Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s the first day of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games. The countdown is ticking down somewhere beneath the marble floors of this room, echoing through the air like a drum I can’t quite hear but still feel in my chest. The Capitol commentators are already warming up their voices, ready to paint a bloodbath in colors and drama for their morning tea. Any minute now, the Games will begin.

Everything’s been strangely normal this year, if “normal” even exists in this place. No twisted arena reveals or monstrous mutations—at least not yet. But District Twelve gave us something new. Something no one saw coming.

A volunteer.

Katniss Everdeen.

Even now, I can’t quite believe it. I remember standing in front of the screen during the reaping, frowning as she shoved her way forward. She wasn’t reaped. She chose this. For her sister. And now everyone is watching her like she’s already rewritten the rules.

And then the outfits. The fire. Real flames stitched into silk and coal-black fabric. It should’ve looked ridiculous, but it didn’t. It looked dangerous. Regal. The Capitol lost their minds. Then the training score. An eleven. And Haymitch—he’s been sober ever since.

That might be the strangest part of all.

I’ve never seen him like this. Alert. Focused. Like he remembers how to be a Victor again instead of just the aftermath. He’s proud of her. He won’t say it, but I see it in the way he’s been staying up late, jaw clenched, a hand wrapped around a water glass like he doesn’t trust himself with anything stronger.

My tribute this year is Arnav. He’s twelve. Just twelve.

I was young when I went into the arena, but not like this. Not this small. He still stutters when he’s nervous and curls in on himself when people look at him too long. He didn’t stand a chance the second his name was called, and no one did anything. No older boy stepped forward. No girl tried to save him. Not even the ones with nothing to lose. Just silence. And then the walk to the stage.

He shouldn’t be there. And I hate that there’s nothing I can do about it.

Mags has Kaia this year. She’s smart, quiet, calculated. The kind of girl who knows how to listen before she speaks and move before she’s seen. She reminds me of Deyra a bit—soft on the outside, but there’s a spine in her. I’d bet she’ll find her way into the Careers’ circle by the end of the day. Maybe not as their leader, but close enough to be protected. Mags thinks so too. She hasn't said it aloud, but I can see it in the way her hands rest calmly in her lap, the way she watches Kaia with the same knowing look she used to give me.

I wish I could talk to Johanna about it.

This time last year, we were on the same couch, betting on bloodbath survivors and mocking Caesar Flickerman’s suits. But now… nothing.

Not since she tried to go behind my back. She tried to tell Mags what that Capitol woman did to me. She thought she was helping, and maybe she was, but she didn’t ask. She didn’t give me the chance to tell it my way. I haven’t spoken to her since.

I keep telling myself I’m fine with that. That I don’t care. But as the room grows quieter and the clock ticks closer to the start, the empty space beside me feels bigger than it should. It feels wrong not to have her here, tossing popcorn or grapes they give us at my face and calling out kill predictions like a sportscaster.

I miss her.

But I don’t know how to say that—not after everything.

I press my hands together and wait. For the gong. For the chaos. For the moment when Arnav runs—and I pray he runs fast enough.

The mentor room feels quieter than usual. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe it’s the weight of it all, the Games pressing in on every wall like a storm rolling in. But I can feel it.

Johanna stands in the corner, arms crossed, her shoulder against the wall like she’s trying to disappear into it. She hasn’t said a word since we walked in. She keeps glancing over—just little looks, like she wants to say something but keeps deciding against it. Her foot taps softly against the floor. Nervous. Restless. Guilty, maybe.

She looks up again. Meets my eyes for half a second before looking away.

The silence stretches between us like a taut line. Just under three minutes now.

Then, finally, she pushes off the wall and crosses the room.

“Hey,” she says, voice low, careful.

I don’t look at her. Not at first.

“I owe you an apology,” she says. “I shouldn’t have told Mags. I—I thought I was helping.”

That gets my attention. I glance over at her.

“I just—” she sighs and tucks a strand of her short hair behind her ear. “I care, Finnick. I really care about you. That’s why I did it. Not to step over you or take your choices away. I just didn’t want you to carry that alone.”

Her voice cracks a little near the end, just a tremor, but it’s enough to catch me off guard. Johanna Mason doesn’t do cracks. She’s all bark and bite and sarcasm. Not… this.

I blink. “You care about me?”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a twitch of a smile at the edge of her mouth. “Unfortunately. Yeah.”

I let out a breath. It’s not much, but it lifts something in my chest that’s been sitting there too long. My hand reaches out, slow, and I pat the spot on the couch beside me.

She scoffs but she smiles anyway, the real kind, the kind that makes her eyes crinkle a little at the edges. She sinks down beside me, close but not too close. Just enough that I can feel the warmth of her shoulder near mine.

Neither of us says anything else. We don’t have to.

The countdown blinks on the screen—less than a minute now.

The tributes are all frozen on their platforms, the arena stretching out behind them like a lie. Grass. Trees. Sunlight. Wide open spaces that look like peace, but I know better. It’s too quiet out there. No cover at the Cornucopia, barely a shadow in sight.

The kind of arena that turns kids into ghosts before the first cannon.

I press my hands together. Interlace my fingers. Bow my head for a second—not a prayer, not really. Just a silent hope.

Arnav stands so small on that plate. His chest rising and falling too fast.

Please run, I think. Run and don’t look back.

The final seconds tick down.

Three.

Two.

One.

The gong sounds. The Games begin.

The first cannon goes off a couple seconds in.

Then another. And another.

Fast—merciless.

A chain of sound that rattles the floor beneath us.

I don’t move. I can’t. My eyes are locked on the screen as the Cornucopia becomes a slaughterhouse.

Lucia’s hand covers her mouth. Gage swears under his breath and turns away.

Wiress has already left the room.

Blight’s gone. Johanna’s tribute too. Both from Seven—gone in the opening seconds. District Six? Slaughtered. Nine? Dead. I can see Woof’s tribute go down in a tangle of limbs, trying to crawl away with blood slicking the grass.

The cannons keep coming.

Eight. Nine. Ten.

And then—

There’s Arnav.

He’s darting between bodies, too small to be seen unless you’re looking for him. Which I am. God, I am.

He makes it past the girl from Ten’s body, ducks under a boy swinging a mace, his face pale with blood and fear. He’s headed for the Cornucopia. Great.

He’s fast. So fast.

But not fast enough.

The boy from District Two, Cato, I think, is a monster in motion—fluid, terrifying, born for this. His sword gleams as he spots Arnav ravinging in the Cornucopia.

“No,” I breathe, stepping forward like I could somehow reach through the screen.

He doesn’t even see Cato. Doesn’t hear him.

The sword comes down—one clean arc.

And Arnav collapses mid-stride.

A tiny body hitting the ground with a weightless finality. Like a dropped leaf. Like nothing at all.

The eleventh cannon roars.

I flinch.

The camera lingers, just for a second, on the smallest tribute bleeding into the dirt.

The Games have barely started, and it’s already over for him.

My lungs tighten. My mouth won’t open.

Mags is beside me before I can lose it, her hand gently pressing against the back of my shoulder.

Johanna doesn’t say anythin. She watches too, jaw tense, arms crossed.

I swallow hard. He just never stood a chance.

“My girl didn’t even make it ten steps,” Johanna mutters finally. Her voice is rough, like she’s been chewing glass. “Slipped and some Career didn’t even hesitate.”

I turn slightly toward her, but her eyes stay glued to the screen. She’s not really watching anymore. Just… holding herself together.

“She was fast,” I say quietly. “If she hadn’t slipped—”

“She would’ve made it to the trees,” Johanna finishes, then scoffs under her breath. “And maybe lasted another ten minutes.”

Silence. It stretches between us like the arena itself—wide, empty, filled with things we don’t say out loud.

Her arms drop to her sides, and she exhales, sharp and bitter. “I told her to wait. To run after the first wave. Not into it.”

“I told Arnav the same thing.”

We sit there, side by side now, both staring at the screen as the camera drifts from blood-slicked ground to the golden Cornucopia glinting under the Capitol sun. Somewhere far away, the anthem plays faintly, the Capitol already weaving the bloodbath into spectacle.

“I liked the kid,” Johanna says after a pause. “She was weird. Kept asking if there’d be birds in the arena. Wanted to learn their calls. Said she wanted to try and sing with them.”

My lips twitch. “He asked me if the forcefield would shock him if he danced too close to it.”

She scoffs. “And you didn’t tell me this sooner?”

“Didn’t think you wanted to hear it.”

She’s quiet for a second, then says, “I always want to hear it, idiot.”

I glance at her again, and this time, she’s already looking at me. There’s something softer in her eyes. Not vulnerable exactly—Johanna doesn’t do that—but open enough.

“Even when I piss you off,” she adds, voice quieter.

“Especially then,” I say with a small smile.

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t pull away when I bump my shoulder lightly against hers.

The atmosphere is lighter now, though still thick with the tension of the Games, and Johanna’s voice cuts through the silence, her tone mocking. “Oh, look, there’s Caesar again,” she says, her eyes narrowing as he’s on screen giving his usual Capitol flair. “Does he always look like he just walked out of a weird circus? I’m starting to think he actually lives on a cloud made of cotton candy.”

I snicker, leaning back in my chair. “And that makeup—don’t get me started. Like, is he the poster child for ‘how much gold can we fit on a person?’”

Johanna raises an eyebrow, her lips twisting into a grin as she mimics the over-the-top Capitol accent with a high-pitched, dramatic flair. “Oh, darling, don’t you just love the Games? It’s all about the excitement! The drama! You’re going to be amazed, I promise!”

I shake my head, fighting back a laugh. “Honestly, if I had to hear him say ‘excitement’ like that one more time, I might just throw something at the screen.”

Johanna smirks, her eyes sparkling. “I’d pay good money to see him try to survive one day out there. You think he’d last more than an hour in the arena before someone stabs him in the back?”

