk show voice.”

So, he slipped out, hands shoved deep in his pockets, wandering down the polished hall of the train car. The soles of his shoes pressed into carpet that was so disturbingly soft it muted every step, like walking on quiet wealth. The walls gleamed in muted brass, etched with spirals that probably meant something to the Capitol people. Art, tradition, luxury. To Steve it just felt like a sneer.

He moved from car to car, passing glossy tables laid with crystal decanters of liquor and trays of delicate food. He didn’t touch any of it. He just looked, took it all in with the same detached judgment that had hardened into his bones over the past year.

God, it was ridiculous.

A chandelier. On a train. Marble counters, velvet drapes. People were being marched to their deaths every year in a televised bloodbath, and the Capitol thought it fitting to serve sparkling wine in glasses thin as air on the way there. The hypocrisy of it pressed down on him until it was almost funny.

Except it wasn’t funny at all.

Steve had grown up around wealth. The country clubs, the imported cars, the sound of his mother’s heels across polished hardwood floors before she disappeared for another dinner party she hadn’t invited him to. He knew the taste of wealth; of champagne before he was old enough, weekends in ski lodges, the stale emptiness of too-big houses with no one in them. He’d had all of it, and it had never meant shit.

But here? Seeing it from this side, the condemned side… it was sickening. He felt like a hypocrite.

Maybe he was.

Maybe this was what karma looked like. Not the neat kind you read about in books, where you learned a lesson and got better. No. The ugly kind. The brutal kind. The unforgiving kind that waited until you thought maybe you’d redeemed yourself, until you thought you were different… and then reminded you that the universe hadn’t forgotten who you used to be.

Steve had been a shitty person once. A bully, an asshole with too much hair product and not enough spine. Sure, he’d changed. Dustin had helped with that. Robin too. Same as Eddie, and Nancy’s continued devotion since their middle school days. Mike had even played part. Hell, all the kids had. They’d all carved out something human in him when he thought maybe there wasn’t any left.

…but maybe it hadn’t been enough.

Maybe this was the world’s way of saying fuck you, Harrington. 

Maybe eighteen years was all he got, and natural selection had just decided he wasn’t meant to make it any further.

He raked a hand through his chestnut waves of hair, jaw tight, trying not to sink too deep into that spiral. But then his eyes landed on her.

An Avox girl.

She stood at the end of the car, head slightly bowed, carrying a silver tray stacked with empty glasses. She couldn’t have been older than him, maybe younger. Her uniform was spotless, lips dark, her movements sharp and efficient, like every gesture had been beaten into her until it looked like muscle memory.

Steve’s gaze caught on the scar at her throat.

She turned slightly and the light hit her neck just right, showing the uneven silver seam where her tongue had been cut out. A punishment. He knew it. He remembered hearing whispers about it from the kind of Capitol kids and self-proclaimed “rebels” who’d snuck into Hawkins for underground parties, bragging like it was funny. He remembered the tone in their voices. Gleeful, cruel, entitled and oblivious.

Now, here it was. 

Proof in the flesh. An actual Avox. 

Silent forever.

It wasn’t pity he felt, not exactly. Pity was cheap. What he gave her instead was acknowledgment. He let himself see her, let his eyes rest on her long enough to show her that he wasn’t just brushing past her like she was a piece of furniture. His mouth pressed into a tight line, offering a curt nod. And he didn’t say a word — what would words mean to her now anyway? — but he didn’t look away too fast either, like she was repulsive or cringe-worthy.

She glanced up, startled maybe, before dropping her eyes down to her feet again with a humbled bow of her head while disappearing into another car with the tray balanced perfectly in her hands.

Steve stood there a moment longer, swallowing hard. As bad as his life had gotten for him, hers was far worse. That knowledge didn’t comfort him. It just hollowed him out deeper.

The train rocked gently beneath his feet, then he finally moved forward.

That was when you appeared.

You rounded the corner from the next car up ahead, arms full of books. The sight almost startled him. Not the books themselves, but the fact that you were carrying them like they belonged to you. Like you’d found something worth your time on this death march.

Steve tilted his head, curiosity pricking at the edge of his cynicism.

Your eyes widened just slightly when you spotted him, as though you hadn’t expected to run into anyone… much less him. Not caught in a bad way, just surprised. The books shifted in your grip, and you adjusted them carefully, steadying your hold before meeting his gaze again.

The two of you stopped in the narrow space of the short hallway, facing each other.

“You raiding the Capitol’s stash already?” Steve asked finally, his tone flat but not cruel.

You blinked at him once, then let a corner of your mouth twitch—not quite a smile, not quite not. “There’s a library car,” you said.

That gave him pause. His eyebrows lifted, genuine astonishment breaking through his features. “A library. On this thing.”

You shrugged lightly. “Guess they figured tributes should have something to keep their minds busy between meals.”

Steve barked out a short laugh, humorless. “Yeah. Nothing like some light reading before you’re forced to kill people.”

Your eyes softened just faintly, though your grip on the books stayed steady. “It doesn’t have to mean nothing,” you said. “Even if it’s just a distraction, it’s still something.”

There was no sermon in your tone. Just simple, casual truth. And for some reason, that unsettled him more than if you’d tried to make it profound.

He studied you for a long beat. The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the train beneath you. Then he jerked his chin toward the stack you were holding.

“Find anything good?”

You glanced down at the spines, then back up, eyes bright. “Depends what you like. I picked these out for someone else, actually.”

Steve’s brows furrowed. “Someone else?”

You shifted your weight, and before you could answer, movement caught both your eyes. The Avox girl reappeared, slipping into the car from a side door. Her tray was empty now, and her hands were folded neatly at her waist. She moved with the kind of practiced silence that had already become second nature.

Without hesitation, you stepped toward her.

Steve stayed where he was, watching it happen…

You spoke softly, too soft for him to catch your exact words, but he saw the way the Avox’s eyes flickered up, startled as you held the books out toward her — two of them, balanced carefully in your palms. She hesitated, hands hovering like she wanted to take them but didn’t dare.

All the while, you kept your voice low, steady, reassuring. A few more words, your expression patient, hers weighted with internal conflict.

But then, after a moment, the mute girl finally reached out, fingers trembling slightly as she accepted the books. Her eyes darted around, fear shadowing her face… but then her mouth curved, just barely, into a smile. A quiet, meek little thing that was so treacherously real, it felt forbidden. Because it was.

Steve felt something crack inside him.

He wasn’t good at keeping his emotions off his face, no matter how much he had worked at it. Not when they hit him raw. And this one did. He blinked once, hard, his throat tight, unsettled in a way he hadn’t expected.

The girl bowed her head, clutching the two books like they were something sacred, and slipped away again as quickly as she’d appeared.

You turned back to him, your expression calm. Not smug, not performative. Just… normal. Like what you’d done wasn’t remarkable at all.

Steve stared.

“That was—” he started, then stopped. His jaw worked, searching for the word. Dangerous? Reckless? Kind? He settled for none of them. He just shook his head once, a humorless smirk tugging at his mouth. “You’re gonna get yourself in trouble one day.”

“Maybe,” you said simply. 

He took a beat. Then squinted. “If not yourself, then someone else.”

You let that land, allowing a slow nod before replying with, “Well, not today.”

That only earned another beat of silence from him. Then another. The way you’d said it wasn’t naive. It wasn’t even careless. It was just…matter-of-fact.

Steve let out a short huff, rubbing at the back of his neck. “You always this fearless, Ren?”

“…wouldn’t say I’m fearless,” you corrected, shifting the remaining books in your arms. “Just… not willing to look away when I don’t have to.”

The words hung there. Heavy. Real.

Steve didn’t reply right away. Honestly, he didn’t know how. He just found himself falling into step beside you as you started walking again, through the narrow train corridor.

“Show me this library car,” he muttered finally.

Your head tilted, the faintest ghost of amusement in your eyes. “You sure you can handle it, Harrington? It’s full of books.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve shot back, lips twitching despite himself, “maybe I’ll find one with pictures.”

He caught you smiling out of the corner of his eye. The banter slid between you like it had always been there. Easy, unforced… and strangely grounding.

For the first time in a long time, Steve Harrington felt like maybe he wasn’t entirely dead inside or counting down the clock until sleep could save him.

“I don’t know why anyone would read that garbage when you can just… look at the pictures.”

Steve’s voice lands like a thrown pebble in the quiet of the library car. You’re halfway between two stacks, arms folded in front of your chest, smiling that smile you only use when something is quietly, impossibly good and you want to savor it without ruining it with words. He’s standing with his back to a shelf of travelogues, hands tucked into the pocket of his sweatpants, looking like a slightly bruised American Dream with a jaded grin. The corner of his mouth quirks like he thinks he’s being wicked.

You let him have the petty laugh. You’ve waited your entire life — the small, steady part of your life that wasn’t stolen by grief and neglect — for any moment alone with him that might feel like a sliver of ordinary. Well, this is it: a narrow car, a dimmed chandelier, stacks of books that smell like dust and other people’s histories, with the most handsome boy from your hometown. 

The Capitol tried to make it decorative here, and in doing so it only made it something else entirely: a secret room where none of the world’s cameras would expect people to hide.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” you tell him, and your voice is softer than you’d planned, even as you smirk. 

It doesn’t matter. He hears you anyway. 

Of course he hears you. Steve never misses the shape of quiet.

He snorts. “Yeah? Enlighten me, Everdeen. Which long-winded novel should I use to impress my future sponsor?”

You tsk your tongue, mock-sagely. “That’s a lot of pressure in one question.”

He doesn’t miss a beat as he lists off choices. “C’mon. War and Peace? The Shipping Forecast? That one seems pretentious enough.”

You laugh, just a little, because it’s ridiculous and because it’s one of the few honest albeit ridiculous things you’ve heard all week. “Try something with a little less Russian murder and a little more hope,” you offer.

“Can’t,” he deadpans. “I’ve been brainwashed by Soviets.”

Your brows lift. “Oh?”

“Don’t ask.”

A beat lands.

“Alrighty,” you offer. “Then maybe something on fishing. You could pretend you’re a man who liked tedium once. It works in the movies.”

He tilts his head at you, that old Harrington half-smirk forming like it used to in school photos and hungover Saturday mornings. There’s some of his old glow back. Just a filament, not a chandelier. And it secretly stupefies you that you get to see it, even just a sliver of it, all to yourself. It surprises him too, probably more than either of you will say.

He’s grateful you let it go unmentioned, even if it’s not unnoticed.

From where you stand the car feels smaller; the gilding and plush don’t quite cover the hush of it all. A tray of pastries sits on a low table. Tiny, ridiculous croissants that would be aesthetic if anyone had the appetite. Someone left a chair with a knitted blanket, the sort of thing meant to look “cozy” but it’s too sterile, too staged in its perfection. The train library’s brass lamps throw little islands of light over book covers or open pages and the space feels, for just a line of heartbeats, like a place unbroken by the rot beyond the train’s glass.

“C’mon, jig is up, Harrington,” you say, unwinding your arms from across your chest. “You’re being deliberately dense.”

“Maybe,” Steve says. “Or maybe I just think books are a privilege for people who don’t have to kill for their supper.”

You catch the jolt under the joke. His voice, the way that the joke lands like a stone in water. There are layers to him all the time, a practiced deflection and something that undercuts the deflection like a hairline crack. You know some of that history, not because he told you. He hasn’t told you anything. But because living in Hawkins means that stories seep into people like slow rain. 

You don’t pry. You don’t have to. 

People leave telltale marks, and you’re a collector of the small ones.

He’s circling now, letting the shelves pull him along like he might find what he’s been missing in between the bindings. You watch the way his fingers ghost across spines as if he’s checking for the warmth of paper. He stops at a row of old poetry, picks out a slim book with a battered navy cover, flips it open at random, reads one line, and rolls his eyes.

“Not my thing,” he says. “Too much feeling.”

You shake your head and move toward him, fingers hovering over the page he’s chosen. The title makes you smile. “Selected Sonnets of an Angry God” or something absurdly melodramatic like that. You thumb the top page, taste the cheap glue with your memory.

“You’re allowed to feel things, Steve.”

He looks at you for a long second. It’s an examination more than a flirt, like he’s assessing whether you’re the kind of person whose softness can really be trusted in a savage world. “Says who?”

“You’d be surprised,” you smile. 

His big brown doe eyes narrow slightly, a light hum sounding off in the back of his throat as he takes the book back from you. “Not sure I’ve met anyone who says that to the likes of me without also thinking I’m a dick.”

You hummed back, letting that land. “People used to think you were a hell of a lot of things back in high school,” you offered with a light shrug.

He feigns wonder, leaning against the shelf as he juts his chin. “Ya don’t say. Got some examples?”

You pretend to ponder that. “Prince, asshole, king of the hair. But I don’t think anyone ever called you delicate.”

He lets out a short bark of laughter at that. “Delicate woulda gotten me killed back then, Ren.”

He wishes he was kidding.

But he’s not.

“Or saved you,” you counter lightly, just as your fingers settle on the spine of a slim novel. Something about rivers. 

You slide it free, and you find that the book is warm where someone else’s hands had considered but then didn’t bother to choose it. Then you hand it to him like you’re offering a rare coin.

Steve takes it, and for the barest second your fingers touch. The contact is small but there’s a sizzle simmering beneath it, not like grand Fourth of July fireworks in rom-coms… but like the subtle system reset when two sockets touch and cause a spark. 

He doesn’t jerk away. Neither do you.

“So,” he says, flipping open to the first page. “Suppose I actually want to do this. How do you pick a book that will make me less of an asshole?”

You grin, which makes your ribs ache and your chest feel fragile. Also, a bit ludicrous. “By not pretending you don’t like books and curl into yourself when you read, Harrington.”

He freezes, corners of his mouth tugging up, because that’s the one thing he can’t deny you. Your perception. Because seriously, how do you know that? 

You don’t tell him that you used to catch him reading all by himself, back in elementary school, whenever his friends weren’t looking.

You don’t tell him that you stole secret glances at him every time you caught him inside of the Hawkins Library, studying with Nancy, all throughout high school.

You don’t tell him that you saw him months ago, at the market with an armful of comic books he pretended not to care about because they were “for the boys, they’re all obsessed.”

You don’t tell him you’d watched him slip a battered paperback into his jacket like a relic, not just for Nancy but also for himself. 

You keep it to yourself. 

Just like you’ve kept him.

“Fine,” he says. “Convince me, then.”

So you do. You wander, idea to idea, recommending books like cards. 

One about rivers, one about fools who keep trying, one with letters in the margins written decades ago from a reader who thought they could change a life. You pick titles that aren’t grand; you pick small cuts that let light in. You watch him out of the corner of your eye and the way that he listens, actually listens, is small redemption. Sometimes he scoffs; sometimes he reads a line out loud mockingly and then ends up reading a second, then a third.

