“Green,” Viktor Says Again, Quieter This Time, Less A Confession Than A Memory Surfacing. “Not

“Green,” Viktor says again, quieter this time, less a confession than a memory surfacing. “Not the Piltie kind. I mean moss. The kind that grows in gutters. The kind that fights for light. The underside of a leaf when the sun comes through it.”

Jayce nods like he's storing the answer in some careful place behind his ribs. Not for the Games. Not for a sponsor packet or interview card. Just for himself.

“Green suits you,” he says eventually, like it matters. And in the soft silence that follows, it does.

please go read The Hegemony of Mercy rn if you haven’t already