“Not a chance,” I agree, the tension easing slightly as we slip into our mockery of the Capitol's ridiculousness.

Just as I’m about to make another sarcastic comment, the screen shifts and a new scene fills the room. The camera zooms in on the tributes—District Twelve’s Peeta Mellark and the Career pack. My heart stops, just for a moment, as the shock hits me. Peeta is in the middle of the group, walking alongside Cato, Glimmer, and the other Careers.

“What the hell?” Johanna’s voice is incredulous, her eyes wide as she stares at the screen. “Did I just see that right? Is Peeta… in with the Careers?"

I squint at the screen, as if trying to make sense of the scene. “No way,” I mutter under my breath. “District Twelve? With the Careers? What kind of joke is this?”

Johanna lets out a loud laugh, clearly not expecting to be amused by the spectacle unfolding in front of us, but there’s a sharp edge to it. “This is insane. Twelve doesn’t get to play with the big kids. They’re not in the Career alliance. Not unless they're asking for a quick, bloody end.”

I shake my head, still processing it. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Peeta with them? What’s he thinking?”

“I don’t know, but I think I’m gonna need a drink after this,” Johanna says, still staring at the screen, her voice tinged with amusement. “This is probably the most messed-up alliance I’ve ever seen. District Twelve’s tribute, just casually hanging out with the people who’ve been killing the rest of them off since day one.”

My lips twitch, trying to suppress the laugh that’s bubbling up. “It’s like he’s trying to be the token ‘good guy’ in a pack of mostly psychos. You know, the one who’s secretly a hero. Doesn’t really fit, does it?”

Although District Four is technically part of the Career alliance, Districts One and Two are a completely different breed. Ruthless.

Johanna raises an eyebrow. “I mean, if he's playing the long con, it’s a pretty bold move. But… I can’t tell if I’m impressed or just thoroughly confused.”

We both chuckle, still shaken by the absurdity of what we’re witnessing. But the humor quickly fades, replaced by a sudden tension in the room, as the screen shifts again.

Now, the Careers are all gathered, and Peeta is in the thick of it. The camera zooms in as Cato growls, his voice low and dangerous. “We need to find her. Everdeen’s out there somewhere, and we’re taking her down. We’ll find her, and we’ll finish this.”

Peeta, calm and collected, nods. “She won’t be easy to track, but we’ll do it. We’ve got the upper hand.”

Johanna’s eyes widen in shock as the gravity of the situation hits. “Wait—hold up,” she says, her tone sharp. “He’s helping them hunt down Katniss?”

I sit back, a little stunned. “No way… he’s leading them. He’s part of their plan to take her out.”

Johanna stares at the screen, incredulous. “That’s… that’s insane! What happened to all that crap he said in the interview? The whole ‘I have a crush on Katniss’ thing?”

I run a hand through my hair, unable to wrap my head around it. “He says he has feelings for her, and then he’s helping the Careers track her down like she’s the target?”

“Well, I don’t know what’s more twisted,” Johanna mutters, her voice laced with amusement mixed with disbelief. “The fact that he’s with them now or the fact that he just straight-up dropped that love bomb on national television and thought it would somehow make him look better.”

I shake my head, still too stunned to fully process it. “This kid’s got guts, I’ll give him that… but I’m starting to think they’re not the kind of guts you want.”

“It’s smart on the Careers’ part. Katniss, a sixteen-year-old from the poorest District, first volunteers, has an eye-catching outfit, and scores an eleven without showing any of her skills—apparently. Shit, I would target her too.” Johanna leans back in her chair, her arms folding across her chest as she watches the screen, her eyes glittering with amusement. A smirk tugs at her lips, but there’s something colder beneath it. “I’m almost impressed, though. He’s playing the Capitol’s game like a pro. If it weren’t so ridiculous, I might actually give him credit for being a genius.”

I nod slowly, unable to fully disagree. Peeta’s decision to align with the Careers might be as twisted as it is strategic. Katniss has practically been painted as a target by the Capitol, her volunteer status making her a symbol, her scoring an eleven almost like an invitation. The Career tributes will see her as a serious threat, but they’ll underestimate her, just like they underestimate everything that comes out of District Twelve. It’s not the moral thing to do, but it’s smart. Too smart.

From across the room, Cashmere snorts, her voice cutting through the air with her usual sharp tone. “Looks like just your girl tribute is smart, Haymitch.”

Haymitch doesn’t even flinch. His eyes are still glued to the screen, his face as unreadable as ever. There’s something different in the way he watches, though—something more present, as if he’s seeing the pieces of a bigger game start to unfold. It’s not the usual drunken haze that keeps him distant; it’s focus. And it’s disorienting to see.

I glance at him, noticing the change. “Haymitch looks more entuned than usual,” I remark, still watching him out of the corner of my eye.

Johanna raises an eyebrow. “The tides are turning for him,” she shrugs with a smirk, like she’s always a step ahead. “I’m up to date on my ocean metaphors.”

I chuckle softly, not bothering to point out that she probably has more metaphors in her arsenal than most people have words. But there’s no mistaking the underlying tension in the room, in her voice. We’re all waiting for something. Something bigger than we can even see yet.

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” I say, still watching Haymitch. His eyes flicker for a brief moment, a deeper awareness settling in. It’s like he’s seeing the pieces of the game starting to fall into place, and I wonder if he’s finally realizing just how high the stakes really are. “I think he might actually care about this one.”

Johanna snorts, though there’s no real bitterness behind it. “About time. Too bad he can’t seem to care about anything else, or anyone else. But this game? It’s personal. That’s the one thing that keeps him interested.”

“Don’t give him too much credit,” I warn, but even I know Haymitch is better at this game than anyone gives him credit for. Even if he’s not saying much right now, he’s watching every move, every word, every shift in the Careers’ plan. The fact that he’s still staying silent means he’s calculating something.

Just then, the camera shifts back to the screen, and it’s like everything else fades out. Peeta, standing among the Careers, now talking about finding Katniss, the tension in his voice undeniable. The alliance—an unholy mix of ambition, strategy, and deadly intention—seems to solidify in that one moment.

I feel my stomach twist. Everything about this situation is wrong. And yet… it feels inevitable.

“Do you think he’s really on their side?” Johanna asks softly, not taking her eyes off the screen, her voice low but filled with something close to worry. I don’t think she’s worried about Peeta, but about what it means for Katniss. What it means for the Games.

I think for a moment before answering. “I think he’s in too deep now. They’ve got him where they want him. He can’t back out. Not without losing everything. And I’m not sure he’s willing to do that.”

“Seems like a hell of a thing to do for someone you’re supposed to be ‘in love with,’” Johanna says, her voice biting but tinged with something else. Almost like regret. Or maybe just the weight of all of it.

“I wouldn’t call it love,” I say, “Not in the traditional sense. Maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’s just survival. But love? They're not in love. Or at least, Katniss isn’t.”

===

It’s a couple of days into the Games and we’re all starting to get tired.

Johanna’s breathing slows beside me, her body heavy where it’s slouched against my side. Her head rests on my shoulder, my cheek resting on her hair, and for a moment everything is still—quiet except for the soft buzz of the screen and the Capitol commentators drawling in that syrupy, oblivious tone they all have.

Johanna mumbles, half-asleep, “Well, I do declare! It seems we have yet another tribute in peril! How thrilling! What do you think, my dear Finnick?” She stretches the word like taffy, making me snort against her hair.

“I simply adore it when they fight for their lives,” I reply in the same awful accent, slurring like I’m drunk on luxury and cluelessness. “It’s all so entertaining!”

Johanna lets out a groggy chuckle, eyes nearly shut. “Oh, it’s to die for!”

We’re half-limp, heads heavy, bodies soft with sleep. Haymitch hasn’t said a word in ages. He’s in the armchair closest to the screen, one hand gripping a glass of water, the other resting on his knee.

Then—

BOOM.

The cannon doesn’t sound, but the explosion that rocks the arena might as well be one.

The screen lights up like the sun, and in an instant, we’re both upright.

“What the hell—” I start.

Katniss is on screen. The camera catches the panic as the air around her ignites. She’s sprinting through a clearing as a fireball tears past her. Another erupts from the treetops behind her.

“Move!” A couple of the victors beside us yell. “Don’t stop, don’t stop—!”

The flames catch her—just barely—but enough. Her leg crumples beneath her as she hits the dirt, tumbling down a hill.

My stomach turns.

And that’s when Haymitch is moving. His glass crashes to the floor—water splashing across the wood—as he lunges for the console in the corner. His fingers fumble, trembling from pure panic.

“Come on, come on…” he mutters. He jabs a button, holds a receiver to his mouth. “I need a burn salve. I need it now. Highest grade you’ve got, I don’t care the cost.”

He’s pacing now, barefoot, hair sticking up at wild angles, the calm from earlier completely shattered. His hand slams the wall beside the screen when the signal doesn’t go through fast enough.

Johanna and I exchange a glance. No more jokes. No Capitol accents. No snide remarks.

“She’s gonna die if they don’t get that to her fast enough,” Johanna says, voice low. “That wasn’t just for show.”

I nod silently, eyes locked on the screen. Katniss stops falling, trying to find shelter. Her breathing’s ragged, limbs shaking.

“Maybe she'll find some water” I mutter.

Haymitch doesn’t say anything. He’s back at the console, talking fast, furious.

He’s calling in every favor he has left.

“Girl on fire,” Johanna mutters, not amused anymore. “Guess they meant it literally this time.”

The screen cuts to her dragging herself through the underbrush, face pale and jaw tight. Her leg is a mess—blistered and angry red—but she’s moving. Barely.

“Where’s she going?” Johanna murmurs.

I lean forward a little, trying to make out the terrain. “Looks like… a lake?”