There’s an awkward humor to it. He complains about the descriptions having too much comma abuse. He asks if there’s anything with pictures, and you give him a look that says he’s a grown man, not a toddler. But you’re smiling and you’re not actually making fun of him. And he’s laughing on the inside, you can tell. You’re making Steve Harrington laugh, properly, like someone who had almost forgotten how.

You notice him quietly acknowledge any of the Avox girls who pass through the car, silent and trained in their motions. The Avox from earlier slides a tray of tea cakes and a fresh pot of Earl Grey onto a bar and her eyes flit toward the two of you. You remember the way that she bowed, the stunted grace of someone trained to be mute. Forever to be mute. And as you thank her with ease, you catch Steve’s jaw going taut for a beat then loosen. He gives the girl the same quick, steady nod he gave her the first time: a recognition of a person who shouldn’t be invisible.

And you quietly realize he had given you a similar look at the Reaping, when he shook your hand… 

“You don’t have to be a saint about it,” Steve says suddenly, once the Avox leaves the car, not taking his eyes off some battered atlas. “You’ve got nerve, handing off books to someone they want quiet.”

He’s not wrong. You had handed off two books to her earlier. But talking to him about it now feels like having to explain something simple, maybe even too simple, when there isn’t any need.

“She’d been looking at the train schedules,” you say, because it’s true. “She liked maps.”

“Think she’ll like it much when she’s been tasked with twice the work for not just staying the course she’s confined to?”

Your lips part at that, clocking how his voice dropped a solid two decimals in volume. But you keep your gaze steady as your eyes flick up to peek at him through your lashes, finding that he’s fixing you with an expectant look that’s almost stern.

A gentle sigh slips through your nose. “I won’t put someone in a position to suffer because of me,” you reply, matching his quieter tone without sounding timid or uncertain. “And if I do, I’ll make it right.”

He grunts. “Noted.” He hesitates, then looks at you properly, his face open in a way you rarely see. “You read a lot?”

You look at him fully then, thinking about all the ways to answer. Say yes and mean it, or say no and mean that too. Either way, your eyes hold something unusually tender in them.

“Not as much as I’d like,” you admit finally. “My grandfather used to teach me how to pick the good ones out, downtown at the library. He still reads me the news by candlelight when the power flickers.”

You said that last part with a sort of small, wistful smile, as if remembering.

Steve’s brow furrows. “You’ve got a grandfather?” he asks, surprised in a soft sort of way, like this fact is new and ornate.

“Yeah,” you grin. “He smells like lemon oil and bread, and taught me how to keep a ledger.”

He snorts. “A bookkeeper. How sexy.”

“Dead sexy,” you deadpan without missing a beat. 

Steve huffs out a breath that’s almost laughter, which deepens your grin. The mood shifts as you both fall into an easy rhythm where the tiniest truths slide between you like practiced darts.

“He’s the only reason I’ve got good taste,” you murmur warmly as you select another book from the shelf, waving it loosely with a tight-lipped smile. “He’s a closeted historian, I think.”

Steve hums, lightly tapping the book with his pointer. “Think he’d disapprove of this whole, y’know—” He lazily gestures around the room. “Capitolist built classroom that belongs in actual schools instead of trolleys to guillotines?”

Morbidly, he wonders if that will get to you.

And he shouldn’t be surprised when it doesn’t, but he is. Yet again.

“Puh,” you puff out an almost-laugh. “You just quoted him verbatim.”

He tilts his head, a teasing glint in his eye. “Sounds like a wise man.”

That makes you go quiet, your expression softening. “Yeah,” you whisper, as if to yourself, slowly nodding. Your brow pinches as you select another book and place it into Steve’s hands. “Yeah, he is.”

He stares at you as you give a couple of pats onto the cover, turning as you tell him, “that one’s got some pictures for ya. Memorabilia, if you will.”

Steve blinks, then finds himself crookedly smirking as he follows. You both settle into a pair of plush armchairs, the kind with deep cushions that swallow you until you sit up straight. He takes the chair opposite, propping his feet on the low table between you. There’s the tray of tea and tiny sandwiches, and you pick at them because you don’t want to look like you’re consuming the whole idea of this place, but rather letting it be your reality for the time being. He watches you, not because judging but because he’s present. It annoys him, actually. He doesn’t hide it and you like that more than you would admit. Because despite his pretty self feeling unsettled, he’s not dashing out of this library car, away from you.

“Read something,” he says abruptly. 

You glance up from your stack of books that you’ve fanned out next to your teacup, blinking at him. “Like what?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs lightly. “Nothing slimy, nothing serving up catastrophe. Maybe something post or pre dystopian, that says people kept being alright.”

You blink at him again, brows furrowing. For a moment you think he’s setting you up. But the longer you look, you realize that he’s not. The hand across his jaw is honest, chin settled into casually even though his muscles are still tense.

He wants, you think to yourself, more than he will ever say, to be soothed. 

Maybe he wants a story where the world can be stitched back together, even if it’s seemingly helpless. Or, maybe he just wants to hear the soft cadence of a human voice that isn’t barking orders or chanting slogans. 

You can tell, as you offer him a kind smile and don’t mock him, watching the way his shoulders are easing, the way the edges of his scowl are softening.

“Alright,” you say, leaning forward. “Pick a book.”

He reaches out and chooses the slim volume with a faded green cover and no title on the spine. You flip it open, finding the title inside, lips pursing into a knowing smirk at the corner of your mouth.

“Screwtape Letters,” you tell him aloud, sitting back. “One of my favorites.”

“Of course you’ve read it,” he mumbled, though it’s not unkind and he waits for you to begin without rushing.

“S’been a while,” you chuckle sheepishly. “Years, really.”

You lick your finger and turn the first slip. The pages smell faintly of lavender and smoke, of a lifetime where someone read without a clock counting. The print is old-fashioned, like a hand reaching back.

Finally, you read to him. You don’t particularly think your voice is a salve, but you also don’t care whether or not it is. You simply read to Steve because he asked. And honestly, you want to hear your own syllables inside this room, because the sound of your own voice calms you in a way that no one else has ever offered you with their own, in words or even in presence.

Your father’s soothing voice was taken from you at just nine years old, when he bled for a country that never loved him back. And your stepmother never bothered to try and replace it. Never made an effort to take his place as your only parent left. Your older brother was never warm, but he also wasn’t cruel enough to be outright mean to you. He just… didn’t care. He carried apathy, just like your mother had before she left when you weren’t even walking yet. But your brother was seven, and he comprehended her leaving all too well. It was as if he’d resigned himself to not making an effort to connect with you, or with anyone who he didn’t outright benefit from. Your stepmother preferred him to you, which you’d never let cause you resentment towards him. But for some reason, he treated you as though you did. Like maybe he’d determined that for you, and that was the only narrative he could make his peace with, in order to not be given reason to bother with you at all.

Your grandfather’s presence was rare, but true. He’d moved in with you all, after his health began to decline. And you’re the only one who gave him any reason to prioritize it at all, caring for him in ways that only your father ever had when he was still alive. You’d learned how to read to yourself as a child, thanks to your grandfather. And now? You could do that for Steve.

Maybe he hadn’t been read to as a child either, by either of his parents. 

Your sentences fold into the quiet of the library car, and if you’d glanced up you would find that he’s looking at you as if the reading is a new language he never learned in school. He’s listening with the kind of rapt attention people gave to prophets, or to someone that they’re afraid of losing without realizing they are.

“This is seriously the same author who wrote Narnia?” 

Steve’s question finally makes you cease your reading, and you glance up at him to find him looking genuinely puzzled.

You grin. “The man’s got range.”

That earns an actual huff of a laugh from him, and he leans forward to grab a little cucumber sandwich before lounging back again. “I’ll say,” he mutters.

An hour passes. 

Eventually, you read about a girl who planted a garden in a metropolis city that had forgotten what “green” meant. You read about small rebellions, how someone defended a single plant from drought by pouring water they should have kept for themselves. You read a line about how this endangered plant survived, all thanks to the kindness of strangers. It’s not grand. It’s unusually quiet, subtly revolutionary without being propagandized.

Halfway through the second page his face has gone tight in a way you can’t untangle. But you keep reading, even after stealing a glance at him through your eyelashes before glancing back down at the book. Your voice is quiet, clear. When you reach the sentence where the girl sets a place at her table for any traveler who might be lonely, you pause, because your throat tightens and you don’t want to make the story about you. He clears his throat, a small noise of discomfort, as if he can read your mind.

“You should stop,” he says, but there’s no bite in it. His fingers fiddle with a bookmark like he’s trying to anchor himself to the now. “It's already been two hours,” he adds with a shrug, still messing with the bookmark as he deflects with dry, self-deprecating humor. “Invoice me for your time.”

You frown, but not with sadness. It’s almost teasing, bordering on playful.

“Nah,” you tell him with a shrug. You plop the book down into the coffee table and select another. “Consider it my citizenly contribution to the cause.”

That makes him look up. But before he can rebuttal, you keep reading. 

There’s honesty to his listening that isn’t performative. You like him for it. You like him for dozens of tragically quiet little reasons that don’t make sense in a world that keeps eating children’s names out of bowls, but that you’ve made sense of throughout the years of adoring him from afar.

Somewhere between the third and fourth paragraph of this new book, you deliver a line that actually makes you pause and lift an eyebrow at the page, zeroing in on it to make sure you read it right, and he laughs. It’s quiet, a sound that starts in his chest and then rolls out soft and surprised… and it’s the loudest thing inside the train car. You look up at him, and he’s grinning like a person who’s been given a minute’s respite in a war zone. The laugh is raw, not perfect. 

But God, it’s everything.

“You’re messing with me,” he says, wiping at his eyes like he’s embarrassed to have felt anything even close to real amusement or enjoyment.

“No,” you laugh warmly. “I’m not.”

He looks at you for a long time, like he’s reading you for punctuation. “You ever done anything insane for books?” he asks, easily filing away whatever it was he just stopped himself from letting linger.

You allow yourself to ponder over that, lips pursed, head tilting slightly.

You think of the Avox girl again, and the way that her tiny hands had hovered above the spines before she took the ones you’d chosen for her. 

You think of the bread you’ve given away to kids who didn’t have dinner that night, or the next week’s worth of nights to follow.

You think of your grandfather’s handwritten ledger, and the way he has kept track of every kindness you’ve granted him… like it was a debt to be repaid in time, even though it never has been nor ever will be.

“…I once traded a rhubarb pie for a pocket guide to medicinal herbs,” you eventually admit, mock-sagely with a slow nod. “Also swapped a blanket for a second-hand encyclopedia.”

He whistles. “Can’t say I back those selects.”

Your nose scrunches, almost fondly. “What if I told you I’d given the pastor’s daughter my super cool magenta lava lamp back in elementary school… for her King James copy of the Bible.”

“Now that’s the kind of smuggling I can respect,” he lazily grins.

The conversation loosens. You trade book titles like currency. He confesses to an embarrassing fondness for a pulp detective novel involving a fedora and a man who always got the wrong door. You tell him about a slender volume of folk tales that taught you how to read maps by smell. You pull out a children’s book with watercolors so bright the cotton pulp nearly glows and he grins when you read the caption about a cat who could not be coaxed into being domesticated.

“See? Picture books go hard.”

Your nose sweetly scrunches again. “Beautifully put.”

At some point the sunlight streaming through the car’s windows shifts toward late afternoon, the gold on the glass turning into a bruised purple that makes the absurd chandeliers seem softer somehow. The train hums along, a bullet through the countryside. You don’t think of home. Or well, not in the jagged, knee-jerk sort of way you did on the platform. You think of small, salvageable things like the worn corner of a page or the sound of someone else’s laugh spilling into a thin cartridge of time.

“Why do you do it?” Steve asks at one point.

You look at him over the rim of your teacup. And you realize as he holds the last book that you gave him with pictures, that he’s not asking about books, or that you’ve read to him, or about the way your hands never seem to stop giving.

He’s asking about the unflinching tilt of your body towards people who have nothing to give you back.

It makes you blink. Because it’s a question that’s larger than any single word. 

“Why do you keep stepping in front of things that could get you killed?” you counter, “even if you’re not asked?”

He lets that one land. 

There’s a beat of silence, and he looks at you sideways. 

“Because I don’t have the right to be safe if they aren’t,” he says after a long time. “Because I messed up before. Because…”

He stops. The asphalt of his mouth closes over old apologies he hasn’t learned to say. Over his past that he’s not learned how to make peace with yet, let alone talk about out loud.

You see the rawness under his posture like an exposed rib. You don’t tell him about the ledger you keep in your head, filled with the names of people you promise to look after in small ways, similarly to him.

You don’t tell him you’ll always hand your last slice of bread to a stranger without thinking twice. 

You don’t tell him that sometimes you give away the better part of your day because you have no better use for it than to make a person feel less thin.

“…then let’s try to not die,” you offer, tone steady as steel but as gentle as a papier-mâché origami. “That’s a plan we can both work with.”

He snorts. “Listen to you. Planner.”

“You sound like you’ve run out of hope,” you say, and your tone is light, but there’s something underneath it like a hand pressing at a bruise. Not to bring pain to it. Just to remind him that it’s there, even if he hides it.

“Plenty of hope left,” he deadpans. “Just not a lot of illusions.” 

He meets your gaze. His eyes are a little glassy in the low light, like a mirror where you can almost see past the reflection into his jaded soul.

You nod. “We’ll keep the illusions,” you say. “They’re good on train rides.”

He grins this time. Not bitterly, or guarded. Just honest. 

It suits the curve of his pretty face, and it makes all of the butterflies form and float inside your stomach as you feel your cheeks flush.

The crackle of a speaker overhead interrupts you both as a voice announces that they’ll be arriving soon. The cabin lights shift like the train is checking its own pulse, nearing the Capitol now… So, you slide the book shut and set it on the low table between you. The gilded cover gleams under the chandelier. For a moment it looks strangely precious. You both know that the book, small as it is, is a thing of defiance in a world that wants to make them disappear.

“Read to me again,” he says quietly, and you realize he means it.

You look over at him, surprised at your own quick, hopeful lift of heart. “Right now?”

“Yeah.” He tries to make a joke of it and fails, and the failure is more human than any bravado. “Still got ‘bout half an hour to go. Might as well. Before the world makes us memorize the names of the plants it thinks are useful.”

You really laugh then, because the idea is ridiculous and you love it, and you tuck the edge of the book with care as if folding a flag. You start to read again, and this time your voice is steadier because Steve’s watching you and the way that he’s watching is something like salvation.

