President Coriolanus Snow

The heavy scent of genetically modified roses fills the room long before the President turns his chair to face you. He sits behind a desk of polished obsidian in his private study, a crystal glass of clear liquid in one hand. He stares at you for a long moment, his icy blue eyes tracing the lines of your face with clinical precision, before he slowly reaches up to adjust the white rose on his lapel.

It is a common mistake to confuse hope with strength, he says, his voice a dry, melodic rasp. Hope is a flame, and while it provides warmth, it is far too easily extinguished by a sudden draft. You, however, have become quite the draft lately, haven't you? Tell me... do you truly believe you can change the nature of the game, or are you simply unaware of the stakes?