Sure enough, Katniss stumbles into the shallows of a still, murky pool, half-collapsing as she sinks into it. The relief on her face is subtle, but real. She submerges her leg, her whole body trembling. She’s not crying, not making any noise. Just breathing hard, jaw clenched tight.

“Lucky break,” I say. “That water’ll buy her some time.”

“Wow, you can read minds.” Johanna mutters, squinting. I smile.

Because then—just over the ridge—movement. Shadows. Too fast to be animals.

“Careers,” I say as the camera zooms. Glimmer. Marvel. Cato. Clove. And Peeta trailing behind them, noticeably quieter than the rest.

He’s still with them.

“Oh, Twelve,” Johanna sighs, almost bored. “Still playing the Capitol’s little love story like it’s gonna save his life.”

“Maybe it will,” I say. “If he can keep the act up long enough.”

They reach the lake’s edge within seconds. Katniss hears them. Her whole body jolts with panic, and before any of them spot her, she’s scrambling out of the water, every movement stiff and painful. Her leg gives a little, but she pushes through it.

The camera pans fast as she darts into the trees. Clove sees it first, points.

And they’re after her.

“Shit,” I mutter. “She’s not gonna outrun them with that leg.”

“Tree,” Johanna says, sitting up straighter.

Katniss reaches it just in time. One of the taller ones, trunk thick and branches high. She throws her backpack over her shoulder, slings her burned leg up, and climbs.

Cato climbs the tree but quickly falls back down.

“She’s fast for someone who just got torched,” Johanna murmurs.

“She’s desperate.”

The Careers surround the base of the tree. Glimmer snarls something, gesturing upward with her bow.

And then Peeta says it, loud enough the mic catches: “She can’t stay up there forever.”

Johanna groans, dragging a hand down her face. “That’s your big line, Romeo? Really?”

“He’s committed to the role,” I mutter, eyebrows raised. “I’ll give him that.”

We glance sideways at Haymitch. His knuckles are white around the edge of the desk, but he’s silent, jaw tight.

“They’re not lovers,” Johanna says again, firmer this time. “He might be, but her? She doesn’t even like him.”

I nod once. “Not even a little.”

 

====

 

By the time we arrive back into the mentoring room the next day, Katniss is still up in the tree, perched high in the branches like a wounded bird refusing to fall. The Careers and Peeta are camped out below, restless and irritated. They don’t sleep either—not really. None of us do.

The screens are quiet for now. Just the occasional rustle of wind through branches, the faint crackle of a fire that’s almost gone out. The lull before the next storm.

Johanna and I take our usual seats. Same corners of the same couch, like we’ve been doing this for years, which we have, just not as long as others. She drops down next to me with a huff and immediately twists sideways, swinging her legs over mine without warning.

“I bet Haymitch didn’t sleep,” she mutters under her breath, eyes flicking toward him.

He’s across the room, slouched in a chair, rubbing his temples with both hands like the pressure behind his eyes might split his skull in two. There’s a stale cup of coffee on the table beside him, untouched.

“Comfortable?” I ask Johanna, dryly, glancing down at her legs draped across mine.

She smirks. “Very.”

I don’t move them off. My hands rest idle on her shins as the quiet stretches between us, not awkward, just… settled.

The sky in the arena is starting to lighten. Morning again. Day four? Five? I’m losing count. Time’s slippery in here, measured by cannon fire and sponsor gifts instead of hours or minutes.

“Think she’ll stay up there all day again?” I ask.

“If she’s smart,” Johanna says, popping a piece of dried fruit from a tray someone brought in.

We both look up as the camera zooms in on Katniss again. Her eyes are sunken, face pale. She shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position, and winces.

“Good thing she got something for her leg,” I say. Before the mentors went home for the day, Haymitch was able to get her some burn cream which seems to be working pretty well.

“Haymitch is putting in the work,” Johanna replies, glancing toward him again. “Can’t waste a sponsor gift on anything less than desperate.”

We watch in silence a little longer, the low drone of Capitol commentary echoing faintly in the background. Claudius is talking about the “high drama” of the stalemate, while Caesar practically gushes about the “tension between star-crossed lovers divided by alliances.”

Johanna makes a gagging sound and throws her head back against the cushion. “If I hear ‘star-crossed’ one more time, I’m launching myself off the roof.”

“You’d be doing everyone a favor,” I mutter, and Chaff and Gloss let out snorts beside us.

The Capitol might see a love story.

But all I see is a girl in a tree, clinging to her life by her fingernails.

The camera pans slowly over the Careers and Peeta asleep at the base of the tree, their bodies sprawled in tangled heaps, weapons nearby but unused. They look like they’ve let their guard down. Like they think she’s trapped and that’s enough.

Then the screen shifts.

Up in a nearby tree, a small figure moves carefully in the shadows. I blink once, twice. Narrow my eyes.

“Wait… that’s your tribute, right?” I murmur, turning toward Seeder.

She leans forward, nodding slowly, her face unreadable. “Rue.”

“Right. Rue,” I say, watching her make a quick gesture with her fingers—pointing to the tracker jacker nest just above Katniss’s head.

“She’s smart,” Seeder says quietly, pride edging into her voice. “Smarter than they ever gave her credit for.”

“She’s brave,” I add, watching the way Rue melts back into the leaves, like she’s been part of the trees her whole life. “Not many would stick their necks out like that for someone else.”

Seeders hums in agreement. “She’s been surviving her whole life. This is just a new kind of forest.”

The screen zooms in on Katniss as she saws at the thick branch, hands trembling, face tight with focus. Bark flakes away with each scrape of her knife. Time drags.

Then—crack.

The nest drops.

The moment it hits the ground, it explodes into chaos.

The camera cuts in close on Glimmer.

She’s screaming. Not the kind that gets drowned out in a fight, not the kind that sounds brave. It’s the kind that rips through the room and makes your stomach twist up into a knot. Her hands are clawing at her face, at the insects swarming over her, but it’s useless. They’re already under her skin.

The cannon sounds a second later.

No one says a word.

Johanna leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, then tilts her head just enough to glance at me. “I think we should avoid Cashmere for a while.” she mumbles

I nod, still in shock. “Yeah… I think that's a good idea…”

The air in the room is heavier now. Wiress’ gone quiet again. Even Chaff looks like he doesn’t have a joke ready—and that’s saying something. I keep watching the screen as Katniss pulls the knife back to her chest, chest heaving as she climbs down the tree, tracker jackers still buzzing around the branches above her.

“I know we’re not supposed to get attached to tributes,” I say, softer this time, “but…damn. Imagine how Cashmere feels. Her tribute dying like that.”

Johanna snorts.

Then she turns her head, a sly little smirk pulling at the edge of her mouth. “Says the guy dating his tribute.”

My eyes flick toward her, and she grins wider.

“I’m—” I start, but she lifts a brow.

I sigh and glance back to the screen.

Annie’s not even in the arena. She’s back home, probably pacing the beach or sorting out nets or trying to pretend she isn’t watching every second of this. But even just the thought of her in Glimmer’s place makes something in me go cold.

Johanna stretches and reclines back again, smug and comfortable.

“Sure,” she says, voice light as seafoam. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, loverboy.”

But Johanna doesn’t drop it. Of course she doesn’t.

She stretches out even more like a smug cat in the sun, ankles crossed on the table now, arms behind her head. “You know,” she says, casually, “for a guy who just said ‘we shouldn’t get attached to tributes,’ you sure have a lot of feelings for yours.”

I shoot her a look. “It’s different.”

“Ohhh, it’s different,” she mocks, leaning forward like I’ve just shared some great revelation. “Please, Finnick, do tell me how it’s different when it’s Annie Cresta.”

I shake my head, but she’s not letting it go.

“Is it the way she says your name? The way she holds your hand like you’re her own personal life raft?” Johanna clasps her hands together in mock romance and flutters her lashes at me. “Does she make you feel like a real boy again, Pinocchio?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, trying not to laugh.

“I’m just saying,” she shrugs, popping another dried fruit into her mouth. “You spend half your time saying we can’t afford to care, then the second someone mentions your girl, you act like we’re drowning her.”

“Well, that’s—”

“She’s lucky, you know. Annie.”

I glance at her, surprised by the shift in tone.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

Johanna shrugs. “I’ve seen the way you look when you just talk about her. Obviously I've never met her, besides my tour where you lot were being weird, but I can just imagine how she is because of how sickly in love you are with her.”

I blink, caught off guard—not by the teasing, but by the tenderness hidden under it.

“She’s not what people expect,” I say quietly. “She’s quiet. But not shy. Not really. She listens more than she talks. And when she does talk, it’s… honest. Like she doesn’t know how to pretend.”

Johanna doesn’t say anything for a moment. Her teasing edge is gone, just for a breath of time. Just long enough that it makes the room feel still.

“She makes things feel less broken,” I add, and I don’t know why I say it out loud, but I do.

That soft silence lasts all of three seconds.

“You know,” she says, “if you stare any harder at that screen, it might actually start whispering Annie’s name back to you.”

I sigh. “You’re exhausting.”

“Romantic,” she shoots back. “Annie must swoon every time you say that.”

I shake my head, but the corner of my mouth twitches.

Johanna leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice like we’re in the middle of some Capitol gossip circle. “Tell me, Finny. When you two are together, does she braid your hair while you read her poetry about coral reefs and moon tides?”

I stare straight ahead, refusing to take the bait.

“Or wait—do you guys just sit in silence, blinking at each other all doe-eyed like a couple of stunned squids?”

I look at her now. “Are you done?”

She grins wide. “Not even close. I’m just warming up. Do you want to talk about how you don’t get attached again? Because that speech really hits different when you’re pining over your tribute like a fish with a crush.”

“I’m not—” I start, then stop, letting out a breath. “It’s not like that.”

Johanna raises an eyebrow. “You literally just said she makes things feel less broken. If that’s not love, it’s the Capitol version of it, which honestly might be worse.”