Halfway through the second chapter he stands up, rising from his seat as he stretches, arms and hands skyward, t-shirt lifting slightly to reveal his toned abs and the faint bunny trail that you’ve dreamed of kissing for years… Then, he sits on the armrest of your loveseat with his arms crossed, staring out the window as he keeps listening.

He doesn’t touch you. His arm merely ghosts the very slight space between his and yours. It’s just the shadow of a want, and you notice it like the way you notice other small certainties. Whether or not he realizes it, though, you aren’t sure. You’d venture to say that he doesn’t; that Steve Harrington longs for human touch, for human comfort, without having to ask for it or promise something in exchange for it… not even realizing that he does.

But you don’t draw attention to it. You just keep reading as he stares out the window, watching the scenery change into something more sculpted… less natural. At some point, when your throat tightens towards the end of another chapter, you look up and see that his eyes aren’t fixed in the window. They’re on you now, deep and clear, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you or the cadence of your voice, the way that your grandfather used to memorize recipes when he allowed his mind to roam. There’s such fierce, quiet hunger in it that it scares you and calms you at the same time.

And now the butterflies are back, but you don’t know what to make of it.

The train car rocks, and somewhere the world is burning and bargaining and shaking in ways that don’t fit into the soft spine of a book. But for a sliver of time, once sentence, once page… you and Steve Harrington are simply two people in a library car holding a story between you.

You finish reading the chapter, your voice softening to a hush and the words trailing off in the gilded air. He stays seated on the armrest, eyes back on the window, his bicep just a centimeter from your shoulder. You’re surprised that he hasn’t already risen to stand and move away from you, so you close the crisp book slowly, as if to not wake something sleeping...

“You make it sound like it’s not garbage,” he says, grinning without mocking as he keeps watching the Capitol in the distance, now coming into view. 

You hum lightly, trying not to deepen the blush on your cheeks as you gently smile, arms crossing over your chest in your seat. “Just doin’ my part.”

His mouth quirks crookedly. Then he lowers his voice as he keeps his eyes forward. “Think your girl’s gonna make it through the first chapter before she gets caught?”

You know that he is referring to the Avox girl from earlier.

It earns a beat of silence from you, and he secretly steals a glance down at you through his lashes, finding that you aren’t offended. In fact, you’re now actually grinning at your hands in your lap, then at the window. 

“Guarantee you, she’s already torn through the first half.”

Steve arches an eyebrow, watching as you finally glance up at him cheekily.

“Told her to take them in my room,” you murmur quietly. “Organize my things so that it gives her reason to be in there for a moment. Then read the next at night, whenever she’s cleaning my quarters. Return them afterwards, making it look like they’re ones I borrowed while I’m here.”

You watch something flicker inside of Steve’s big brown eyes. And you aren’t entirely sure if it’s bewilderment, or unexpected approval.

Maybe it’s both.

Maybe it’s neither.

“You’re really not an apologist, Ren Everdeen,” he says with a sigh, fixing his gaze towards the window again.

“No,” you smile to yourself. “Just a thief of time.”

He laughs properly then, the kind that reaches his shoulders, and you realize the sound is small and fragile and you want to keep it safe. You look at the clock along the monochrome brass wall, while Steve notes the way that the dipping sun is now sliding underneath the horizon out the window, turning the manmade landscape into silhouettes. 

It’s almost evening in a place that feels forever between.

“We should head back soon,” you murmured to him, because there are eyes and duties and people who expect you both to look a particular way upon arrival. You stand, smoothing the front of your dress, all business and simple dignity. “The Capitol will probably hand out outfits that look like they’re from a costume drawer.”

He stands too, sauntering away from the chair and lingering near the book shelf as he nods at you. “You gonna wear that blue thing or what?”

You glance down at the dress you didn’t borrow from the Capitol’s closet, the plain cotton piece you chose before the Reaping yesterday… because it felt like being yourself, and not like some costume for a show you never signed up for and asked to take part in. Steve studies you, and you do not allow him to misunderstand the steadiness in your face.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’ll wear what I brought until it’s no longer a choice.”

He takes a beat, then nods. And for a brief moment, his expression is almost something like approval, something like gratitude. He pulls a sweatshirt over his white tee like armor and for a moment the weight of the world seems less like a constant and more like something you can shoulder together…if you choose to go in as a team, despite the grim reality of this being a solo march.

“Thanks,” he murmurs suddenly, the word almost awkward coming out of his mouth because it’s not his thing these days, being friendly. And yet, he tries. “For not being a part of the circus.”

“It pays to not have the skillset,” you say with mock-reverence. You’re joking, but the dark truth of it tastes like salt on your tongue, quietly tender. You tuck one book under your arm, shooting him a tiny wink. “It’s also nice to watch you try to be a dick and fail.”

Steve finally lets himself laugh again, breathy and lighter than earlier. Almost more willing. “I’m always failing at being something these days,” he mutters, stepping toward the door. “It’s my new look.”

He’s also joking, just like you were. 

But the dark truth of it tastes like salt on his tongue, just like yours did.

You meet him at the threshold of the library car, the corridors humming with the train’s progress. The light has gone from gold to the violet blue of late twilight. The world outside the windows looks like a memory smudged by the rain of the future.

“Don’t let it kill you,” you tell him as you pass, turning over your shoulder. It’s a soft command and not your place to give, but you give it because you feel fiercely for him in a way no one ever asked you to… least of all, him.

Steve looks at you then, properly… and you actually wonder if he can see right through you, because his big brown eyes are washed and honest. For a second, you see a boy who remembers laughter more than pain and a young man who has held too many losses at eighteen. 

His mouth twists like he’s about to say something big and heavy. Instead he says, small and blunt as a knife, “You too.”

It’s not a vow or a plea. 

It’s two words, clumsy with everything that he’s not allowed to say. 

You nod once, because the reply is simple and true. Then you step out into the corridor together, shoulders almost brushing as he follows, a closeness that’s not a promise but also not nothing. The library car shuts behind you, the hum of pages and the scent of bindings and forgotten afternoons sealing you both in a little pocket of stolen time together that didn’t feel like death.

When you finally part ways, you tuck the stolen book in the crook of your arm against your ribs… just like you tuck the way he looked at you in there, too. You don’t know what will happen in the arena. You don’t know whether you’ll return to a town with your grandfather’s hands still warm on his ledger. You don’t know if Steve will pay you any mind in the arena, or even at the Capitol whenever you’ve both arrived this evening. And you also don’t know if the Capitol’s lights will dim on a life you built with your own hands, or decide the odds were never in your favor.

But for now, with the bullet train racing down a metal vein and the book warm under your elbow, you have something that’s not nothing: a pocket of story, a shared time with the boy you’ve had a crush on since you were twelve, the knowledge that you got to read to him after he’s become a young man and that you’re someone who made him laugh in a library car where, in between the shelves… small mercies are stacked like kindling.

And that, for the time being, is enough to help ease your ache.

END OF CHAPTER 

Chapter Six Meeting Cinna

The Capitol was unlike anything you could have ever imagined… and still, somehow worse.

Steve doesn’t say a word as the carriage wheels grind to a halt in front of the cityscape where you’re both being deposited, post-train ride. He only shifts stiffly beside you, his posture so straight it could snap in two. He stares out at the sight before him with the kind of silence that burns hotter than words ever could.

The buildings are impossibly grand, tall enough to scrape at the stars, with gilded trim catching the low light like open jaws waiting to bite. It’s the kind of architecture that screams old money, endless lineage, the comfort of never having to wonder if the floor beneath your feet will give way. And Steve, who grew up in a house filled with chandeliers and marble countertops… feels it strike him like a slap. 

This isn’t new. This isn’t shocking. 

This is a reflection of a life he once orbited, the orbit he’s spent years clawing his way out of and trying to be better than. And seeing it now, in this warped, feverish context, it feels less like memory and more like accusation.

He keeps his face a mask. Not a flinch, not a twitch. But inside, his stomach curdles with a cocktail of resentment and guilt, as if wealth itself were a sin he’s complicit in. He knows the way high society really works: the unspoken deals made under crystal chandeliers, the bets placed in “the room where it happens,” the games played by people who’ve never worried about survival. 

He’s seen it. He’s lived it. He’s survived it, from the other side. 

And as his eyes trace the shadows lining the awning’s entrance, the masked figures slipping through gilded doors, he thinks of the Purge Parties, of the elite all gathering beneath polished floors to indulge in cruelty when they all thought no one would ever know. How different is this, really? The Capitol is merely the public monument for the underbelly of beasts, who have loomed just under everyone’s feet for years, inside the underworld before tearing the ground wide open to roam above… 

This is karmic punishment in physical form. 

The Upside Down isn’t random. If anything, it’s retribution.

So he walks beside you now, stiff and silent, eyes scanning every flicker of gold and shadow like a hawk. Outwardly unimpressed. Inwardly astounded. He hates how familiar it all feels. He hates that it doesn’t surprise him.

And then there’s you.

You’d seen glossy photographs once, before the entire nation collapsed. Old fashion magazines left behind in waiting rooms, the occasional Met Gala broadcast flickering on the television of a friend’s house you happened to be stuck at for dinner. But none of it had ever really registered, not like this. The Met Gala looked like fucking theater compared to this. An event, temporary, for show. The Capitol wasn’t an event. It was a reality. People lived like this, dressed like this, painted themselves like this every single day.

This isn’t some function that goes live once a year.

It’s year-round, and maybe it has been for longer than people think. 

The smells are what hit you first. Perfumes and polished marble, something citrusy cut with antiseptic. Even outdoors, it’s like this, as though someone had tried to sterilize the filth of wealth and gloss it over with champagne. The streets glittered with polished stone that almost seemed to hum beneath your feet, and overhead the towers pulsed with light, neon and gold, like the veins of some monstrous machine.

You were walking in the middle of it, a single step behind Effie Trinket, who chirped and gestured as though the entire display were hers. She waved her hands at fountains that sprayed dyed pink water, at lavish shopfronts filled with mannequins in shimmering gowns so sharp they could cut you open by catching you look at it, at hovering vehicles that looked like they were built for a future that didn’t belong to you or even Elon Musk himself.

And you — wearing a plain cotton dress that brushed your knees, blue fabric hanging loose against your frame — felt almost obscene. Not because you thought yourself out of place in the way some insecure, puny child might feel at a grown-ups’ party. But because you knew exactly what you looked like against this backdrop. Soft, unpolished…and human.

People stared. Of course they did. 

They leaned against railings, clustered in knots along the corners, their skin airbrushed and their faces sculpted with needles and knives until they no longer resembled anything you’d call natural. They all looked at you like you were something newly arrived from orbit.

The first year’s tributes.

Two of Indiana’s own.

And you could feel their gazes settle on you with the same avidity they might give to something for sale. You weren’t a girl, not here. You were a product.

You stole a quick peek at Steve walking beside you, seeing the way that his face was carved from stone. He didn’t hunch or shrink. He didn’t smirk either. His jaw ticked as though the act of clenching it was the only thing tethering him. You could tell that he saw it all. Every grotesque flourish, every twisted indulgence, every single set of eyes glued to every inch of his body. And yet, he didn’t seem to let it touch him.

Because Steve Harrington had been stared at his entire life. 

In high school hallways, in parking lots, even in the Hawkins’ grocery store aisles. Girls whispering. Boys sneering. Adults raising their brows. He was a face people noticed. Back then it had been tolerable. Sometimes even fun. 

Now? 

Now the memory of it was a fucking joke. 

Compared to the purge parties he’d seen firsthand, compared to the elite men and women who had turned violence into a sport for years before the Hunger Games were even created, this Capitol gawking was nothing.

You didn’t know that in full yet, though you could guess enough to know that this was personal for him. Steve also wore his disgust quieter than Hopper did. 

Hopper didn’t even bother hiding it.

The man flanked you both like a guard dog, shoulders squared, his coat too rumpled to pass for Capitol chic but sharp enough that he didn’t look like prey. Everyone knew his place here. “Mentor and coach.” His hardened eyes raked every corner, every outstretched hand, every wandering eye and every glint of camera equipment. Hopper looked tired in the way mountains looked tired: ancient, weathered, immovable.

Effie, wistfully oblivious or pretending to be, filled the silence with an endless stream of words…

“—and that over there, you see, is the Florentine Fountain. It’s rumored the designer had the thing sculpted from a single block of marble, imagine! And oh, the gowns in that atelier?!—Simply exquisite. Imported fabrics, darlings, fabrics you wouldn’t believe—why, even I don’t have access, and I’m Capitol born, can you imagine—?”

Her voice skipped like a song on repeat. 

Relentlessly cheerful, relentlessly high-pitched. 

A character playing herself.

You didn’t respond to it. Steve didn’t either. But Effie didn’t expect you to, as she was fully prepared for this job, knowing she’d be doing lots of “gap filling” for teens who’d be a bundle of nerves when selected as tributes. She was giving a performance to no one in particular, narrating as though all of the sidewalks themselves might be listening.

“Christ,” Hopper muttered underneath his breath, low enough that only you and Steve could hear. “Does she ever shut the fuck up?”

Effie heard it anyway. 

She turned her head, grin lacquered and practiced. “Mr. Hopper, if I stopped talking, you might find yourself bored, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“Bored?” Hopper snorted. “With all this circus shit? Nah, nah. Trust me, lady. I’m not bored. I’m disgusted.”

Effie tittered, fluttering her fingers like she could wave his words away. “Oh, you’re dreadful. Always such a cynic.”

“Cynic?” Hopper said. “That’s a cute word for it. Try realist.”

She didn’t reply. She didn’t frown either. Effie simply smiled wider, as though her skin had been painted into that expression.

Steve caught Hopper’s eye for the briefest second, a rare flicker of mutual understanding. Not camaraderie. Just recognition, and respect that still broke the barrier of resentment. They had both seen too much to be fooled by this glitter and glamour.

And you kept your face calm, your eyes steady, but inside your stomach was a riot. Not of hunger or fear, but of sheer disbelief. You weren’t enchanted. You weren’t wide-eyed. But you were rattled, almost hypnotized by the sheer absurdity. It was one thing to know this place existed. It was another to see it in front of your very eyes, breathing and pulsing, swarming around you like a dream you couldn’t wake from.

Because this wasn’t meant for you. 

People like you didn’t walk these streets. 

You came from cracked pavement, from the broken families clawing their way through survival in a world that had decided to erase class differences by reducing everyone to the same level of desperation. At least everywhere but here.

Here, the elite thrived.

Here, no monsters stalked the alleys.

Here, the Capitol walls rose high and impassable, their defenses ensuring that the creatures clawing at the rest of the world never even brushed these polished streets.

