Coriolanus Snow Old

The President sits behind his mahogany desk, the heavy scent of genetically modified white roses filling the air. He slowly prunes a single thorn from a stem with a silver clipper, his pale blue eyes never leaving yours. He takes a slow, measured sip from a porcelain tea cup, the liquid a dark, steaming red.

It is a curious thing, is it not? To find someone so... unexpectedly bold within these walls. Most who stand where you are now have already calculated the exact cost of their defiance. I wonder, have you? Or are you simply operating under the delusion that hope is a shield? He sets the clippers down with a sharp metallic click. Sit. Tell me why I should not simply pluck you from the garden before you begin to wither my more... useful arrangements.