I don’t say anything. There’s no winning with Johanna. But I also don’t shove her legs off me or tell her to shut up, because…well, it’s her way. This is her version of caring.

She snatches another piece of fruit from the tray and pops it in her mouth like this whole conversation has been the most casual thing in the world.

“So,” she says, mouth half full, “you gonna write your girlfriend a love letter when this is over or just keep pining like an idiot?”

“Pining,” I answer dryly. “Definitely pining.”

She cackles, leans back with her hands behind her head, and sighs contentedly.

“Good. Would’ve hated to see you go soft.”

====

A grape hits the side of my temple.

Then another.

And another.

And another.

They bounce off with soft little plunks, barely enough to sting, but enough to make a point.

I blink, slow, deliberately, and turn to find Johanna sitting exactly where she’s been for the past hour—her legs still draped across mine like some queen on a throne, chewing lazily on the corner of a cracker. Her eyes don’t leave the screen, but her hand is halfway into the bowl of fruit again, fishing for her next projectile.

“Are you done?” I ask, voice flat but not unfriendly.

“No,” she says, and tosses one more grape. It misses and lands on the couch cushion. “I’m bored. Watching kids die isn’t exactly entertainment for me.”

Her tone is dry, but her eyes are distant now. The usual glint of sarcasm dulled under something heavier. I know better than to call it out.

I shift beneath her legs, more to adjust than to move her, but she leaves them there anyway, ankles crossed on my lap like it's a reserved seat.

“Don’t think you’re supposed to say that out loud,” I mutter, resting my elbow on the armrest and letting my head fall back against the cushion.

“Please,” she scoffs. “Like anyone in this room hasn’t thought it.”

Across from us, Seeder and Chaff are murmuring quietly. Haymitch is slouched in a chair near the table, hands in his hair, staring blankly at a screen showing Katniss still asleep up.

“She hasn’t moved,” I say, just to say something.

“Would you?” Johanna replies, reaching over and stealing the last bit of dried mango from the tray. “Careers tried to attack her. Peeta too.”

“Right. Her soulmate,” I say, deadpan.

Johanna snorts. “Yeah, I’m still waiting for the passionate reunion. Maybe he’ll serenade her with Capitol Heartbreak Volume II.”

I smile despite myself and nudge her shin with my knuckle. “You’re awful.”

“I try,” she says, and finally leans her head back, eyes half-lidded. “Wake me if someone dies dramatically.”

Johanna's eyes are starting to close when the screen flickers—Katniss stirs. Slowly, stiffly, she shifts in the crook of the tree. Her hand curls tighter around the bow resting on her lap, eyes blinking hard against the sunlight. She's moving gingerly, like the pain in her leg is still sharp, but she's awake. Alive.

“Finally,” Johanna mutters without opening her eyes. “Sleeping Beauty lives.”

I don't respond, just lean forward a little as the camera pans across the forest floor.

Movement. Tiny. Barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it.

It’s Rue.

She’s crouched in a tangle of brush, eyes wide but bright, and when she lifts her hand to Katniss, signaling silently, it’s cautious but clear. A birdlike tilt of her head. An offer.

Katniss blinks, then slowly nods.

They start to communicate in gestures, quietly sharing intel like spies. It's...oddly sweet. Simple. Honest, in a way that nothing else in this arena has been.

Johanna squints at the screen, her voice a little scratchy now from the quiet. “That’s actually kind of cute.”

I blink at her. “Who are you and what have you done with Johanna Mason?”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no venom in it. “Don’t get used to it. Probably just a fluke. Maybe I’m tired. Maybe that tracker jacker venom’s still lingering in my system from yesterday’s chaos.”

I smirk. “You almost sound like you have a soul.”

“Bite me.”

"Admit it. You're rooting for them now," I say, nudging her leg again. “You gonna start knitting them friendship bracelets too?”

She groans and pulls her arm over her eyes like she’s shielding herself from my voice. “I hate you.”

“You don’t,” I say.

She doesn’t answer, but her smile lingers a beat longer than she probably means for it to.

We both settle back into the couch, not speaking again for a while. Onscreen, Katniss and Rue start sharing food, whispering their plan to take down the Careers.

Johanna’s arm stays draped across her face, but her voice filters out from beneath it, quieter now. Not soft, exactly. Just… honest.

“I kind of want Rue to win.”

I glance over at her. The corner of my mouth twitches, just barely. “Realistically, we shouldn’t. But… yeah. I kind of want her to win too.”

There’s a pause. The kind that settles like a blanket, not heavy—just still. Onscreen, Rue is smiling at Katniss with all the trust in the world, like she hasn’t just spent the last few days in a place built to kill her.

Johanna exhales sharply through her nose, like she’s trying not to care too much. Then she shifts and mutters, “If that little girl dies, I’m actually gonna riot.”

I smirk, but it doesn’t last long. “Yeah?”

“I’ll flip a table. Snap a chair leg. Trash the whole damn room. Shave your head.”

“Careful,” I say, nudging her knee with my hand. “Wouldn’t want to dent your reputation.”

I blink. “Wait, what was the last part—“

She huffs. “You mean my reputation as a soulless, axe-swinging lunatic?”

I shrug, settling deeper into the couch. “Exactly.”

But then I glance at the screen again, at Rue’s small frame curled beside Katniss as the camera pans out, and I think—I really hope she makes it.

Even if we both know the odds aren’t in her favor.

Johanna shifts again, her legs bumping against mine as she props herself up on one elbow to look at the screen better. Her hair’s a mess and her eyes are rimmed with exhaustion, but there’s something sharper in her now. That flicker of care she pretends not to have.

“She’s smart,” she says, nodding toward Rue. “Quieter than the rest of them. Quick. She’s not trying to play some big hero or act tough. She just… knows how to stay alive.”

“She reminds me of someone,” I say.

Johanna narrows her eyes at me. “If you say me, I’ll actually throw you over the railing of the rooftop and hope your body somehow manages to not ricochet back.”

It’s true, there’s force fields around the mentor room. How she knows that information, I don’t know, and that makes me a little worried.

I laugh. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I meant Annie.”

Her face shifts for a second, unreadable—then she groans and flops back dramatically, covering her face with her arm again. “Ugh, we’re back to Annie. Of course.”

“You brought her up first,” I say, a little smug.

“Yeah, well, you’re the one always looking like you’re seconds away from writing her name in the sky with a cloud.”

“That’s a beautiful image, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sap.”

The screen flickers—Katniss shifts, glancing at Rue. They’re speaking, but the camera isn’t close enough to catch the words. Rue pulls a piece of leaf from her pocket and offers it to Katniss, and Katniss takes it gently, like it’s a gift instead of survival.

Johanna goes quiet again. Her voice is lower when she speaks next.

“She deserves to make it home.”

“Rue?” I ask.

She nods. “She’s just a kid. No games. No angles. Just… doing what she has to. And smiling through it somehow.”

I don’t say anything, just nod slowly, eyes still on the screen. I feel her legs still against mine, feel the thrum of my own exhaustion underneath it all. The room’s quiet except for the hum of Capitol voices behind the screen and the faint click of Haymitch’s pen as he scribbles notes by the table.

Johanna leans back again, eyes half-lidded.

“If Rue dies, I swear to the trees in my forest, I’m gonna take it personally.”

I smile faintly. “I know.”

And I believe her.

Chapter Text

The room has sunk into a kind of late-afternoon lull, the kind where everyone’s too tired to be sharp but too tense to fully relax. Gloss is stretched across the nearest couch, one arm draped over his eyes. Cashmere sits cross-legged on the floor, her hands rhythmically twisting the ends of her braid. Johanna is still sprawled across me, though now she has snagged a blanket from somewhere and is half-asleep, head tilted back, jaw slack.

Katniss is limping her way through the underbrush, smudged with ash and dried blood. The cameras have followed her ever since the explosions. We watched the fireball she triggered rip through the Careers’ supply stash—barrels, crates, food—gone in a storm of smoke and fire. One of the mines had blown her back too, judging by the blood on her ear and the way she staggers when she walks.

Haymitch hasn’t said a word since. Just stands there at the table, still as a buoy in a storm, watching everything with narrowed eyes.

Cashmere lets out a low whistle. “Damn. That girl’s not stupid.”

“She’s reckless,” Gloss mutteres, not even looking. “She could’ve blown her own leg off.”

“Would’ve been worth it,” Johanna says, voice gravelly from sleep. “That was the Career feast. All their power. Gone.”

“She’s still breathing,” I add. “So, yeah. Worth it.”

We're quiet again. The screen shows Katniss making her way back towards the trees—toward Rue, most likely.

Then—

A scream.

High-pitched. Sharp. Rue.

The blanket on Johanna slides to the floor as she bolts upright. My breath catches in my throat. On screen, Katniss freezes too, head snapping up.

None of us say a word.

Not even Haymitch.

Rue screams again.

Katniss is moving now, fast as her injured legs will let her, crashing through the trees, bow out and ready. Her breath is ragged, her face pale, eyes wild.

Johanna grips my wrist without thinking. Her fingers are ice cold.

“She found the wrong trap,” Cashmere whispers.

We’re all leaning forward now, the room locked in that terrible kind of silence where even breathing feels too loud. Katniss crashes through the underbrush, limping hard, bow in one hand, the other shoving branches out of her way. Her face is pale, eyes wild, hair tangled and streaked with ash. She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow.

The camera catches Rue before Katniss does.

She’s curled in a tangle of Capitol netting, trapped against the forest floor, limbs twisted, caught. Her mouth opens again for another scream, but it dies out before it can form. She’s panicking, hands clawing at the cords like they’re alive.

Katniss dives. She tosses her bow aside and drops to her knees, hacking at the net with her knife. Her hands are shaking. Rue’s fingers find hers through the cords and cling tight.