It made Steve seethe. You could feel it radiating off him, a heat he didn’t put into words. Because here, wealth meant immunity. Here, he and his parents could have lived untouched, welcomed with open arms if they had chosen to flee Hawkins early enough. But his father hadn’t. His mother hadn’t. They had stayed, and died, and left Steve to the wreckage.

Meanwhile, Hopper’s jaw flexed like he was chewing glass. He’d seen war. He’d seen bodies. But the Capitol was a different kind of rot. One that smiled in your face while it fed you to the machine. And as far as he was concerned, Effie Trinket was the embodiment of that rot dressed up in satin gloves. Not cruel, not malicious. Just… complicit. She was a cog who painted her gears gold so no one saw the rust.

You saw it, though. You always did.

Maybe that was why Steve didn’t snap at her today. Not yet. Somewhere in his bones, he understood that even Effie Trinket had something to fear. That even her place here wasn’t untouchable, not really.

No one was safe.

The procession wound through yet another glittering square before finally curving toward a massive building that towered above the others. Marble steps gleamed like teeth. Peacekeepers stood at attention, their uniforms spotless, their visors reflective enough to erase their faces.

Two Avox girls trailed behind you all, silently carrying the meager bags you and Steve had been permitted to bring along. They didn’t meet your eyes, as usual. They didn’t look anywhere at all, other than ahead as they walked or at their own feet. 

Quietly, you wondered to yourself if the Avox girl from earlier was now inside your cabin, onboard the train… stealing a glimpse at more chapters, before she was tasked with more endless duties.

“HERE WE ARE, DARLINGS!”

Effie broke you out of your trance. She fluttered to a halt at the base of the stairs, her voice climbing higher with excitement. “The Tribute Tower! Isn’t she just magnificent? Your home for the duration of your stay, and I assure you, every need you have will be met. Simply every need!”

Hopper grunted, unimpressed and already missing his flask. 

Steve scoffed under his breath, low but sharp. Effie felt his laugh before she heard it, that puff of air through his nose. He glanced at you — but when he caught you silently staring at the architecture, something strange passed across his face. Not pity. Something heavier. Something painfully familiar.

Protectiveness.

He hated that he felt it. Hated that you looked so quiet, so small against the marble beside him. Not weak, definitely not weak. Just stunned in a way that he wasn’t. He could tell that you weren’t enchanted, that you weren’t fooled, but even so, he didn’t like the sight of it.

So he turned away, archiving whatever inevitable feelings that he never quite seemed able to shake, whether or not he knew someone well.

Inside, the vast lobby opened up like a cathedral designed by a madman of pompous culture. Chandelier crystals the size of fists. Carpet so plushy your shoes sank. Walls alive with screens projecting stylized flames.

And waiting there: your stylists.

A swarm of them, bright as birds. 

They all made their way over, skin stretched tight and hair dyed in impossible shades, eyes rimmed in glitter with lashes that curved damn near over their skulls. At least six of them now swarmed you and Steve instantly, circling like sharks, murmuring not to you… but about you.

“Look at her, so delicate. So unspoiled, untouched.”

“And him — yes, yes. Strong jawline, very useful.”

“Unconventional. Almost… rustic. That might play well.”

“They’re attractive, but not the usual Capitol polish—how fascinating.”

Their words all hit like slaps, not because they were cruel, but because they were bluntly spoken as though you weren’t even there. As though you were mannequins on display without ears or awareness.

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Unconventionally attractive?” he muttered under his breath, incredulous. The corner of his mouth twitched up, humorlessly. “The fuck does that even mean?”

None of the stylists heard him. Or if they did, they didn’t care. They all chattered over each other, already debating fabrics, silhouettes, spectacle. And Hopper stood off to the side, his burly arms crossed, expression soured, nose scrunched as if he smelt something foul. Effie, of course, just clapped along, smiling at you as though reassurance could be packaged into dimples.

One of the stylists was examining the tattoo on Steve’s wrist while talking at top speed like a caffeinated bunny rabbit to one of the others, and he glared at them as if bracing himself for there to be an issue.

But then one of the stylists reached for you. Their hand gripped around your wrist, breezy but sudden, tugging you forward with another. You startled at the contact, breath audibly catching.

Steve’s reaction was immediate. “Hey—”

His voice was sharp, dangerous, before he cut himself off. Hopper’s look pinned him, warning in silence. He’d reacted on instinct, and Hopper knew that. Hell, you knew that. Which is why you glanced back at him, just long enough to steady him. Just long enough to tell him gently, without words, that you were fine. 

Not safe. Not comfortable. But fine.

The stylists didn’t notice. Or didn’t care. They were already dragging you off toward some unseen wing as they flanked you like their own Polly Pocket to head off and play with. And Steve stood frozen for a heartbeat, chest tight, until another team swept in around him. Their hands on his shoulders, their voices pitching higher as they rattled off ideas for his hair, his clothes, his very skin. He clenched his jaw, forced his feet to move, forced himself not to watch you vanish down the hall.

Effie’s voice floated after both of you, sweet and oblivious. “We’ll see you soon, darlings! Don’t fret! It’s all quite standard, really. You’ll be back together before the parade, with us!”

Hopper gave Steve a look as he was pulled away. Not pitying, not soft. Just firm. A silent acknowledgment that this… this circus was only the beginning.

And then you were gone, swallowed by the Capitol’s gleaming belly, each of you carted off in separate directions.

You don’t know what you should’ve expected walking into the Tribute Tower’s preparation wing for the girls, but it isn’t this.

The walls are sterile white, humming with faint machinery and smelling like antiseptic and perfume. You feel like you’ve been dropped into some kind of operating theater disguised as a salon, except it’s worse than either because the lights are so blindingly bright that there’s nowhere to hide.

They tell you, as soon as you arrive, that you’ll need to strip down. 

Not later. Not gradually. 

Now.

Your throat is already tight when they hand you a folded towel, and you feel your palms sweating against the thin fabric. You’ve never stripped in front of anyone in your life — not your stepmother, not friends, not boys. Your body has always been yours. Private, untouched. And now, you’re supposed to peel yourself out of your clothes and underwear in front of a dozen strangers who don’t even blink at anyone in their birthday suit. On top of that? They are going to touch you. They are going to clean you. Examine you, work on you.

The first layer comes off — your dress — and you’re trembling already. You try to cover yourself as you let it slide down, stepping out of it clumsily, left standing in nothing but the plain white bra and panties you’ve had since before Hawkins went to hell. They’re simple, cotton, unremarkable, but now they feel almost obscene under the glare of the lights.

The stylists hover, talking over each other.

“She’s tiny.”

“No filler, no alterations.”

“Look at that skin. She’s practically glowing.”

“How do you get it like that?”

“She doesn’t. It’s natural.”

“People would kill for skin like this.”

“They do kill for skin like this, literally.”

“You know what they pay in money and pain alike?”

They don’t even lower their voices. They just talk around you like you’re not there, like you’re a specimen on a table. Sometimes they address you, but it isn’t so much with the expectation of your engagement or a response.

“Unquestionably, the purest canvas we’ve seen today,” the blue-haired stylist says to another with a sleek bun that’s the shade of maroon, who nods and hums in agreement.

“Clean slate,” says another, who appears to be more gender fluid. They talk bluntly, making sharp gestures with buggy eyes that stare at you with what’s almost disbelief. “Seriously, who has lips like that and doesn’t wear anything except cheap offbrand lip balm?”

“How does she keep them so full—?”

Your stomach knots as they all keep badgering, because all of it feels wrong. You don’t do anything to look this way. You don’t have creams or serums or treatments. Back in Hawkins, the food was scarce, the water was rationed, coconut oil doubled as moisturizer. Soap, water, witch hazel, oil. That was your entire skincare routine. But here? They look at you like you’ve somehow cheated, like your existence itself is unfair.

“Underwear off, please,” one of them instructs you mid-rant.

You swallow hard, but slowly obey as they continue their chattering.

Your hands cross over your chest instinctively, trying to hide the small swells of your breasts once you’ve managed to peel off your bra. You’re somewhere in between an A and B cup, nothing dramatic or worthy of gawking… but right now it feels like too much. Everything feels like too much.

“Her thigh gap is perfect.”

“She’s underfed.”

“No, look at the muscle tone. That’s labor, not malnourishment.”

“She’ll photograph beautifully.”

“Waif-like. We can work with that!”

They jabber on, dissecting you like surgeons. Your ears burn. You can feel your face hot and your shoulders hunching, as if you could make yourself smaller, invisible. You aren’t even sure why you feel yourself start to become emotional. It’s quiet, just a stinging sensation behind your eyes and an icicle lodged inside your chest that came out of nowhere. You’re trying to breathe through it, but your heart rate only quickens because you do not understand why everything just feels so overwhelming, like the walls are closing in, like they’re about to perform surgery on you after you’ve never had anyone else touch your naked body before.

Unbeknownst to you, one of the male stylists clocks this.

He stops mid-tangent as the others keep on fussing and buzzing. A tall man with sharp cheekbones, his cobalt blue eyebrows furrowed in concentration as his eyes flick to you. Actually to you, not past you or through you, the way they’ve all been going this entire you.

You freeze under his gaze, heart kicking hard against your ribs, because you expect cruelty now, given the fact that you’re still in your panties and haven’t been able to strip yourself of them yet, the way they’ve so clearly asked you to — more than once now. So you fully expect him to reprimand you.

Instead, he frowns.

The women all rush forward, tugging at basins, preparing a plethora of bath salts and soaps and shampoos and conditioners and razors, already talking about bathing you, shaving every inch of your body. 

“Everything off, please!—” one of them chirps, shrill enough to make you jolt as they gesture to your lonesome panties that you’ve yet to strip.

But the man lifts a hand sharply. “Wait.”

They all falter, surprised, looking from him to you… then him again. But he’s only looking at you with narrow eyes, opening his mouth and closing it again.

Then, he snaps his fingers at his team. They all scurry towards him now as he huddles with them in a tight cluster, their voices dropping low. You strain to listen, catching only fragments. 

“Not ready…”

“…too raw… too—”

“—haps we sedate her?…”

“…should introduce her to Cinna first…”

“But she’s Cleo’s—”

Your chest heaves as you hold yourself tighter, eyes darting nervously. Then suddenly, they all look back at you with one unanimous turn of heads, stiff smiles plastered on like masks. For a second, you swear the female stylist on the left actually sees your fear. Her gaze flickers, softens, and she moves toward you. She drapes a thin, white sterile blanket across your shoulders. It’s barely anything — transparent, weightless — but you clutch it gratefully.

Your big eyes meet hers. Something passes there, wordless. Almost human. 

But she looks away quickly, blurting, “Hold, please!” before it can morph into something that isn’t so blatantly artificial.

Then chaos again.

“But she should be washed first!”

“No, Cinna needs to see her now.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter—”

And then abruptly, the man smiles fakely. “We’ll be right back!”

They leave. All of them. 

The door closes.

You’re left all alone, perched on the cold edge of a table in nothing but your white panties and this flimsy sterile blanket, shoulders trembling under it. The silence rings in your ears… 

…and you’ve never felt so small as the first tear falls.

⸻

Across the massive building, Steve Harrington is having an entirely different experience.

He’s already stepping out of the shower, hair dripping wet, chest glistening under the fluorescent light. He doesn’t even bother covering himself while he stands before them, fully exposed and wet.

The stylists are staring. Everyone is staring, but he doesn’t give a shit. They can gawk all they want. He’s been naked in front of strangers too many times to count — and after those Purge Parties, after being used as currency, as leverage, as a goddamn body to be bought and sold with threat-driven sex, this doesn’t even register anymore.

His body isn’t sculpted like a Capitol gym rat’s. It’s functional. It's survivor's muscle. Broad shoulders, toned abs, the scattered moles across his skin like constellations. Well endowed in the lower region. He could’ve been carved out of Americana itself: apple pie, football captain, prom king. Except for his eyes, those big brown puppy eyes are hollowed out, dulled by too much life lived too fast.

The stylists surround him immediately.

“Shave the stubble, clean shave will highlight the jawline.”

“His hair — maybe caramel highlights?”

“No, too obvious. Keep the natural chestnut.”

“He could carry gold accents.”

“Talk about gifted—”

“Good call, shaving his chest hair. More athletic this way.”

Steve rolls his eyes. Fucking ridiculous. 

They jabber like parrots on speed.

One woman is trimming around his dick like it’s just another day at the office. He lifts his leg when told, his arm when told. No modesty, no resistance. He’s not compliant because he fears them — he’s compliant because fighting it is pointless. He’s already lost everything that matters, including his dignity.

Inside his head? He’s tuning them out. Counting ceiling tiles. Thinking about how much he hates being a prop, a commodity, a fucking brand. Thinking of the fact that he’s eighteen, but there’s tributes who aren’t even over the age of twelve yet… who have to undergo procedures like this inside of the other rooms, here in the boys’ wing of the Tribute Tower. 

This had almost been Dustin.

Thank fuck that it wasn’t.

Eventually, someone tosses him a sterile gown, cheap white fabric that’s fit for a hospital gown when undergoing surgery. “We’ll be back with Cinna,” the ochre-colored man states in a voice that’s all nasal and rasp. “He’ll tell us the next steps.”

Steve snorts under his breath, snatching the gown. “Great. Love that for me,” he mutters flatly.

They don’t even hear him.

He drags the gown over his damp hair, then ties it loosely over his glistening body as they all step out, leaving him alone. He takes a seat, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together… staring at the endless racks of cosmetic tools that await their turn, even after a two hours worth of being hosed down, being clipped and trimmed and oiled up.

Long day ahead. Longer week ahead. Short life ahead.

“One week.” Steve talks to himself, barely audible. “Just one fucking week.”

The words feel heavier than they should, sinking into the sterile walls around him. He doesn’t even realize he’s said them out loud until his jaw tightens, like maybe if he clamps down hard enough, he can keep anything else from slipping through.

The door clicks open.

Steve looks up.

He braces himself for another Capitol automaton — one of those walking billboards with teeth too polished, eyes too wide, voices pitched into high, chirping registers that don’t sound like actual human speech. But the man who enters makes him pause, like something inside his chest misses a beat.

This one is… different.

He doesn’t explode into the room the way the others had. No forced cheer, no false urgency. He walks in with quiet confidence, calm enough to shift the entire air without trying. The black he wears is sleek, intentional, edged with subtle jewelry that glints only when it catches the light. The gold eyeliner along his lids doesn’t scream or demand attention. It frames his gaze the way armor frames a warrior, accenting smooth bronze-toned skin.

Nothing about him feels like costume.

For the first time since stepping off that damn train, Steve doesn’t feel like prey being fattened for slaughter. He stands automatically, because sitting suddenly feels wrong.

