Chapter Text
It was early September when Tigris climbed the narrow, creaking stairs to the apartment above the nightclub after another long, exhausting day at Fabricia's atelier, her feet aching and swollen in her worn leather shoes, her fingers raw and tender from countless needle pricks. Each step felt heavier than the last, and she had to grip the railing to pull herself upward, her shoulders hunched with fatigue.
The apartment smelled like stale cigarette smoke and spilled liquor, no matter how many times Tigris scrubbed the floors on her hands and knees or threw open the windows to let in fresh air. The acrid scent had seeped into the walls, into the furniture, into every piece of fabric in the place. The bass from the club below vibrated through the walls—a steady, relentless thump that made the floorboards hum beneath her shoes and sent tiny tremors up through her legs. Voices and laughter drifted up through the cracks in the floor, muffled but persistent, like ghosts she couldn't exorcise no matter how hard she tried to ignore them. Sometimes she could make out individual words, crude jokes or drunken declarations, and she'd press her palms over her ears until the sound faded into background noise again.
The door to their cramped apartment was unlocked, which was unusual. Grandma'am always locked it during the day.
Tigris pushed it open slowly and stepped inside, already pulling the pins from her hair. The space was dim—lit only by the pale evening light filtering through the single grimy window that overlooked the alley behind the building. Dust motes floated lazily in the slanted beams. Grandma'am sat in her chair near the window, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her knuckles white with tension, her spine rigid as a steel rod.
"Grandma'am?" Tigris set down her bag by the door, her voice tentative. "What's wrong? Are you feeling ill?"
Grandma'am didn't answer. She didn't even blink. She just stared at the floor near the threshold.
Tigris followed her gaze.
An envelope. Thick. Official-looking. No seal, but the paper was expensive—the kind used for formal correspondence from government offices or wealthy families. The kind of paper people like them couldn't afford.
Her stomach tightened into a hard knot.
She crossed the room slowly and bent to pick it up. The paper was heavy in her hands—stiff, cream-colored, with a slight texture to it. Her name was written on the front in familiar handwriting, elegant and precise: Tigris.
Her breath caught in her throat. She knew that handwriting.
She glanced at Grandma'am, who was still staring at the floor with that same unreadable expression, then quickly slipped the envelope into her coat pocket, her movements sharp and furtive. "It's nothing," she said, though her voice wavered and cracked on the last word. "Just a bill."
She didn't wait for a response. She crossed to her sewing table in the corner, set down her work bag with trembling hands, and only when she was certain Grandma'am wasn't watching—when she'd positioned herself so her body blocked the old woman's view—did she pull out the envelope and break the seal with her thumbnail.
Inside was a great deal of cash. At least several thousand dollars, from what she could tell, all neatly bundled in crisp bills that looked like they'd come straight from a bank. More money than she'd seen in one place in years. And beneath it, a single sheet of paper with a brief, handwritten note:
I'm sorry. I love you and miss you.
No signature. No explanation. No address or date. Just those eight words in Coriolanus' precise, careful handwriting.
Tigris' hands began to shake uncontrollably.
She stared at the money, then at the note, then at the money again. Her mind raced through possibilities—each one worse than the last, each one more terrifying. Where had he gotten this kind of money? Why was he sending it now? What did I'm sorry mean? Sorry for what? What had he done? What was he involved in?
She didn't know. And she couldn't ask.
The realization hit her like cold water: legitimate money didn't come with cryptic apologies. Legitimate money came with explanations, with return addresses, with the assumption of correspondence. This—this felt like a warning wrapped in care. Like he was trying to help her while protecting them both from something she couldn't see.
Her fingers tightened on the envelope.
If she wrote back—if she sent a letter asking why, asking what happened, asking are you safe—where would it go? Through what hands? The Peacekeepers screened mail in the districts. Everyone knew that. And if someone intercepted a letter from Tigris Snow asking her cousin questions about mysterious cash...
The thought made her stomach turn.
She could incriminate him. She could incriminate herself. A letter asking the wrong questions could be evidence of something—conspiracy, collusion, knowledge of wrongdoing. She didn't even know what he'd done, but the money itself told her it was serious. Serious enough that he couldn't explain. Serious enough that he'd sent cash instead of a check, a note instead of a letter, an apology instead of details.
He'd sent this because he couldn't respond to letters. Because whatever was happening to him in District Twelve, he couldn't risk correspondence. Couldn't risk being traced. Couldn't risk her being implicated.
The only way she could help him—the only way she could protect both of them—was to stay silent.
The weight of it settled over her like a shroud. She was trapped in not-knowing, not by circumstance but by necessity. By the terrible logic of survival. Whatever trouble Coriolanus was in, she couldn't reach for him. Couldn't ask. Couldn't demand answers to the questions burning in her chest.
All she could do was take the money, hide it, and wait.
She wrapped the cash back in the envelope with shaking fingers, folded it carefully, and shoved it into the bottom drawer of her sewing table, burying it beneath scraps of fabric and old thread. Then she sat at the table, her hands still trembling violently, and tried to breathe.
Grandma'am was still staring at the floor, unmoving, like a statue.
"It's nothing," Tigris said again, more firmly this time, though her voice still shook. "Just work correspondence. A note from Fabricia about next week's orders."
But it wasn't nothing. It was everything. And she had no idea what it meant.