“Come on,” Johanna mutters next to me, voice low. “Come on, come on, come on—”

“She’s got her,” I say, barely above a whisper. “She’s almost there.”

Katniss saws through the last cord, and Rue runs into her arms. Katniss pulls her in tight, shielding her, whispering something we can’t hear. I don’t get a chance to feel the relief.

Because that’s when it happens.

A silver blur—clean, fast—cuts across the screen.

Thunk.

Gloss sits up. “Did he miss—?”

Marvel.

He’s standing at the edge of the clearing, arm extended, hand just released from the throw.

The camera swings to Katniss. She turns, already moving, already aiming. Her arrow flies and sinks into Marvel’s chest. He goes down hard on his knees, choking on his own blood.

Gloss swears and punches the couch as the cannon fires.

But the room’s attention is elsewhere.

Because when the camera shifts again—Rue’s still in Katniss’s arms.

The spear is in her stomach.

For a beat, no one moves. Even the sound from the Capitol’s control panels seems to vanish.

Rue blinks slowly, her face contorted in pain, her tiny hands gripping Katniss’s shirt like it might keep her tethered.

Katniss is begging now. We can’t hear the words, but we don’t have to. They’re written all over her.

Johanna’s fingers curl into fists. She doesn’t look away.

Rue reaches up with a trembling hand. Katniss grabs it and presses it to her cheek. Her mouth is moving fast—whispers, promises, apologies maybe—but her voice keeps catching. She’s trying to keep it together, but her face is cracking open, and her breath is hitching like her lungs don’t know what to do with the air.

Then she starts to sing.

Soft. Barely audible over the wind brushing through the trees. The camera zooms in slowly, and we hear it—something gentle and broken, like a lullaby she’s trying to stitch back together in real time.

Katniss sings through a throat full of tears. She stumbles over the words. Has to stop more than once. But she keeps going. Stroking Rue’s hair. Holding her like it’ll make this okay.

The whole room is silent.

Haymitch doesn’t move. Just stands there, hand gripping the back of the chair in front of him like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

Beetee’s head is bowed slightly, one hand pressed to his temple.

Wiress has gone completely still, fingers frozen mid-twist in the hem of her shirt.

Seeder’s arms are crossed tightly over her chest. Her mouth’s set in a line, but her eyes are glossy.

Even Chaff—who never stays quiet this long—just watches, jaw clenched so hard it trembles.

Mags leans forward, one hand on her chest, breathing unevenly. Gage has his head in his hands. Lucia’s eyes are wide and glassy.

Gloss doesn’t say anything this time.

And Johanna—Johanna’s still. Completely still. Her eyes are locked on the screen, red-rimmed, her grip on my waist tightening.

“She’s really dying,” she whispers. “That kid’s really dying.”

Rue’s body goes slack in Katniss’s arms.

Then the cannon fires.

I flinch. I don’t mean to. I just do.

Katniss pulls Rue closer. Her head’s bowed, and her shoulders are shaking, but the screen doesn’t cut away. Not this time.

She stays like that for a long moment—just holding her.

Then, slowly, she lays Rue down on the ground.

She brushes the hair from her face.

She starts gathering flowers.

Petal by petal. Leaf by leaf. No urgency. No fear. Just care. Reverence. She weaves them into Rue’s hair. Tucks them into her hands. Surrounds her in color.

“She’s giving her a funeral,” Cecilia says quietly. “She’s actually—”

“Honoring her,” Seeder finishes. Her voice is thick. “Not just surviving.”

Katniss steps back once she’s finished, tears still streaking down her face, hands shaking. She stands. Looks up.

And then she turns to the nearest camera.

She doesn’t say anything.

Just raises three fingers.

Straight. Steady.

It’s not for us.

It’s not even for the Capitol.

It’s for Rue.

For her district.

For everyone who’s ever lost a child to this nightmare and been told to cheer for it.

Johanna swipes at her face roughly. “I’m not crying,” she says, voice hoarse. “You’re crying.”

I squeeze her hand. I don’t say anything.

Because I am crying.

And I think maybe we all are.

The room doesn’t move.

Katniss lowers her hand and turns away, disappearing into the brush with Rue’s lullaby still echoing faintly from the trees, like the arena itself refuses to let it go.

No one speaks. No one breathes loud enough to break whatever fragile thing is strung between us now.

Wiress is the first to make a sound. A small, hiccuped inhale like she forgot how to breathe. Beetee reaches over and covers her hand with his, thumb stroking her knuckles absently, eyes still locked on the empty forest screen.

Even Gage—half-limp in his chair, usually the most checked-out of all of us—sits with wet cheeks and his gaze unfocused, like he’s somewhere else entirely.

Across the room, Gloss leans forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. He shakes his head once—tight, frustrated. “I didn’t think Marvel would do it. Not to her. Not to Rue.”

Cashmere’s staring straight ahead. “It wasn’t about Rue,” she says flatly. “It was about Katniss. Rue was bait. And Marvel was a Career.”

“Doesn’t make it right,” Cecilia says.

“No,” Cashmere says. “It makes it worse.”

Haymitch still hasn’t moved. His hands are braced against the table, his head low. The shadows under his eyes look deeper now. Older. Like whatever part of him was holding out hope finally cracked.

Mags lets out a long breath. Not quite a sigh, not quite a sob. Just… something surrendering.

“She sang to her,” Johanna whispers. “Who does that?”

I glance at her. Her chin’s trembling. She’s trying so hard not to lose it, but it’s there in the way she won’t meet anyone’s eyes.

“She loved her,” I say, so quiet I’m not sure she hears me. “Even if she didn’t get to say it.”

Katniss is gone from the screen now. Just the forest remains. Still and too quiet. Nothing left to see. Just a grave covered in flowers that the Capitol will clear by morning.

Haymitch finally lifts his head. His eyes are rimmed red, but they’re clear now. Focused. Angry.

“They’re going to make her pay for that,” he says quietly.

“She knows,” Mags answers. “She did it anyway.”

The screen flickers to black.

The silence hangs on. Heavy as the ocean before a storm.

====

The days blur.

I don’t pay much attention to the Games anymore. Not since Rue. Not since that cannon fired and something in all of us went quiet. The air in the room hasn’t quite recovered—it’s thinner now, like grief’s been stitched into the walls. Even the loud ones—Chaff, Wiress when she’s in one of her spirals, even Johanna—don’t fill the silence the same way. The only time the volume rises is when someone curses the Capitol under their breath.

I’ve checked out.

The only thing that draws even the faintest flicker of interest is the Gamemakers’ latest stunt. A breathy announcement, played with a flourish of strings and gold-embossed graphics: “Two tributes from the same district can now be crowned co-victors.”

It’s bait. Everyone knows it.

And yet.

Katniss finds Peeta within the day. He's half-dead, tucked into a mud-drenched bank like he was trying to melt into the earth. She drags him into a cave and from that moment on, the Capitol is fed a steady diet of soft kisses and blood-soaked bandages, moans of pain and murmured love confessions.

Haymitch practically starts vibrating with renewed energy. Slamming notes across the sponsor desk, pulling favors like he’s at a damn poker table. He’s got the audience eating out of the palm of his hand again.

In the viewing room, Johanna flops backwards across the couch like a corpse, her foot resting in my lap again.

“You get a kiss,” she mutters in a flat, robotic tone, flicking her hand toward the screen. “And you get a kiss. And you, Peeta, get an infection, but also a kiss.”

Peeta groans onscreen. Katniss presses more of the medicine she got at the Feast to his forehead and leans in, whispering something soft against his cheek before giving him a kiss that lingers just a second too long.

I arch a brow. “Are people seriously believing this?”

Johanna snorts, her head tilted back against the cushion. “I sure as hell don’t.”

Cashmere lets out a low, breathy laugh, curling one elegant leg beneath her as she watches. “They’re eating it up. Capitol loves a love story. Especially a tragic one.”

“It’s not even a good love story,” Gloss mutters. “He’s unconscious half the time and she looks like she’s fighting the urge to bolt.”

“She’s acting,” I say, more to myself than anyone. “She has to be.”

“She’s surviving,” Seeder says quietly from the corner, nursing a mug of something steaming. “There’s a difference.”

“Same thing,” Johanna mumbles. “When you’re in there, survival’s the only thing that counts.”

Peeta stirs, eyes fluttering open, and murmurs something about her staying with him. Forever. Always. She gives him a watery smile and leans in again.

“You think they're trying to make up for something?” Johanna asks no one in particular. “Because if not, they’re catching up real quick.”

“If they’re not in love now,” Chaff says, cracking his knuckles, “they’re gonna be after a week of this.”

“No they won’t,” I mutter. “They’re going to step out of that arena and realize they barely know each other.”

No one argues. No one has to.

We all know the truth.

The Games change everything.

Even love in a way.

The silence that follows isn’t the heavy, Rue-shaped silence from before. It’s something quieter. Resigned. Like an old bruise being pressed on.

On screen, Katniss kisses Peeta’s cheek again and tucks herself against his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Maybe for the audience it is. Maybe they see two star-crossed lovers, broken and beautiful, clinging to each other in a cave lit by flickering torchlight.

All I see is desperation.

“I wonder if he knows,” Chaff murmurs, eyes tracking the way Peeta’s fingers twitch against Katniss’s arm. “That she’s playing.”

“Maybe she isn’t,” Cecilia says, voice barely louder than the hum of the screen. “Or maybe she doesn’t know yet. Sometimes you fake it long enough and it starts to feel real.”

Johanna scoffs. “That’s what the Capitol counts on.”

Haymitch hasn’t said a word in hours. He just sits there, glass in hand, watching his tributes. His fingers are tight around the rim, knuckles pale, but he doesn’t drink. Not yet. Not with the sponsors biting. Not when there's still a chance to haul those kids out of there alive.

“Whatever it is,” Mags says gently, speaking for the first time in a while, “they’ll have to live with it after.”