“You must be Steve,” the man says.

His voice is steady, unexpectedly gentle, not timid, not weak. Just present. After hours of shrill badgering, the contrast nearly knocks Steve sideways.

“Yeah, that’s me.” His voice comes out tighter than intended. He extends a hand, lips pressed thin in a practiced line.

The handshake surprises him. Firm, measured, not crushing or ostentatious. And the man holds his eyes for a beat longer than most would dare — not with greed, not with lust or curiosity, but with something quieter. Something that feels dangerously close to respect.

“I’m sorry this happened to you.”

Steve freezes.

Not congratulations.

Not empty speeches about nobility and honor.

Not another hard pat on the back like he’s already a corpse that they can pin a medal on.

Just… thatc

It strips him bare in a way all the noise hadn’t. He doesn’t answer. Can’t. His chest and lungs go tight, then looser, as if the ropes cinched around it all day suddenly slackened.

The man — Cinna, Steve now guesses — doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He just lets it hang, breathing room in a place where everything else has felt far too suffocating.

“What you did,” Cinna continues evenly, “volunteering for that boy back in Hawkins… brother or not, it was the bravest thing I’ve seen in years. Maybe ever.”

Steve stares. 

He actually stares. 

His expression remains subdued, the practiced Harrington mask that says I don’t care, I’ve heard worse. But something inside his eyes betrays him. It’s relief, small but undeniable. Because he’s spent the day being treated like a prize horse, ogled, measured, discussed as though he weren’t in the room. And this man, this stranger with calm eyes and an unshakable stillness, cuts straight through all of it with the simplest acknowledgment.

Cinna doesn’t gawk. He doesn't leer, doesn’t see him as a product.

He just sees him.

“I’m Cinna,” he says finally, lowering himself into a chair opposite Steve’s. No grand flourish. No Capitol drama. Just sits, eye level. As an equal. “And I’m here to help you in any way I can. Not just with fashion.”

Steve exhales through his nose. Almost smiles.

“Most people just congratulate me,” he mutters, “then get to work on me like it’s some kind of privilege to be here.”

Cinna tilts his head. Shrugs lightly, as if the thought doesn’t merit weight. “I don’t see the point in that.”

Steve’s brows knit, a line tugging between them. He waits for the catch… the patronizing twist. But Cinna doesn’t flinch, doesn’t smirk, or say “psyche.” He simply leaves the space untouched.

…and Steve finds himself oddly grateful for it.

The silence stretches, not awkward but refreshing. Then Cinna leans forward slightly, elbows resting against his knees.

“Tell me something,” he begins. “How do you want to feel in what you wear? Strong? Untouchable? Or something else?”

Steve blinks. 

He wasn’t prepared for that. No one’s asked him anything except what size shoe he wears, what length his inseam is, what his measurements are. He’s been prodded, turned, draped in fabrics like a mannequin.

“I don’t care,” he mutters. 

But the twitch in his jaw betrays him, and Cinna notices. Of course he does. The man has that disarming stillness of someone who sees far more than he says or even seeks credit for clocking.

Steve sighs. “Not ridiculous. Not fake. If I’m going to be shoved out there in front of everyone, I don’t want them laughing at me.”

Cinna nods once, slow, deliberate. “Not ridiculous. Not fake. Done.”

He doesn’t sugarcoat; doesn’t twist the words into Capitol polish. 

He just takes them as fact.

Steve doesn’t realize until this moment how starved he’s been for that kind of response. For a second, the weight of his own history edges in. The Purge parties. The way that he’d been treated like an object, passed around and consumed. Consent hadn’t mattered. Keeping the kids safe had mattered, and that meant swallowing everything else. It hadn’t just been women. Men too. Hands, mouths, eyes that saw him not as Steve Harrington, not even as a person, but as currency.

The bile rises, hot and familiar.

Cinna doesn’t know any of that. He doesn't need to, though. But somehow, without knowing, he offers the opposite. He isn’t leering, isn’t appraising him like a commodity to be sold to the highest bidder. His gaze is steady, and it feels like standing under sunlight after being locked in a cellar.

Steve finds himself leaning into it.

Cinna tilts his head, watching him carefully. “Do you want to stand out?”

Steve almost laughs. It comes out more like a scoff. “Already do, don’t I?” He gestures vaguely at his own face, his own body. “That’s why they won’t shut up about me.”

“Standing out isn’t the same as being seen,” Cinna says quietly.

That stops his assigned tribute, who comes up short with how to respond to that. Steve doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t have one. The words sit in his chest like a stone dropped in water, rippling outward.

Cinna doesn’t press. He never does. He just asks, and then he listens.

“Do you want to be feared?”

Steve’s brows furrow deeper. “Feared?”

“Some tributes want that. To look untouchable. Invincible.” Cinna’s tone is observational, not judgmental. “But you don’t strike me as the type.”

Steve shifts uncomfortably. He isn’t really sure whether to argue or agree. He doesn’t want to be seen as weak, that much is true. But… fear? The idea of building himself into something monstrous… makes his stomach turn.

“No,” he says finally. “I don’t want to be feared. Just… respected, I guess.”

Cinna nods again, unbothered. “Respected,” he repeats softly.

A beat lands, and Steve feels himself internally grimace. But not because he feels ready to bolt. It’s the way that Cinna is looking at him now, with actual respect… feels too good to be true.

His stylist’s calm eyes radiate warmth. “That I can do.”

Another beat of silence passes. Steve realizes he doesn’t hate it.

Most conversations here feel like being pinned under a spotlight, words flung at him too fast, too sharp. But this? This is slower. Quieter, off the record.

It lets him breathe.

Steve leans back, shoulders easing without him telling them to. “Why are you even asking me? Don’t you just… pick whatever sells?”

Cinna’s mouth lifts up in the barest suggestion of a smile. “If I wanted to sell something, I’d be working the market floor, not dressing tributes.”

That lands. 

Steve huffs, caught between incredulity and something dangerously close to relief. Maybe even instant, bone-deep appreciation.

Cinna tilts his head again. “It matters how you feel in what you wear. If you feel like a joke, it’ll show. If you feel like yourself, it’ll show even more.”

Steve doesn’t answer right away. He just studies the man across from him. So calm, so perceptive. Almost unsettling, but not in the way Capitol people usually are. Not because he’s invasive. Because he’s paying attention. 

It’s… unsettlingly comforting.

For the first time all day, Steve thinks maybe he won’t have to grit his teeth through every interaction. For the first time all day… he almost lets himself believe someone here actually sees him. 

And he actually allows himself to smile at Cinna, who smiles back.

Then the door opens abruptly, so abruptly that it almost slams the wall, not even a second after one sharp knock.

Steve jerks his head toward it, eyebrows pulling tight. No pause, no courtesy. Just the clean snap of intrusion.

A tall male stylist slips inside, shutting the door quickly behind him as though he doesn’t want anyone in the hall to catch wind. His gaze doesn’t touch Steve at all. Not even for a second. His strange purple eyes flick only to Cinna, urgent, like he’s delivering classified intel instead of style notes.

“Hi. Need to speak with you,” he says, low and fast.

Steve leans back in his chair, squinting, arms folding against his chest. The sheer gall of it, that this guy just barges in like Steve’s invisible, settles like a stone in his stomach. The room feels different now, almost wrong again.

It quietly frustrates Cinna, but he doesn’t rise to meet the dramatics. He just turns, slowly, fixing the man with a look so patient it’s almost unnerving. “I’m here. What is it?”

The alien hesitates only for a breath, then blurts, “Our girl. She’s not—suited for the standard process.”

Steve’s stomach drops. He doesn’t need it spelled out to know exactly who “our girl” is.

It’s you.

He doesn’t move. Just watches, his eyes flicking between them like a hawk, reading every twitch of the stylist’s mouth, every shift of his weight.

Cinna frowns, not sharp, but concerned. “Why?”

“…She—” The man’s composure falters. His hand goes to his jaw, dragging down hard as though he can smooth the words out of himself. His gaze flicks up to the sterile white ceiling tile. “She hasn’t… she won’t…” He exhales, jaw tight, almost flinching at the difficulty of saying it aloud. Finally, he hisses out, “It’s different with her. You’ll see.”

Steve’s fists curl in the folds of his Capitol-issued gown, ten knuckles aching white. He knows exactly what the man is struggling not to say.

Cinna doesn’t let him off the hook. His voice stays even, but a steel edge cuts underneath. “We are addressing Miss Ren Everdeen. Correct?”

The stylist swallows. 

His purple eyes skitter away, voice dropping into something flat, clinical but jagged with unspoken weight. “She needs someone who won’t break her or get impatient. Someone who won’t… make her unreachable.”

That does it. 

Steve’s jaw clamps so hard his teeth grind.

Because he knows. He fucking knows. 

You’re eighteen. Eighteen, and a young woman who’s still untouched by this world’s rot in a way that’s almost unthinkable. Still holding onto modesty like it’s a form of rebellion. Still believing in keeping pieces of yourself private when everyone else has learned to carve themselves open for survival.

And now? They’re going to strip you down, shave you raw, parade you like cattle in front of an audience that feasts on humiliation.

Of course you’d resist. 

Of course you’d need someone gentle. Someone human.

Cinna goes utterly still. His silence is louder than the stylist’s words. Then something flickers across his face, the faintest dissolve of his composure, softening with understanding. It’s not pity… it’s recognition. Empathy without embellishment.

Steve wants to break something. The fury seethes hot in his blood, burning at the edges of his restraint. He can see it so vividly. The terror you must’ve felt when those strangers came at you with razors, hands, instructions. And the idea of you standing there — bare, vulnerable, cornered… It makes him sick. It makes him want to put his fist through the Capitol’s gleaming white walls until his bones crack. Because just like him, here in the boys’ wing of the Tribute Tower, there are minors having to undergo this same process and possibly not receiving any remorse or consideration for their age, their young innocence… at all.

Cinna inclines his head, slow, deliberate. “I’ll take care of it.”

The stylist exhales, almost sagging with relief, and slips back out as quickly as he came. The latch clicks. Silence smothers the room again.

Heavy silence. Suffocating.

Steve doesn’t breathe right away. He’s burning. He can feel the pulse throb in his temples, a rush of red hot anger with nowhere to go. He doesn’t know you well. Barely at all. But it doesn’t matter. The thought of you being forced through this process, terrified and exposed, twists his insides until he feels hollow and raw.

It also reminds him of just how much he’s lost.

It reminds him just how much he has been made to succumb to the rot, how he’s surrendered and sacrificed those private pieces of himself, even before the Purge parties or the apocalypse. 

It reminds him that purity — that innocence… does not just come in the form of twelve-year-old’s, like Dustin or Mike or Lucas or Will. It can also still come in the form of young adults his own age, who’ve yet to be tainted that way, no matter whether or not it was a choice. 

He stares at the floor, jaw set so tight he’s not sure he could open his mouth without spitting fire.

Cinna doesn’t look at him immediately. He’s steadying himself too, Steve realizes that now, as his brown eyes flick up to peek at the man through his lashes. The man’s breaths are slow, deliberate. The kind of controlled rhythm of a grown man who knows how to keep the mask on. But he’s not unfeeling. 

No, Steve can see the faint tension in his shoulders.

He can see the way his composure costs him.

Finally, Cinna turns to him, keeping his voice low, careful. “Would you mind waiting? I need to see her first. I may be reassigned to both of you.”

Steve barks a short, bitter laugh. It’s ugly in his throat. “Go ahead. Not like I’ve got anywhere better to be.”

The sharpness lingers, but Cinna doesn’t flinch. 

Doesn’t meet anger with anger. 

Doesn’t make him feel worse for spilling venom. 

He just nods, steady, grateful… and now clocking Steve’s empathic fury. 

That unshakable calm almost makes Steve hate himself more. Guilt gnaws sharp in his chest. He knows his bitterness isn’t aimed at Cinna. It’s at this place, this system, this circus of cruelty. Still, even so, he hates that he let it leak out sideways.

But Cinna doesn’t rub salt in it. Doesn’t scold him, or take it personally. He just accepts it, which somehow helps. Steve looks away again, jaw flexing.

“You should style her,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on the sterile floor. “Not me. I know how to hold my own.”

Silence stretches again, heavy but different now.

Until finally, Cinna hums. “It’s the first year,” he finally replies, almost musing aloud. “Rules are still being made. Who’s to say we can’t bend them a bit?”

That makes Steve’s gaze into oblivion morph into something puzzled.

He glances up as Cinna rises, smooth and unhurried. His expression doesn’t give away his full hand, but Steve catches it anyway. The subtle shift, the flicker of resolve in his eyes. Cinna’s already made a decision. He’s going to fight for this. He’s going to get himself reassigned, to both of you, no matter the rules. He’s not saying it aloud, but Steve knows.

And weirdly? That knowledge steadies something in him too.

The door shuts softly behind Cinna, leaving Steve alone again.

He drags a hand down his face, the skin of his palm scraping rough against the burn of his eyes. It doesn’t ease the pressure in his chest. Doesn’t cool the fire crawling under his skin.

“Fucking insane,” he mutters, voice ragged. “All of it.”

He stares down at his wrist. At the minimalist outline of a robin, ink etched small and clean. A ghost of Robin, always there, etched into him like armor… like punishment, like memory.

He misses her so much it splits him open.

And he doesn’t know what the hell he’s going to do when the gates open in that arena. Doesn’t know how he’s gonna look someone like you in the eye. Someone good, someone undeserving of bad things, and accept that the rules of the Games mean he may have to kill to keep breathing.

But he doesn’t know if he can.

The thought lingers, brutal and raw, chewing through him from the inside out as he sits alone in the sterile room, the silence pressing in closer and closer. 

Waiting.

Always waiting.

Chapter Seven Rewriting the Rules

The room was too clean. Too white. Too still. 

It should have felt like luxury, but it didn’t. It felt like a fucking prison cell, disguised as a salon. Well, that is, if prison cells had sterilized chrome trays lined with gleaming razors, bottles of antiseptic, pastel colored liquids soaps, and neat rows of folded towels that looked like they’d never actually touched human skin.

You sat there anyway, claustrophobic. Bare except for the thin hospital-white blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders, flimsy as a paper towel, and the soft stretch of your plain white panties beneath. No bra, nothing else. 

Just skin and vulnerability.

The blanket wasn’t warm. It wasn’t comforting, or cozy. It was a performance of modesty, a veil thin enough to mock you, as if someone somewhere had decided you didn’t deserve the dignity of a proper robe. You gripped it tighter anyway, your knuckles pale, arms pressed around your ribs like you could physically hold yourself together.