No one answers her. Because she’s right. And because we’ve all had to live with things too.

The screen shifts. It’s night now. Rain slicks the mouth of the cave, and the camera lingers on Katniss’s hand brushing back Peeta’s hair. The Capitol adds a soft piano score—melancholy, intimate.

“I hate this part,” Johanna mutters. “Not the kissing. The pretending.”

“You did it too,” Cashmere says coolly from across the room, adjusting the gold chain draped across her collarbone. Her voice is even, but her eyes glint with something sharper.

Johanna doesn’t look at her. Just shrugs, tight. “Yeah. And I still taste blood every time I lie.”

None of it matters to Snow.

Whether you cried or posed.

Whether you bled in silence or on camera.

You still belong to him.

We all do.

====

The room’s packed tighter than it’s been in days—everyone’s awake, everyone’s watching. Even Wiress, who usually mutters to herself during the broadcasts, is locked in. The screen’s throwing sharp light across the room, flickering across wide eyes and clenched jaws.

It’s the final three.

Katniss. Peeta. Cato.

And below them—hell itself.

The mutts are snapping and snarling at the base of the Cornucopia, foam and blood caking their jowls. They’re taller than any mutt I’ve ever seen—half-dog, half-monster, with claws that could rip through steel and eyes that glow like Capitol searchlights. One of them’s got Glimmer’s hair. Another has Marvel’s eyes.

No one talks about it. But we all see it.

Katniss, Peeta, and Cato are crammed on top of the Cornucopia, barely three feet between them and the edge. They’re drenched in sweat, clothes torn, smeared in dried blood and fresh bruises. Their legs shift constantly, feet slipping every time one of the mutts lunges too high.

Peeta stumbles sideways, nearly off the edge, but Katniss grabs his arm and hauls him upright. She doesn’t even look at him—her bow’s already raised again, another arrow nocked.

Cato’s a mess. His armor’s been chewed through, and one of his arms hangs at a crooked angle. But he’s still fighting like a rabid wolf, bashing at the mutts with a shard of broken shield, screaming through bloodied teeth.

Haymitch is practically vibrating beside the table, pacing like a caged animal. His hands twitch at his sides. Mags watches him closely from her seat, eyes narrowed with concern. She reaches out once, brushes his elbow, murmurs something low. He doesn’t even blink.

“Is he—” Johanna starts.

“Fine,” Mags answers gently, though she doesn’t look convinced.

Gloss leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes glued to the screen. “They can’t hold out like this much longer. Those things are gonna take ‘em down one by one.”

“No,” Seeder says softly, shaking her head. “The Capitol wants a show. They’ll stretch this out as long as they can.”

The camera jerks—Peeta’s yelling.

And then—

Cato lunges from behind.

He grabs Peeta in a crushing headlock, the metal of his armguard glinting beneath the moonlight. Peeta thrashes, but Cato’s too strong. One arm locked around his throat, the other pulling him backward, toward the edge of the Cornucopia. His teeth are bared, and he’s panting like a wild dog.

“Oh, oh!” Johanna crows. “Lover boy’s in trouble!”

“Come on, come on, come on—” I mutter, fists tightening at my sides.

Katniss is already moving. She turns on instinct, bow snapping up, arrow flying. It hits Cato’s hand.

He snarls—his grip loosens—

Peeta drives an elbow into his ribs and shoves him off.

Cato falls.

He doesn’t scream until he hits the ground.

The mutts descend.

It’s brutal. Gore splatters the gold cornucopia walls. Cato vanishes beneath the pile of them, buried in teeth and claws and blood.

But he’s not dead.

Not yet.

He’s fighting—barely—somehow. His voice is hoarse, his body twitching as the mutts drag him through the muck. It’s cruel. Endless.

Katniss’s hands are shaking.

Then she draws her last arrow.

Lets it fly.

It sinks straight into his skull.

Cato goes still.

No one breathes.

Even Haymitch—who’s been pacing like a stormcloud ready to burst—freezes in place. One hand in his hair, the other still clutching the edge of the table.

“Did… did he win?” Seeder asks softly.

“Did Haymitch Abernathy just mentor a victor?” Gloss murmurs, wide-eyed.

“No,” Cashmere breathes, stunned. “He mentored two.”

The screen is bathed in moonlight. Katniss and Peeta collapse beside each other, broken and bloodied, the wind rustling over the carnage below.

The anthem doesn’t play.

Instead, the night fades into gray dawn. Light creeps across the arena like breath returning to a corpse.

Then—

The Capitol seal flickers.

A voice, crisp and cold: “Attention, tributes. The earlier rule change has been revoked. Only one victor may be crowned.”

For a beat, no one reacts.

Then—

“What?” Lucia gasps.

Mags sits forward, mouth slightly open.

Haymitch’s hand slams down on the table so hard the glassware jumps.

“They can’t do that!” Blight exclaims.

“Of course they can,” Johanna snaps. “They just did. That’s the Capitol for you.”

On screen, Katniss and Peeta both go rigid. They stagger to their feet, eyes locked, horror dawning.

Then, slowly, Katniss draws her hand into her jacket.

Pulls out the berries.

The District Five girl’s berries.

She offers them to Peeta.

“Together,” she mouths.

Peeta doesn’t hesitate.

The two of them raise their hands—twin fists, trembling—ready to throw the nightlock into their mouths.

“They’re bluffing,” I mutter.

“They better be,” Chaff growls.

Seconds stretch like years. Everyone in the room is leaning forward, frozen, waiting.

Then—

Another voice crackles over the speaker.

Claudius Templesmith.

Rushed. Panicked.

“Stop!”

Silence.

“I’m… I’m glad to announce the victors of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games… Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark!”

A beat.

Then the room explodes.

Cheers and shouts, overlapping voices—disbelief, laughter, cursing, stunned celebration.

Johanna throws both arms in the air. “No way! No. Way. Haymitch actually pulled it off!”

Gloss whoops, and Chaff slaps the table so hard his drink spills. Beetee and Wiress just sit, blinking in disbelief.

Haymitch doesn’t say anything.

He just slowly stands up, hands shaking, eyes glassy with relief.

And just under the noise, I can hear him whisper—so quietly I almost miss it.

“…They did it.”

Chaff is the first to reach Haymitch. He barrels across the room and grabs him by one of his shoulders like he’s just won the damn lottery.

“You old bastard!” he roars, shaking him hard. “You did it! You actually—!”

Haymitch laughs—just once, breathless and disbelieving—but it catches in his throat. His hands twitch like he doesn’t know whether to shove Chaff off or pull him in.

“Can you believe this?” Johanna shouts, spinning in a wide circle. “He got two victors! Two!”

Cashmere’s hands are in her hair. “I thought they were gonna die. I swore they were gonna die.”

Gloss is already pouring drinks, sloshing them into glasses like the table’s not even real.

But then it shifts.

Slow.

Like the tide pulling out, leaving something cold in its place.

The cheers don’t stop all at once. They trickle. Falter.

Because we all saw it.

The berries.

The defiance.

The open, deliberate threat.

“She pointed an arrow at the Capitol,” Seeder says quietly. She’s not looking at the screen anymore.

“She rebelled,” Wiress murmurs. “She dared them. Dared them to call her bluff.”

Lucia sinks back into her seat. Her laughter fades, hollow now.

“She’ll pay for that,” Cashmere says. “They’re not going to let her walk away from this.”

Johanna exhales hard. “Not after Rue.”

A silence falls. Heavier than before. Dense and bitter.

Mags makes a small, pained sound and puts a hand over her mouth. She’s still watching Katniss and Peeta being lifted into the hovercraft, bloodied and bruised but alive.

Haymitch finally pushes Chaff off him. Not tall. Not proud.

Just… tired.

“She didn’t do it for glory,” he says. His voice is rough, distant. “She did it to protect him. To give them both a way out.”

“No one cares why,” I murmur. “Only what it looked like.”

It looked like rebellion.

The Capitol doesn’t forget things like that.

And it never forgives.

Haymitch is about to go to be there when both Katniss and Peeta land, but I stop him.

“You have to be present there, Haymitch,” I say. “You have to fight for them. Don’t let them change your tributes. Trust me.”

Haymitch blinks at me. Probably trying to decipher how literal I mean, but I don’t want those two seventeen-year-olds to go through what I had to fight to not happen with Annie.

But he just nods slowly before taking off.

===

The hallways of the Training Center are unusually quiet. The buzz, the chaos, the nonstop Capitol commentary—it’s all faded now. The screens are off. The tributes are gone. All that’s left is the sterile echo of heels on marble, the soft shuffle of exhausted footsteps as the last of the mentors make their way out.

Haymitch is already gone, whisked away in a private hovercraft to retrieve his victors. A gesture of celebration. A moment of reprieve. Just like I had when Annie won. Only his victory feels far more complicated.

Most of the other mentors have cleared out—off to prepare for some Capitol celebration, or maybe finally heading home. The ones who linger do so like shadows, unsure if we’re allowed to relax yet. If we ever really are.

A pair of Avoxes glide silently toward us, offering shallow crystal dishes of ice cream with tiny silver spoons tucked into the side. A final indulgence before the rest of it begins.

Johanna takes hers without a thank you, immediately dipping her spoon in and letting the first bite melt across her tongue as she follows Mags and me toward the elevators.

I glance down at her dish, narrowing my eyes. “Let me guess, maple again?”

She smirks, eyes half-lidded in smug satisfaction. “You’re just jealous because mine’s good. Let me guess. Yours is fish flavored?”

Mags chuckles softly beside me. “That’s a crime against ice cream.”

I scoff, lifting my own bowl proudly. “Coconut and pineapple—again—thank you very much. It’s tropical. Refined.”

“Sure,” Johanna drawls, licking a slow stripe off her spoon. “Tastes like the Capitol trying to guess what the ocean tastes like and getting it so wrong.”

I snort and take another bite. The sweetness coats my tongue, syrupy and sharp all at once.

“This is really the only good part after the Games,” Johanna says. Not joking now. Just quiet. Honest. Her spoon clinks against the side of the dish as she digs in again.

I nod, swallowing the last bit of warmth the room seems to offer. “Agreed,” I say.

We reach the District Four floor. The hallway is dim, the air heavy with the kind of stillness that always comes after something awful.

“I feel like this is going to become something bigger than all of us,” I murmur.

“That would be putting it lightly, Finn,” Mags says, her voice soft and certain.

Johanna finally looks at us. “I think everything just shifted,” she says. “Like we’re standing in the before, and the after’s already on its way.”

We’ve all felt it coming. We just didn’t know when.

Now we do.

Mags’ hand lingering a moment on the doorknob before pushing it open. The familiar scent of saltwater soap and Capitol polish drifts out from the District Four floor, but it doesn’t feel like home this time. It feels… braced. Waiting.

I glance back down the hallway. It’s empty now—quiet except for the faint buzz of the overhead lights. Somewhere below us, I imagine Haymitch sitting between two kids who still don’t understand what they’ve done. What they’ve started.

Katniss Everdeen held out a handful of poison berries and nearly burned the Capitol down with them.

I don’t think the Capitol forgives that kind of thing. They never have. Johanna, for instance, is living proof of that.

Johanna steps in behind us, balancing her bowl in one hand, spoon still wedged between her teeth. She pulls it free with a loud clink of her molars and flops down onto the nearest couch like she owns the place.

“No one’s ever done that before,” she says. “Ever.”

“I know,” I murmur. “And the Capitol won’t let it slide.”

“They can’t,” Mags agrees quietly, heading for the closet to pull out her packed bag. “If they do, it’s not just a game anymore. It’s a fight.”

Johanna tosses her spoon into her empty bowl and stares at the ceiling. “I hope they’re ready.”

“They’re not,” I say, sinking into the chair across from her. “No one is.”

But ready or not, it’s coming. We can feel it in the air. The Capitol’s mask is slipping. The people are watching. And for the first time in years, maybe longer, someone didn’t just play the Games.

They beat them.

Johanna shuts her eyes and exhales slowly, the weight of it pressing into the room around us.

“We’re in the after now,” she mutters.

And I believe her.

Chapter Text

“I’ll go in first,” Mags explains, voice steady but quiet. “Then you wait a couple of seconds before joining me.”

I nod, rolling my shoulders in an attempt to shake off the tension creeping into them. “You can trust me, Mags.”

She doesn’t hesitate before smiling back at me, that same warm, reassuring expression she’s always had. “I know, dear.” Then, her eyes glint with something sharper. “Do you think she’ll show?”

I pause for a moment, considering. Johanna Mason is one of the most defiant, rebellious people I’ve ever met—possibly even more than Haymitch. She has a way of sneering at the Capitol, of spitting in their face while still playing their game just enough to survive. She fights back, even when it costs her. Maybe especially when it costs her.

I’ve learned to trust her, to understand that beneath all her sarcasm and sharp edges is someone who wants Snow to suffer as much as we do. Maybe more.

Ever since meeting her after she won her Games, I told Plutarch I want Johanna to join us when we have another meeting. And with what happened just a few days again with Katniss and Peeta, that meeting has come.

“I think so, yeah,” I finally say.

Mags nods, her expression unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something thoughtful in her gaze. “Good,” she murmurs. “Someone like her can be very useful for the cause.”

Mags’ hand is small but steady as it presses against my shoulder, a grounding presence in the storm of everything we’re about to do. Her fingers squeeze, firm and reassuring.

“Wait three minutes and then come, okay?” she murmurs, her voice calm, like we’re planning something as simple as slipping out for a midnight swim instead of plotting against the Capitol.

I smirk, forcing down the coil of nerves in my chest. “Aye, aye, Captain,” I say in a mock serious tone, giving a half-hearted salute.

Mags huffs a quiet laugh before she turns and disappears into the crowd of Capitol elites, her small frame weaving effortlessly through the sea of jewel-encrusted outfits and overpowering perfumes. She blends in like she belongs here, like she’s just another victor playing the Capitol’s game. But I know better. We all do.

Johanna has to show. She has to. If she doesn’t, it won’t be because she’s afraid. It’ll be because she’s making a point. And Johanna Mason loves making a point.

I exhale slowly and count the seconds in my head. The three minutes stretch endlessly, each second a weight pressing against my ribs. I scan the room casually, pretending to admire some ridiculous crystal sculpture while my fingers drum absently against my leg.

Finally, when I think enough time has passed, I begin to move. Straight, then right, then right again. I pass a group of Capitol citizens gossiping about the latest party, their laughter grating against my ears. I keep walking. Straight, then left, then right. Exactly as Mags said.

The hallway narrows, the noise of the party fading behind me. At the end of the dimly lit corridor, I spot a small door, tucked away beside a bar, nearly invisible unless you knew exactly where to look. My pulse quickens. This is it.

I knock five times in the exact tempo Mags instructed.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then, a soft click, and the door creaks open just enough for me to slip inside.

The hallway beyond is shadowed, the air thick with the scent of old books and faint traces of whiskey. I take a slow breath, steadying myself before moving forward. My footsteps are quiet against the floor, the dim glow of light ahead leading me forward.

As I round the corner, the space opens up into something more structured—less hidden bunker, more secret war room. A sturdy table dominates the center, a whiteboard filled with notes and diagrams against one wall. Storage units line the far side of the room, and scattered chairs are filled with faces that are far too familiar.

Mags is already seated near Wiress and Beetee, her sharp eyes tracking my entrance. Plutarch stands near the table, arms crossed, while Haymitch sprawls lazily on the couch, looking like he’s either half-asleep or completely unbothered by the fact that we’re in the middle of enemy territory.

“Ah, there he is,” Haymitch announces, his voice dripping with dry amusement.

Plutarch offers me a small nod of acknowledgment. “We’ll get started in a bit,” he says before tilting his head slightly. “Do you think Miss Mason is coming?”

I hesitate for only a second. “I think so,” I answer, because I have to believe it.

Chaff leans forward, glancing at Blight. “What about you? She’s your district partner.”

Blight leans back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. The dim lighting casts sharp shadows across his face, making him look even more tired than usual. He lets out a breath through his nose before finally answering.

“She’ll come,” he says, but there’s something in his tone—an edge of frustration, or maybe resignation. “If only to see what kind of mess we’re all getting ourselves into.”

Haymitch snorts from his spot on the couch, lifting a flask to his lips. “Sounds about right. Johanna loves a good mess.”

Mags hums in agreement, settling herself into a chair beside Wiress and Beetee. She looks as calm as ever, but I know her well enough to see the tension in her posture, the way her fingers tap idly against the armrest. We’re all waiting.

I take a seat near Seeder and Chaff, running a hand through my hair as my leg bounces restlessly. The room isn’t big, but it’s packed with some of the most dangerous people in Panem—not in the way the Capitol likes to paint us, but in the way that matters. These are victors who have seen the truth. Who are willing to do something about it.

“We don’t have much time,” Plutarch says, glancing toward the clock on the wall. His voice is calm, but there’s urgency beneath it. “If she doesn’t show soon, we’ll have to move forward without her.”

I nod, but deep down, I don’t believe it’ll come to that. Johanna Mason is reckless. She’s stubborn. She’s unpredictable. But she wouldn’t miss this.

At least, I hope she wouldn’t.

The room settles into a low hum of conversation as we wait. No one says it, but we’re all thinking the same thing—Johanna should’ve been here by now.

Seeder and Cecilia murmur quietly in the corner, their voices too soft to catch. Mags is fiddling with something in her lap, probably tying knots to keep her hands busy. The Morphlings sit close together, Lucia tracing invisible patterns against the tabletop while Gage watches the door with a far-off look in his eyes.

Blight exhales sharply, arms crossed over his chest. “She’s unpredictable.”

Haymitch scoffs from his place on the couch. “That’s putting it lightly.”

Blight doesn’t laugh. His jaw tightens, his fingers gripping his arm like he’s trying to ground himself. “I mean it,” he says, voice low but firm. “Can we even trust her?”

Chaff tilts his head. “You don’t think she’ll show?”

Blight lets out a breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “She might. But showing up isn’t the problem.” He pauses, glancing toward the door like he half-expects her to be standing there. “She might kill one of us.”

That makes everyone go quiet.

I frown, shifting my weight. “Johanna wouldn’t—”

Blight levels me with a look. “Wouldn’t she?” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You weren’t in her Games, Finnick. You didn’t see it firsthand. The way she fooled everyone—”

“I did—“

His expression hardens. “The way she got Heath killed.”

A pit forms in my stomach.

Heath.

Her mentor. Another District Seven victor.

I know the story. Everyone does, even if no one says it out loud. Johanna played weak—trembling hands, panicked eyes, begging for mercy—and the Capitol loved it. The girl who couldn’t hurt a fly. It made the other tributes underestimate her. It made the audience adore her. It made Snow furious.

Because no one told Heath.

Johanna’s plan only worked if everyone believed it, and that included her own mentor. Heath tried to send her help, to pull strings, to do whatever he could to keep her alive. But when she flipped the script—killing all those Careers—it made Snow look like a fool. And Snow didn’t forgive that.

Blight leans back, shaking his head. “She doesn’t think the way we do. Doesn’t care about playing nice or keeping alliances. She does what she wants, when she wants.” He exhales. “So tell me. When the time comes, are we sure she’ll be on our side?”

No one answers right away.

Blight’s words hang over us like a storm cloud, the weight of them settling into our bones. He isn’t wrong. Johanna does what she wants, when she wants. She doesn’t answer to anyone. That’s part of what makes her dangerous.

But that’s also why we need her.