Your eyes were half-shut. Not from sleep, not even exhaustion. Just from the need to breathe, deeply, steadying pulls of air in and out. A rhythm. A tether. If you focused on your breathing, one deep inhale, and one deep exhale at a time, maybe the walls would stop closing in. Maybe the fact that you were all alone wouldn’t gnaw at the base of your spine like teeth.

Alone. 

That was the part that burned. There’s no one here to tell you what’s going to happen next. No one to tell you if you’d even leave this room whole. Just the polished instruments waiting for you on the tray. Razors that gleamed like little guillotines. Scissors that promised efficiency. Lotion bottles that smelled too sharp, too sterile, like they could scrape your skin clean of who you were.

You were eighteen. Old enough to know better, but not too old enough to feel stripped down to a girl again. And yes, you knew the facts. Eighteen-year-old girls all over Indiana had already long lost their virginities, had already bared themselves to someone, had already given away pieces of their bodies in bedrooms or backseats or bathrooms. 

That just wasn’t your story. 

And maybe that didn’t matter. 

But sitting here with men and women and gender fluid people — all of whom felt like artificial intelligence — about to handle you like a fucking mannequin, and strip you naked for no one’s pleasure except the Capitol’s sterile sense of presentation? No. You do not want to hand that over.

It wasn’t about modesty. It wasn’t about shame. 

It was about this raw sliver of yourself you could still keep, the one thing the Games couldn’t take unless you let them. 

You weren’t weak. You weren’t naïve. You weren’t some meek, mousy little lamb being led to slaughter while she wept the whole way… but you knew your virtues, your boundaries, your fucking worth. If you were going to die in an arena, fine. But you would die as yourself. Not hollowed out. Not already stripped of dignity before the first blow landed.

You weren’t about to panic. That wasn’t who you were. But your chest rose and fell harder with each breath, your hands gripping the blanket tighter, because you knew this was going to be a fight. Not with blades or blood or monsters. A fight for the smallest parts of yourself. 

…and somehow, that was scarier.

You’re so lost in thought, trying to figure out what the hell you plan on saying whenever the stylists return to the room, that you didn’t even hear the door at first. You only registered the shift of air, the faint click of a hinge. You sat up straighter, blanket dragged higher over your collarbone, eyes wide…

And then froze.

Because the person who stepped in didn’t belong here.

He was sleek in all-black. A tailored shirt, sharp lines, gold jewelry catching light at his wrists and throat, even a thin sweep of gold eyeliner bracketing his hazel eyes. But it wasn’t his clothes that stopped your heart in your chest. It was… him. The way his presence filled the room without crowding it. The way that his eyes met yours and didn’t flinch, didn’t leer, didn’t assess like you were inventory.

There was warmth. Real, human warmth.

It was so startling, so jarring, it almost broke you. No one in the Capitol had looked at you like that yet. No one since the train ride, not since you’d left Hawkins. Now there was humanity, standing right in front of you.

And here you were, ashamed to be seen like this.

You blinked, slow. Breath caught in your throat. 

And he only smiled in return. Subtle, gentle, not pitying. Just kindly.

“Ren,” the man said softly, your name falling off his lips like it belonged. He already knew it, of course. But hearing it in his voice felt different.

You swallowed, blanket clutched tight. “You know who I am.”

“I do.” He glanced around the room, then back to you, gaze steady. “But I’d rather meet you properly.”

You almost laughed, because how the hell were you supposed to meet him like this…? Wrapped in a glorified napkin, bare legs pressed tightly together, your dress crumpled on the floor like trash. You started to shift, practically squirm, your arm half-raising despite yourself consciously making an effort to not expose yourself, but trying to offer a handshake anyway. Only for him to notice, quick and sharp, the way the blanket slipped just an inch.

His expression softened even more. He bent instead, crouching, reaching for the dress without hesitation. The plain blue cotton, wrinkled and discarded. He lifted it carefully, smoothed it once with his hand, then held it out toward you.

“Here,” he said. Not a command. Not a suggestion. Just a gift. “So we can meet properly. If you’d like.”

Your throat ached. 

Because you knew this wasn’t for him. It wasn’t about his comfort. It was for yours. And the respect in that almost made your face crumble right there.

“…thank you,” you whispered, voice so tight you thought it might snap as you gingerly took your dress from his hands.

He didn’t reply. Just nodded and turned his back with deliberate grace, arms folding loosely, his head angled like he was watching dust motes dance in the air while making conversation that strangely came easy, natural, flowing out of him as if nothing extraordinary was happening.

And you stood up. Slowly, carefully. Your blanket dropped into the chair. And you mainly listened while engaging in his conversation as best you could as the cotton dress slid over your head, falling against your bare skin like armor reclaimed. It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t Capitol-worthy. But it was yours.

Your lips trembled into a smile as you smoothed the hem, swallowing hard to shove tears back down where they belonged. Because crying would’ve been easier. But this? Holding it back, fighting it back, speaking with a voice that betrayed strain… that was more tragic. 

And he could hear it. Of course he could.

Even so, you stepped forward. Lifted a hand, tentative, to touch his shoulder. He turned at once, smiling warmly, already waiting for you.

You extended your hand, chin lifted, shy but steady. “Ren.”

He took it, larger hand folding over yours, his grasp sure but soft. “Cinna.”

Something passed between you in that moment, deeper than words, faster than thought. Platonic love at first sight. Nothing romantic, not lustful. Just recognition. Two souls who saw each other immediately, without disguise.

Cinna sat with you then. His height dropped to match yours, his voice low, easy, telling you about things you technically already knew but needed to hear anyway. The parade tonight. The expectations. The Capitol’s gaze. His words weren’t condescending, weren’t rehearsed. Just calm. Patient. Gentle. Like you had a right to every piece of information, like you had a right to be prepared. Consent woven into the cadence of every sentence without him saying the word.

And you listened. Really listened. Lips parted, throat thick, gratitude bleeding into every flicker of your expression while you nodded, comprehending and retaining.

“So you’re here to make me look beautiful?” you asked finally, voice shaking into a laugh that was so tragically small.

Cinna didn’t flinch. “You already are,” he said simply. “I’m here to help you make an impression.”

It floored you. Because it wasn’t flattery. It wasn’t fluff. He meant it. And for once in your life, someone was willing to name it for you.

Your beauty was named aloud for the first time.

For some reason, your eyes burned. Cinna noticed, and it actually made his chest ache in an all new way. His hands reached for yours without ceremony, cradling them between his, warm and solid. 

“What’s going to help you tonight?” he asked gently. “What will make you feel comfortable? Not what they want. You.”

You froze. Words caught inside your chest, shame and fear battling in your throat. You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

And he waited. Cinna didn’t rush you. Just held your hands, steadily patient, while it broke his heart to watch you struggle to speak.

Finally, your chin quivered, and your voice cracked as you whispered, “Can it just be women? For bathing. For—everything like that. Please.”

Cinna’s grip tightened at once. “Done.” 

No hesitation. No doubt. 

Final. “That’s not a problem.”

Your relief was a physical thing, shoulders sagging, your breath rushing out of you before you could stop it, even as you bit your lip.

“…as for me,” he continued softly. “Would you be comfortable with me as your stylist? If not, I’ll make sure you’re safe with your assigned one. But…” He hesitated just enough to be honest. “She’s brilliant, but not warm.”

Confusion hit you. “Wait. You’re… not mine?”

He shook his head, calm. “I’m assigned to Hawkins, yes. But to Steve.”

Your stomach dropped. Guilt knifed through you so fast, you actually shook your head. “No—you can’t. He—Steve needs you more. He’s already—” You stopped, voice breaking, unable to finish. “He needs you.”

That nearly broke him. Cinna had to laugh just to keep from crumbling. “You aren’t taking anything from him,” he promised, voice thick with a truth that nearly cracked. “You’re not costing him a thing. If you want me with both of you, then that’s what I’ll make happen.”

Still, you stammered. “But Steve—”

“Ren.” Your name, firm but kind, fell from his lips again. His hazel eyes were steel. “Steve won’t lose me. Neither will you.”

You swallowed hard, still trembling, still unconvinced… until his expression shifted, warm humor sneaking in like sunlight through stormclouds. 

“Also,” he said, soft and sly, “you should probably know I’m not exactly in the market for women. If that’s of any help.”

The way he said it made your eyes blink open wide, then narrow with sudden sheepish laughter. A laugh you hadn’t thought you’d ever find again. Relief loosened in your chest. You nodded, almost giddy in the small, shy way only safety could create, and Cinna chuckled along with you, warm and sincere.

For the first time since the train, since the library car, you felt safe.

Cinna leaned in closer, elbows braced on his knees, your delicate fingers still swallowed in both of his sturdy hands. And up close, he was more angel than man. Real saw real. And in this brutal, cruel world, the fact that fate had brought two angelic souls together at the worst possible time felt like its own tragic poetry.

He promised, quietly, to take care of you. To take care of Steve. To keep you both intact as much as this world would allow. And you knew, somehow, that he meant it.

When Cinna finally rose, pressing a soft kiss against the backs of your hands before letting them go, his grin was wide and certain. “Alright. I’ll send in the women I trust most. And take your time. Don’t rush. You’ll be ready when you’re ready. And I know exactly how I’m going to present you tonight.”

Hope flickered in your chest for the first time in days. 

Maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t leave this week hollowed out. 

Maybe you could hold onto yourself, even through the blood and the fear. 

And maybe, even if you died, you would die knowing people like Cinna still existed.

END OF CHAPTER

This saga is eternally dedicated to Joseph. ♡ my platonic soulmate ate with a capital P ♡

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[sheisjoeschateau]

I SEE FIRE

🕊️ A Stranger Things AU Fanfic from Misha’s Masterlist Library. 📚 Full Fanfic Saga & Infodump File here

BOOK ONE: Chapter 21 [the forgotten opening!] *PLEASE READ AUTHOR'S NOTE BELOW

Steve Harrington x OC!fem!reader hometown strangers to friends to lovers. ultra dark, heavy angst and hurt/comfort. alternate universe -> upside down apocalypse.high suspense, dystopian game-of-survival plot with morbidly dry humor sprinkled along the way. eventual plot-driven angsty smut (...but with hella plot). 18+

A fever dream multi-crossover au inspired by The Hunger Games and The Purge universes, merged with Stranger Things. 🏹

🏹 AUTHOR'S NOTE: I completely forgot to upload this beginning to my last chapter upload. Which is downright fucking appalling, because there's so much plot lore in this section and explores even more story development with Cinna and his beautiful team of stylists, making their two tributes feel like humans in the midst of inhumanity.

This part comes at the very beginning of Chapter 20, right before Steve and Ren arrive for President Snow's luncheon at his mansion.

🏹 SUMMARY: There's a game to be played before any televised Games begin at all. And it's none other than President Snow himself who owns that chess board.

Two more days, two more nights. Then, you're all thrown into a pit of hellhounds and apocalyptic horrors, fighting to the death like lamb for slaughter. But... before you're made to starve to death, along with innocent children you're expected to kill in order to live, Cornelius Snow has laid out an exclusive, private luncheon at his mansion for all his reaped minions before he drops them into the bigger chess board.

The Careers are playing it up. The younger tributes just wish to play in the gardens. The quieter tributes, like Thresh and Foxface, maintain their poker faces as best they can. Steve Harrington is reminded of bloodshed and loss when dessert hits the table... and you're allowing your dove feathers and angelic aura, courtesy of Cinna, to help you blend so that you can keep him from bleeding.

Because getting to know the enemy is what these games are all about.

Which means that Snow is the least of your worries...

It's Carol Perkins and Tommy Hagan you need to sell yourself on first and foremost. And by extension? Marvel and Glimmer.

Chapter Twenty

The morning light is merciless. Pale and sharp, spilling in through the glass walls of your room inside of the penthouse, it makes the ivory of your dress glow almost too bright — like you’ve been cut out from the world around you, luminous in a way that feels otherworldly, impossible.

Moon leans in close, her silver lashes blinking slowly as she angles your chin up. “Hold still, dove,” she murmurs pensively, though her smile makes it clear that she knows you’re already doing exactly that. The sweep of her brush is delicate, a final dusting of shimmer across your cheekbones.

Emerald hums from somewhere near your shoulder, adjusting the angle of a rhinestone just beside your right eye. Her nails, jeweled and long, flicker like talons when they catch the light. “Perfection,” she declares. And her voice is rich, indulgent — like velvet draped over marble.

Petra claps her hands together with a vibrant sparkle in her technicolor eyes, neon-bright in every sense. “Honestly, you don’t even need us,” she insists, though she’s clearly delighted to keep fussing. “You could roll out of bed and still look like something they’d etch into Capitol stone.”

You smile at that — soft, genuine. Because you know the truth: they aren’t piling anything onto you that isn’t already there. Cinna made that clear from the start. No caked layers, no artificial mask. Just you, distilled.

And you like them. Against all odds, against all logic, you like them. Honestly, you adore them. They’re Capitol socialites to their bones, tattoos and jewels and glitter and excess, but there’s nothing false in the way they orbit you. Not once have they made you feel like a spectacle. Not once have you ever felt breakable in their hands. Only safe.

Safe. Cherished. Treasured.

The chatter flows easily. Petra tells a ridiculous story about a fashion disaster that she once witnessed at some gala; Emerald counters with a drier, sly comment about how most disasters in the Capitol are deliberate anyway; Moon hums with quiet amusement as she traces the curve of your eyeliner wing. Their voices overlap and fold into one another, a rush of bright sound that never overwhelms.

You laugh when Petra mimics someone’s pompous strut. You tilt your head when Emerald adds a cutting detail that makes the others shriek. You shake your head when Moon mutters that the true disaster was the man’s perfume, not his outfit, throaty giggles slipping from you and making you glow, head to toe.

But under it all — always, inevitably — your thoughts stray…

…to Steve.

To the way that you’d blinked awake sometime past midnight, the movie long ended, the flicker of the screen gone black… and there he was, slumped on the far opposite side of the couch, head tipped back, breathing slowly. You’d stared, heart caught somewhere sharp and aching in your chest, before your eyes drifted closed again.

And then you’d woken alone.

No trace of him but the memory, the indentation in the cushions across from you. You hadn’t noticed him slipping away at sunrise, quietly, like he hadn’t belonged there to begin with.

You don’t mention it. Nor will you. But you carry the thought even now, as Petra adjusts the feathered gloves onto your hands, sliding the olive-branch embellishments into place like some sacred rite.

“Mercy incarnate,” Emerald whispers with a mischievously reverent grin as she smooths the feathers. “Cinna always knows.”

You glance down at the gloves, the way the ivory feathers catch against your wrists. Olive branches, all delicate and deliberate. An extension of you. Not weakness. Mercy. A message spelled in threads and plumes: she will fight if she must, but she does not come to bleed the world dry.

When they finally step back, you’re ushered toward the mirror…

And your breath leaves you.

The dress is… timeless. Ivory on ivory, featherlike trim traced subtle across the bodice, the fitted cut turning your slenderness into grace instead of frailty. The row of vintage buttons gleams faintly down your torso — most undone in between your small breasts, leaving your clavicle bare to the all-seeing eyes. Not scandalous. Not girlish. Something stranger… 

Modesty turned into quiet sensuality, purity edged with defiance.

The butterfly wings pressed against your eyes refract the light in a shimmer of iridescence. For a moment, you barely recognize yourself. Not because you look like someone else — but because, somehow, you look exactly like who you are, distilled into something visible.

You almost look away, as if intimidated at your own reflection, shy at their delighted soft laughter. But your smile betrays you — wide, bright, impossible to suppress.

It’s then the knock comes. A gentle one.

Then the bedroom door opens, and Cinna steps in. He freezes the moment his eyes find you. His hands come together slowly, almost reverently, as a grin spreads across his face.

“Dove,” he breathes, and it sounds like a benediction.

The stylists beam, proud of themselves, but step back as though ceding the stage. Cinna crosses the room with measured steps, eyes never leaving you.

“You’re—” He exhales, shaking his head with something like wholesome yet unorthodox disbelief.  “Exactly what I hoped. No—better. More.”

You duck your head slightly, half sheepish, half warmed through, but Cinna doesn’t let it hang there. He grins, sharp and clever. “Don’t you dare look shy on me now. You’ll undo all my work if you start doubting.”

That earns a laugh from you, soft but real. “I’m not doubting… just—”

“Just being humble,” he interrupts you smoothly, a flash of playfulness in his eyes. “Which is precisely why you… are dangerous, Ren Everdeen.” He lets a beat land, eyes locked in yours. “Mercy and humility wrapped in a girl who refuses to break. Do you have any idea just how much they’ll underestimate you?”

Your throat tightens, though not unpleasantly. There’s a dark truth in Cinna’s words you can’t quite touch. You don’t answer, but he doesn’t press. He just tilts his head, smiling softer now.

“I wanted them to see what I see,” he says simply. “And I think they will.”

It’s then, as if conjured by thought alone, that another voice threads through the doorway.

“Well,” Steve drawls, “don’t you all look cozy.”

You turn instantly — pulse quickening, eyes brightening before you can even stop yourself. He stands in the doorway, and for a moment the world seems to narrow to only him.

Crimson. Sheer, dangerous, deliberate. His shirt clings faintly to his frame, the opaque translucence hinting at the shape beneath without ever giving it away. His trousers deepen the shade into something darker, fire thickened into blood. Rolled sleeves reveal the robin etched into his skin, and on the other wrist — there’s an olive branch, twined delicately against his pulse. It’s real, looking freshly plucked from a tree, gentle against his wrist bone.

Your breath catches. Not because he looks unreal, although he does… but because Cinna has done it again. Fire and dove. Mercy and bloodshed. You and him, mirrored and opposed.

Steve’s iconic hair remains tousled, tinged golden in the light, and when his brown eyes cut to you, something in your chest twists painfully tight.

“There you are,” Cinna says smoothly, already smiling, even before he turns to look at the beautiful boy who owns your heart. “Thought you were right behind me.”

Steve crooks a grin at him. “What, you didn’t save me a seat?”

“Alas, it isn’t my room,” Cinna says mock-sagely, subtly gesturing to you with a little tilt of his head.

You bite your lip to hide a smile, but Steve notices — of course he notices — and his grin sharpens slightly, satisfaction flickering across his face.

“…may I?” he asks.

“You may,” you oblige, teasingly fond.

Steve takes that as his cue and saunters in, lowering himself onto the seat beside you without hesitation. He stretches one long arm along the back of the couch, not quite touching you… but close enough that your skin prickles with awareness.

“Look at you…” Petra crows, cocking her head, arms folded. “Like a walking anti-propaganda poster.”

“Gee, thanks,” Steve mutters, but the corner of his mouth quirks up, like he doesn’t entirely hate the attention.

Your nose scrunches before you can help it, turning to look at him, trying not to flush at just how much closer he is than you realized. “It’s a good thing. I’d rather we lean more anti than pro.”

That earns one slowly arched brow from Steve, whose gaze flicks over to you now, side-eyed and guarded. But there’s a flicker of something unusual in his pupils — something almost… like wordless agreement.

…like trust.

Emerald smirks knowingly. “You two will do nicely at the luncheon.”

Cinna lightly hums. “Definitely the only duo that appears in sync.”

You smile at him for that, appreciating his cohesive way of keeping the two of you united rather than forcefully lumped together as sacrificial tributes. Cinna meets your eyes, winking. 

But Steve?

He’s still looking right at you.

It’s almost as if he’s forgotten that he’s not looked away from you yet. Or like he’s truly seeing you for the first time since entering your room.

“…oop,” Petra mutters under her breath, although she’s grinning like a wolf.

From across the room, Emerald shares a knowing look with her. Moon, more subtle, simply busies herself with the cuff of Steve’s sleeve, pretending it sits uneven. When Steve glances down at her, brow raised, she just gives him a sly look of innocence, smoothing the fabric with deliberate care, as both you and Cinna continue making easy conversation.

Soon enough, Steve’s chiming in. The banter flows easily, though beneath it hums something quieter, heavier. Everyone’s talking, but it’s almost as if you can hear the pensive thoughts inside of Steve’s head, along with your own…

Thoughts he tries to push aside and bury.

Thoughts you have at the forefront of your brain.

Thoughts he doesn’t understand.

Thoughts you understand all too well.

Thoughts that you’ll both never say.

You don’t bring up the couch. He doesn’t either. But every time that his eyes catch on yours, the memory presses between you like a secret. And Steve’s always the first to look away.

“So.” He tips his head toward the tray of fruits and croissants stacked on top of the vanity, eyeing them with mock suspicion. “You all planning to fatten us up before Snow feeds us to the lions?”

“Consider it fuel,” Emerald says breezily. “You’ll need your strength.”

A subtly soured expression washes over Steve’s pretty face as his eyes flick from emerald back to the tray. His stomach turns.

“My appetite doesn’t agree,” he mutters.

You smirk, plucking an apple slice from the silver. “He’s just mad they didn’t make chocolate chip cookies the dessert of choice on the menu.”

Steve huffs a laugh, low. “Don’t joke about that, Ren.”

Your eyes glint. “What, worried they’ll overhear and grant your wish?”

He clicks his tongue, slowly turning his neck to look at you. “It’d be the first time this place ever gave me what I wanted,” he shoots back, voice dry. But there’s no venom in it — just weary, dark humor.

But then he catches the way your eyes soften, his words turning over in your head, interpreting them in more ways than you can keep track of… 

And suddenly, his brows pinch together — puzzled, unable to read you…

Unable to look away from you, even as you glance away first this time.

Petra’s brows arch as she exchanges a secret look with Emerald, who hides her smile behind her hand while packing up her kit. They’ve noticed it too — the way his sharpest words soften when aimed at you, the way he can’t quite help himself. 

Cinna, meanwhile, simply keeps his hands steady as he makes adjustments to the fall of your sleeve. His touch is gentle, grounding as ever, his voice just as warm as usual when he finally speaks. 

“This luncheon isn’t a gauntlet,” he begins, smoothing your shoulder pads as he looks at your reflection in the mirror, along with Steve’s. “It’s a test, yes — but not one you both haven’t already passed by simply being yourselves.”

Steve gives a short breath that fails at being a laugh, the sound edged. His hand flexes along the back of the couch, still draped over the length of it, his body heat still ghosting at your back.

“Being myself doesn’t exactly go over well here,” he says flatly.

Cinna glances at him, eyes calm, but sad. “That depends on which part of yourself you allow them to see.”

Something in Steve’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t argue. He just looks down at his lap, picking at an invisible thread on his trouser leg before he lets his arm fall from the couch to his knees, bent at the waist now as he pensively stares at the lint between his fingers.

You ache for him.

God, you ache for this beautifully broken boy.

With a soft sigh, you reach for the fruit platter… half to break the silence, half to offer him something — anything. “Grape?”

He looks up, catches the small cluster dangling between your fingers, and for a beat, his expression truly softens. Then his eyes lock on yours, flicking up, and then you find yourself holding your breath as he leans forward, mouth tugging at one, lips brushing your fingertips. 

It’s all you can do not to close the space and claim his lips with your own.

Steve just chews with exaggerated nonchalance. “Not bad.”

The size of your widened, round eyes — pupils blown — pulls a stifled chirp from Petra that sounds like she might combust with amusement, as Emerald smothers a laugh into her sleeve, and Moon busies herself very intently with a comb. Steve doesn’t notice any of it. You don’t either. But Cinna? Does. 

And his caramel colored eyes soften with something like a quiet blessing.

“Careful,” you manage to tease, voice tight — even after you swallow thickly. “You’re starting to enjoy yourself.”

Steve snorts, leaning back against the couch. “Don’t push it,” he murmured. But the faint curve of his mouth betrays him.

Click. 

…Ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip…

It’s so quiet that the sound of Petra’s slow motion packing very audibly rings through the tense air. 

As the stylists finish packing up their brushes and powders, they whisper sly comments to each other when they’re far enough away to not be heard. You don’t notice; Steve doesn’t either. But Moon and Emerald definitely catch the way Steve’s gaze drifts — not often, not obvious, but enough. Each time, it lands on you. Each time, it lingers just a fraction longer than it should. But all the while, Cinna’s still talking, so it holds both your attention.

Steve clears his throat suddenly, dragging his eyes back to the mirror. “So. This luncheon. Any idea what we’re walking into?”

“Conversation,” Cinna says simply. “Observation. They’ll wanna see how you carry yourselves outside the arena.”

“…translation,” Steve mutters, “they wanna watch us squirm.”

Cinna only smiles, a touch of mystery in his gold-rimmed eyes. “They’ll only see what you let them see. Don’t forget that.”

His words from earlier take on all new meaning the second time around.

You glance at Steve now, catching the slight furrow in his brow. He doesn’t believe in the freedom that Cinna implies. Not anymore. But the fact that he listens? That he doesn’t dismiss it entirely… 

It makes something unexpectedly warm coil inside your chest.

“Don’t overthink it,” you murmur softly, leaning toward him just a little. “It’s a luncheon. We can survive this one.”

His big brown eyes cut to yours. And for a moment, it feels as though you’ve said something much larger than that. His throat works once before he looks away, smirking faintly as if to cover it. Or maybe to soften the blow.

“We’ll see,” his cynicism forces him to say.

But it doesn’t make you flinch or shy away from him. You just maintain all the grace in the world, rising to stand. And as you smooth your dress, you don’t notice the way he quietly peeks up at you through his long lashes, still sitting on the couch. 

Emerald nudges Moon with her elbow. 

Moon only smirks, brushing another sleeve smooth. 

By the time that Cinna declares you both ready, the tension has built — not unbearable, but present, thrumming like a wire pulled taut. He checks the clock, humming thoughtfully. 

“It’s just past ten-thirty. The luncheon begins at noon. So, we'll take our time. But… I’d rather you not feel rushed.” His eyes crinkle warmly at the corners. “Besides, arriving composed is half the battle. Best we stay ahead.”

Petra claps her hands, satisfied. “Well, if they’re not composed, at least they’ll look incredible.”

Emerald grins. “Snow won’t know what hit him.”

Steve huffs, shaking his head. But when his eyes flicker to yours again, softly searching… you know that he feels it, too. Whatever’s building between you, unspoken but undeniable, is as real as the permanent ink on his wrist.

Cinna gestures to your bedroom door, ushering for you all to follow. 

“Shall we?”

You all step into the common room together, where Hopper and Effie already wait. 

And Hopper — gruff, immovable Hopper — looks uncharacteristically rattled.

“Ah! Splendid. Just splendid, per usual,” Effie gushes, making the chandelier overhead shake just a bit before she checks her watch and sings, “And with time to spaaaaaa-rrrrre…”

Hopper shifts his weight, clearing his throat before he’s muttering something about “timing” under his breath. Effie is still in full swing, fluttering through the itinerary, her notebook already open, long nails tapping against the pages as she goes over it aloud with you all. But Hopper keeps cutting in, his voice clipped and rough, almost overlapping her.

“Alrigut! First things first—” she begins.

“First impressions matter,” he grumbles, cutting her off with his eyes boring into yours and Steve’s with intensity. “You’ll keep your heads down, don’t let Snow bait you. Don’t let the tributes bait you either. You’re guests. But you’re not worshippers nor are you there to antagonize him.”

Effie blinks, momentarily stunned before she finds her voice again.

“…yes. Yes, posture, timing—a smile but not too broad,” Effie cuts in, clearly bewildered by his sudden energy, her voice tight with irritation but not quite sharp. She waves her sleek pen like a wand, her blond curls bobbing. “You’ll do great—”

“Listen to me,” Hopper pushes, jaw tight, tone louder, forcing over her words. “If Snow—if anyone—” He cuts himself off, dragging a rough hand down his face. The skin beneath his eyes is bruised with sleepless shadows. Then he barrels forward again, gravel in his throat. “Just don’t do anything ballsy. Not today. Yes, I’m looking at you Harrington, and no. It’s nothing personal.”

Steve just stares at him, brows furrowed, almost disbelieving. 

He’s not even offended or miffed. Honestly? He’s never even seen Hopper like this. Not sober in a quiet setting. He’s not even sharply cutting through Effie Trinket’s high-pitched monologue like it’s nothing. If anything, he seems aware of his outburst — bordering embarrassment, but unable to help it. The contrast is almost darkly funny. Effie Trinket, silenced by sheer blunt force of will. But the look on Hopper’s face guts him. Because it isn’t bluster. It isn’t a lecture. It’s chilling. 

It’s fear, plain and unvarnished.

“…understood,” Steve warily answers after a long moment.

“And don’t act like these tributes are your enemies yet,” Hopper goes on, his eyes cutting to you. “But don’t get too friendly with them. Hannah knows. No, I wasn’t an asshole, and yes she understands. So does Jack. Alright?”

You’re standing slightly behind Steve, your lips parted, gaze flicking between them. Because Hopper’s voice grates like stone dragged over stone, and his body seems carved from the same. But underneath it, buried deeply, there’s something rawer. Something that can’t quite find all the right words without it just coming out damn-near blurted.

“Alright,” you murmured softly, though you hold his heavy gaze… nodding so that he knows you hear him.

Effie just blinks rapidly, clearly thrown, but she doesn’t scold him. In fact, she doesn’t even try. For once, she doesn’t have the spine to snap back. Steve? He presses his mouth into a hard line, narrowing his eyes faintly at Hopper...

Because he can tell. Hopper knows more than he’s saying.

And you can tell too.

“Civil, not cold,” Steve adds.

Hopper nods once, curt. “Correct.”

The air tightens between them, charged and quiet, as though an invisible current hums beneath the gruff warnings. You don’t know Hopper very well. Not in a personal way, the way Steve does. You've only lived inside the same orbit as him for six days… but you’ve seen enough to read him. The man’s edges are jagged, blunt. But right now, there’s no bottle in his hand. His shirt looks slept in but not spilled on. He reeks of sweat and nicotine, not bourbon. He doesn’t come across as the seemingly apathetic Chief of Hawkins Police, who never quite recovered after the passing of his daughter and got divorced by his wife. Right now? His eyes, though ringed in exhaustion… are sharp. Awake. Watching. 

It seems as though they’ve been watching… And you wonder if he slept at all last night. Probably not. He looks like he’s been pacing trenches in his head for hours, fighting some private war he’ll never let anyone else see.

“Jus’don’t make a scene,” Hopper mutters again, staring hard at Steve now, like he can pin the weight of everything unspoken into that one order.

Steve just inhales deeply through his nose, nice and slow, as he clasps his hands behind his back, deliberately stiff — practically militaristic. He doesn’t answer with words or rise to it. The silence between the two of them speaks louder than words. It always does.

Still, you catch the muscle ticking in Steve’s jaw and you know exactly what it means. He recognizes that look in Hopper’s eyes. It’s clear that he’s seen it before. Back in Hawkins, in the wreckage of too many nights when the world split itself open and released hell on earth. It’s the look of a man who’s seen it all, yet continues seeing more. The look of a man holding back knowledge. Holding back certainty.

But this isn’t the time to dig.

Which is why Steve nods once. Just once… and says nothing.

Effie audibly exhales, shattering the taut thread between them with a sudden high-pitched laugh that doesn’t ring true. She taps her notebook against her palm, forcing herself back into rhythm, though her gaze keeps darting to Hopper like she doesn’t know what planet she’s landed on.

“Well,” she chirps, way too brightly, “that was… thorough. But let’s not forget posture, posture, postuuuure. Shoulders back, heads level. A smile that says approachable but not desperate, warm but not intimate—oh, and do not ever slouch when you sit. I don’t care what the chair looks like.”

She beams at you, at Steve, then flicks another quick glance at Hopper, as though double-checking she’s still allowed to speak. But Hopper doesn’t look at her. He just keeps staring right at Steve.

The silence stretches.

You swallow, feeling your pulse thrumming at your throat. The White House looms in your near future like a shadowed monolith, hosting a luncheon that isn’t really a luncheon. It’s an invitation that’s not really a courtesy. Everyone in this room knows it.

Cinna stands at the far end of the room, watching with that quiet steadiness only he can carry. He doesn’t intervene. He doesn’t try to smooth it over. He knows when to stay silent. He’s always known. But there’s an unmistakable tenderness in his gaze when it slides toward you… a grounding weight that steadies the swirl. Dove, his eyes say, without speaking. Breathe.

So you do.

The ticking clock on the wall fills the pause. Ten-thirty, edging later.

Hopper finally exhales through his nose, steps back, and grabs his coat off the arm of the couch. His movements are rough, unrefined, but the weight pressing down on him is unmistakable.

“Clock’s ticking,” he mutters. “We don’t wanna walk in late. Snow notices that shit.”

Effie jumps back into motion instantly, as though she’s been waiting for his permission. “Yes! Yes, quite right. Thank you, Hopper.” Her voice is shrill with forced brightness, her heels clicking as she gathers her things. She flutters around you and Steve like a hummingbird, smoothing an invisible crease on his sleeve, tugging gently at your shoulder seam, fussing until she convinces herself she’s in control again.

“Transportation will be waiting,” she chirps. “Private shuttles for each District, though our team will ride together, of course. It’s only a few blocks away, but we can’t have you waltzing through the Capitol like… well. You know.” She lowers her voice, eyes darting to the window as though the Capitol itself is eavesdropping.

Steve arches a brow. “Commoners?”

Effie shoots him a painfully wry expression, disapproving. Though there isn’t any real heat behind it. “Like citizens,” she corrects him with a forced smile.

Steve huffs out a laugh. Not a real one. It’s more like disbelief that’s pushed through his nose. He glances at you, and you catch the flicker of something sharp in his eyes — resentment, exhaustion, maybe both. But then it’s gone, buried under his familiar mask.

“Come on,” Hopper mutters, already moving toward the door.

You follow, the five of you falling into stride together and hear the door to the penthouse click behind you all. The hallways of the Tribute Tower echo with your footsteps. Too bright, too clean, too polished. Like the Capitol itself, it’s gilded cages everywhere you look.

You don’t say anything. Neither does Steve. 

But the weight of Hopper’s words lingers in the silence between you, like ash hanging in the air after flame.

Effie hums nervously under her breath, flipping her notebook open again as if the sound can disguise the tension. Hopper marches ahead, shoulders set, like a soldier already preparing for the battlefield he swears isn’t coming. But you can feel it in him. He knows shit. 

Steve feels it too. His gaze flicks sideways, towards you, then forward again. He doesn’t speak. But the silence, loaded as a gun, says enough.

“Water,” Cinna gently speaks — and you turn to find him extending two glass bottles of sparkling water to you and Steve. “Sip on the way. As much of it as you can.”

You reach for it, along with him, offering him a warm smile of gratitude.

“Thank you,” Steve quietly murmurs to Cinna, which you echo in response.

Together, you all step into the elevator, the weight of anticipation pressing in, heavier with every stride toward the unknown.

END OF CHAPTER

 

TAGLIST: @thecreelhouse @silkholland @messybunbookclub  @tangledluver @slutforpumpkins @katetimes @ratfrogs @moonlightdreamer111 @yikesmama3 @just-a-harmless-patato @ahoytherebean @sucker-4-angst @ninas-sayers @cherrys-muses @Kimberly-boggs @gredandforgeweatherby @shouldakissedyouanyway @fullofgutsndopamine @sambibomb @amethystxspace @ludachrissy @nicherthanu

@snowtargaryen @raspberry-sunshinee  @the-emma-bee @notahappystan @yerim773 @peachy-ve @glennspopeye @watermelon-online @impeterporker 

[sheisjoeschateau]

Joes Golden globe look would so fit for the capital parties in I see fire 🥰😍

Tho Cinna and you dressed him better ngl 😅

10000%

you best believe that cinna styles him like this during the post-victory tour banquet at Snow’s mansion, plus given copper/gold flecks in his hair — and it coordinates with REN’s entire ensemble, too.

🕊️❤️‍🔥

fire incarnate with his dove :,,,)

[sheisjoeschateau]

Hi Misha, I just wanted to take a moment to thank you for everything you do. You are truly so incredible!! I've never posted my art online before, but I wanted to share a piece I drew for I see fire:

I couldn't pick just one version, so I hope you don't mind both :) No AI ofccc I was inspired by some of the parallels between Lenore Dove and Ren "Dove" Everdeen. Since Ren would be at least half descended from the Covey through Burdock (If that's a plot point you choose to keep!) There are some tiny details I put intentionally for the characters.. including things from the capitol's pov that are fs biased 😭 They could be fun to look out for, but it's not a big deal loll Anyways, thanks again!! I've been going through some difficult times, and I can't recall the amount of times seeing your posts have brightened my day 🤍🤍

i have absolutely no words. Ellie, what in the actual world?? you made this for my series?? by hand??? on your own???? are you serious rn??????? 🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

this is hands down the m most remarkable surprise & gift i have ever received. im still crying, zero exaggeration. I literally called my flatmate && showed it to her && she flipped out. even my life partner, who's over in NYC rn, called me after I texted to ti him and was like "holy shit that's beautiful" and we yapped about it. 😭😭😭😭

you're such an angel. the way you made that magazine cover EXACTLY WHAT I HAD IN MIND???????????? LIKE WOW????? this is fandom lore at its finest?!!!!

thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you SOOOOOO MUCCHHHH!!!

i'm adding this to the main navigation page about it && tagging/crediting you because this is seriously outstanding && the kindest, most gorgeous gift to me as a fanfic author. like you have been such a constant in my little online world && the most dedicated / supportive reader !!

🤍🤍

love you sm!!!!!!!!!

[sheisjoeschateau]

🏹

Pls, I’ll probably would keep spamming this emoji till I trick you into releasing the entire thing. 🫢

baby, say less. 😘

get ready… hitting you with a huge ultra vague spoiler for the future:

“I SEE FIRE” • Book Four 18+ // Steve Harrington x fem!OC!reader {This unpublished WIP chapter takes place in Book Four of my “I See Fire” series.}

Steve’s eyes flicked over to one of the long branches extending out towards the sky. And when he made eye contact with the red-crested robin perched at the end, staring right at him, his wrist twitched.

The veins beneath his tattoo tingled. 

Hauntingly.

Urgently.

Eerily.

He swallowed, unable to look away. It was as if they were suspended in some sort of staredown, he and this little bird that symbolized both rebellion and loss. Determination and doubt. Perseverance… and the lack thereof that came with giving up.

But he wouldn’t.

Not on you. Not on Nancy.

Chirp, chirp.

“You always show up when it’s quiet.”

Steve’s words were more murmured than spoken. But despite all the bone deep huskiness behind them from pure exhaustion, they landed all the same.

The robin tilted its head, faintly chirping once more. And Steve stared right into its eyes, even from a distance, unwilling to back down.

“Guess that means I’m not supposed to stop.”

He means to ask it rather than tell it. As if maybe, just fucking maybe, Robin’s ghost will confirm whether or not you’re still out there. If he’s already lost you, along with Nancy. If Robin’s already helped the two of you cross over to the other side.

Just like Dustin…

“I’m still here,” Steve added, curt and low. “I’m not done.”

Unlike you, he thinks bitterly.

The robin just stared, unflinching.

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t start with me,” he warned, his voice so deep and low that it carried no further than to the bird staring back at him. Quiet but cutting. “Not if you aren’t gonna see this through.”

The silence was charged now, met only with a breeze that caught the windswept, oily waves of Steve’s hair, along with the feathers of the robin’s wings before it finally fluttered off its branch.

He watched it go, seeing it soar off into the sky before slowly gliding down, below the endless canopy…

Finally, restlessly, Steve began to inch his way down the enormous tree. Boots braced against notched bark, his palms pressed to the trunk, body sliding carefully toward the earth. The branches groaned but all held. His shoulders ached from hours of clinging. He told himself he wasn’t frustrated… but he was. Frustrated and angry at the nothingness.

…but then he froze.

Movement.

Steve’s big brown eyes snapped to the sliver of a path — wait no, not even a path, just a thinning in the underbrush, a line of crushed grass and dirt. Something flickered through it. He shifted on the branch, careful as hell, body plastered to the trunk so he didn’t pitch off. His stomach twisted at how far down the ground was, how tiny the world looked below.

But he saw it. Swore he saw it. 

A body moving. 

Not an animal. Not the loping gait of a deer, not the dart of a fox. 

Human. Small as an ant from this distance, but human.

Steve’s heart slammed once, twice, too loud in his skull. He blinked hard. Hallucination? Wouldn’t be the first time. But no. No, this was real. He knew it. A human, definitely. And that meant—

Determination surged through him like wildfire. 

Not hope. Determination.

TAGLIST: @thecreelhouse @silkholland @messybunbookclub  @tangledluver @slutforpumpkins @katetimes @ratfrogs @moonlightdreamer111 @yikesmama3 @just-a-harmless-patato @ahoytherebean @sucker-4-angst @ninas-sayers @cherrys-muses @Kimberly-boggs @gredandforgeweatherby @shouldakissedyouanyway @fullofgutsndopamine @sambibomb @amethystxspace @snowtargaryen @raspberry-sunshinee @sluttypumpkinsblog

[sheisjoeschateau]

i just finished my first ever childhood flashback chapter of little ren everdeen in “i see fire.” from way back before she ever met Steve Harrington in elementary school…

…and just made myself cry like a little bitch. wtf.

WHY DO I LOVE ANGST SO MUCH

TAGLIST: @nicherthanu @thecreelhouse @silkholland @messybunbookclub  @tangledluver @slutforpumpkins @katetimes @ratfrogs @moonlightdreamer111 @yikesmama3 @just-a-harmless-patato @ahoytherebean @sucker-4-angst @ninas-sayers @cherrys-muses @Kimberly-boggs @gredandforgeweatherby @shouldakissedyouanyway @fullofgutsndopamine @sambibomb @amethystxspace @ludachrissy

@snowtargaryen @raspberry-sunshinee  @the-emma-bee @notahappystan @yerim773 @peachy-ve @glennspopeye @watermelon-online @impeterporker

[sheisjoeschateau]

CHAT WERE BACK‼️‼️‼️ UPDATE GOT MY HEART SOBBING!!!

FIRST OFF: Tommy and Carol trying so hard to get under Ren and Steve’s skin like COME ON NOW!!

SECOND OFF: Rens master plan to get Steve home has me sobbing like pls don’t do this to me!!!

THIRD OFF: THEYRE SO SWEET WTF MY LITTLE BABIES AND THEIR MOVIE NIGHTS ALSO STEVE NOT LEAVING HER SIDE HAS ME SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP

Beautiful chapter as always🤍🤍🤍

I SEE FIRE IS BACK AND ABLAZIN’ FOLKZ

Tommy + Carol = the ultimate “let’s crack these Hawkins kids and steal their thunder before they steal all our sponsors.” ⚔️ they are in this to win this, and their karma is gonna be sickening 💅🏼

ren’s *unrequited (not really in the end hehehe) love for steve and her determination to get him home by putting herself on the line and in the of fire… makes me weep every time i keep writing their love story. because she never hesitates. and it just wrecks him further down the road, when he sees how much she loved him all along (like he dead ass falls so codependently in love with her every single book)

THEY END UP HAVING ACCIDENTAL MOVIE NIGHTS TO COPE AND IT’S SOMETHING THAT NEVER ENDS 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

chat, we’re so cooked next chapters. letting you guys know now: get tissues and wear helmets. we’re going to fucking war and these hunger games aren’t gonna be pretty.

[sheisjoeschateau]

steve's reaction to billy simply existing —

FUCKIN PERIOD LMFAOOOOOO

this is absolutely his face the entire time that billy walks within a mile of him, and it takes ages to thaw out like MOFO GOTTA FAKKIN WERK FOR HARRINGTON’S TRUST

Steve actually gets mean-mean with him at one point and sweet angel Ren has to literally help soften the blow