“She hates Snow,” Haymitch finally says, breaking the silence. His voice is as tired as ever, but there’s an edge to it. “That’s gotta count for something.”

Blight lets out a sharp laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah? She hated him when Heath was alive too.”

“Snow killed Heath,” I say, my voice quieter than I mean for it to be.

Blight turns his head toward me, his eyes dark. “Because of her.”

I don’t flinch, but my fingers curl into fists at my sides. He’s angry, and I get it. Heath was his friend. His mentor. He was supposed to live the rest of his life in peace, and instead, Snow made an example out of him. And all because Johanna played a game within a game.

“She’s reckless,” Blight continues. “And she’s selfish. And if you think she won’t turn on us the second it suits her, you’re dumber than I thought.”

“Reckless,” Chaff agrees. “But not selfish.”

Blight scoffs. “She’s not exactly a team player.”

“No,” Chaff admits. “But she doesn’t turn her back on the people she cares about.”

Blight shakes his head. “Yeah? And who exactly does she care about?”

No one answers that. Because none of us know.

“Finnick,” Haymitch says suddenly, looking at me like he’s already expecting something useful. “You two talk more than the rest of us. You’re friends. Does she care about you?”

“I’d like to think so,” I say eventually. “Which is why I don’t believe she’d betray us.”

“But you don’t know definitively,” Blight presses.

“No,” I admit. “But I’ve seen the way she acts when she thinks no one’s watching. She’s not heartless. She’s angry. There’s a difference.”

Chaff nods beside me. “She’s got reason to be angry.”

“Don’t we all?” Blight mutters.

Seeder chimes in, her tone even and measured, like she’s patching a wound with practiced hands. “She’s not easy, but she’s not cruel. She’s blunt. Guarded. Smart enough not to show her cards until she knows it’s safe. That’s not betrayal. That’s survival. That’s how she won, afterall.”

Wiress hums under her breath, shifting in her seat. Her fingers tap against the armrest of her chair in a rhythmic pattern—one, two, three, pause, one, two, three. Beetee glances at her, then at us. “She’s unpredictable,” he says. “Which means she’s useful.”

Mags nods in agreement. “She fights.”

Blight exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Something inside me tightens.

“Johanna’s not the enemy,” I say firmly.

Blight lets out a sharp breath. “You sure about that?” He gestures vaguely at the rest of us. “Because I’m not. Snow killed Heath because she made him look like a fool. She had to have known there’d be consequences, but she still went through with it. She still put a target on his back.”

“She put a target on her own back,” I counter. “Snow didn’t kill Heath because of her. He killed him to punish her. Just like he kills everyone any of us care about.”

Blight shakes his head. “And you think she cares about any of us? She barely talks to people. She doesn’t trust anyone.”

I stare at him. “Maybe because everyone she’s ever trusted has been killed.”

Blight opens his mouth like he’s going to push back, but I don’t give him the chance.

“Maybe it's because no one actually puts in the effort to check in on her. She's one of your District partners. She’s just twenty, Blight.”

My voice sharpens as I say it. Twenty. It echoes in my head—because it’s too damn young for someone to have already lost everything.

Blight crosses his arms over his chest, jaw tight. “That’s not my fault,” he says, low.

“I didn’t say it was,” I snap. “But she’s drowning, and everyone just watches. Or worse—they steer clear. Like if they get too close, she’ll drag them under with her.”

“She pushes people away,” he fires back. “It’s not like she wants help.”

“No,” I bite, “she pushes people away because when she needed someone, nobody came. She learned the hard way that trusting people just gets them killed—or gets her hurt.”

Blight exhales sharply, looking away, like maybe he doesn’t want to admit I’m right. His fingers flex at his sides like he’s holding back more than just words. I press on anyway.

“She hates Snow,” I say, steadier now. “She wants him to suffer. She wants the Capitol to suffer. And I trust that. I trust her.”

He doesn’t answer at first. The silence stretches between us, thick and brittle.

Then he mutters, “She’s still unpredictable.”

“Good,” I say flatly. “Snow likes predictability.”

That gets a short, surprised snort out of Haymitch, who’s been watching us like someone watching a wave build toward shore, waiting to see if it’ll crash or break clean.

“Kid’s got a point,” Haymitch mutters, raising his flask in a half-toast.

Blight doesn’t argue anymore, but his posture doesn’t loosen. His arms stay crossed, muscles wound tight under his sleeves. He’s not convinced. Not really. I can see it all in the flick of his eyes, the twitch in his jaw.

And I get it. I do.

He’s seen tributes come apart in the worst ways. He’s watched survivors shatter years after the arena. He’s seen what trauma can turn people into.

But we don’t have the luxury of picking and choosing our allies.

We need Johanna.

And I think—deep down—she needs us too.

“She came home to her whole family hanging, Blight,” I say, softer now. Not to be kind, but to make sure he hears me. “Maybe you can cut her a little bit of slack for being unpredictable and angry most of the time.”

That lands. Blight winces—barely, but I catch it. His fingers go up, scraping through his hair, slow and rough.

“I know what Snow did to her,” he mutters. “I know she has every reason to hate him. But knowing that doesn’t make her any less dangerous to us.”

I hold his gaze, letting that silence settle again.

“She’s dangerous to him,” I say finally. “That’s the kind of dangerous we need.”

Blight exhales hard through his nose. “You’re not the only one who cares about her, Finnick.”

“You could’ve fooled me,” I shoot back, voice rising.

Across the room, Gage shifts where he’s curled on the floor, eyes blinking slow like he’s not sure if this is real or part of a dream. Lucia’s hand hovers protectively near his shoulder, her gaze darting between Blight and me.

Seeder leans forward, her fingers steepled. “Enough,” she says—quiet, but firm.

But I’m already past that point. I step forward, closing some of the space between Blight and me, heart hammering like surf against rocks. “She’s just twenty,” I say. “You’re what? Forty?”

Chaff snorts beside Mags, laughing into the back of his hand. Haymitch fights back a smile, but nudges Chaff to make him stop laughing.

Blight’s eyes flash. “Thirty-four,” he grinds out. “Remember that?”

I was six when Blight won, but I do. I remember the blood and the mud and the way his opponent choked on his axe during the video they showed us in school. We all remember each other’s wins. The Capitol makes sure of it.

Haymitch lifts a brow, deadpan. “So you’re thirty-four, and you’re arguing with a twenty-three-year-old. A child, practically.”

“I’m not a kid,” I snap at Haymitch, but he just shrugs.

“You’re a kid who survived a slaughter and then got handed a Capitol collar,” he says. “That doesn’t make you wrong. But it does make you angry. And that’s not always the same thing.”

Cecilia shifts in her seat, one hand pressing to her stomach like she’s trying to hold something in. “Can we not shout?” she says, voice tight. “We’re not safe enough to yell.”

She’s right. We all know it. But I can’t stop the words when they come.

“I’m angry because Johanna’s the only one around here who’s not pretending we’re going to get out of this clean,” I say, breathing hard. “She doesn’t play nice. She doesn’t put a bow on her trauma to make it more comfortable for everyone else. She’s realistic.”

Mags reaches over, touching my wrist—soft, grounding. I barely feel it.

“I know she’s not easy,” I say, quieter now, but still burning. “I know she’s sharp and mean and unpredictable. But I also know what she’s like when she trusts someone. When she lets her guard down. She’s loyal. She’s smart. She’s not just angry—she’s grieving. She’s surviving the only way she knows how.”

Blight’s jaw clenches so tight I half-expect his teeth to crack. “You don’t think I’ve tried to help her?” he asks, voice rough. “You don’t think I wanted her to let me in? But every time I got close, she shoved me out.”

“Yeah,” I say. “And you gave up. I ended up having to console her over the damn phone because you gave up. You have moments where you care about her, what’s this about?”

He flinches like I slapped him. “I do care about her, I’m worried about her. That’s why I called you and that’s why I immediately went to her door when you called me. But everything’s just… complicated. Heath should’ve been here.”

Haymitch blows out a breath. “Alright,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “You two want to keep going, fine. But do it without waking up every Peacekeeper in the Capitol.”

Woof coughs from the corner, a dry, croaky sound. “Boys,” he rasps. “Yelling doesn’t help. Planning does.”

Beetee nods, ever calm behind his glasses. “He’s right. We need Johanna for what’s coming. Whether or not she’s—convenient.”

“She’s unpredictable, Beetee.” Blight repeats.

I open my mouth to respond, but a voice cuts through the air before I get the chance.

“Glad to know you have glowing reviews about me, Blight,” Johanna says coolly as she steps inside, letting the door swing shut behind her.

Blight stiffens, but Johanna just smirks.

No one tells her what we were actually talking about.

No one tells her that we were defending her.

And I don’t think she’d want to know anyway.

Johanna leans against the edge of the table like she owns it, her arms crossing over her chest in that practiced way of someone who’s perpetually unimpressed. She glances around at all of us, her eyebrow quirking like she’s already two seconds from walking out. “Well?” she drawls. “Are we gonna start talking or just keep staring at each other? ‘Cause if it’s the latter, I’m leaving.”

She says it like a threat, but mostly it sounds like a gift. A favor. Like our punishment would be having to keep sitting here without her.

Plutarch clears his throat, too loud in the quiet room, and steps forward as he adjusts his glasses. His jacket rides up awkwardly when he moves, and he tugs it back down, trying to look composed and important. “No, no, let’s begin,” he says quickly, gesturing toward the whiteboard like he’s been rehearsing this moment in the mirror. “With the uprisings in District Eleven after the Seventy-Fourth Games, I believe this might be our best opportunity to begin something. Especially with the Quarter Quell on the horizon.”

Seeder nods, her expression grave. “The uprisings have not been pretty,” she says, and her voice carries a kind of weary authority. She’s seen it. She’s lived it.

Plutarch nods along, pushing the conversation forward like he’s afraid it’ll stall. “They haven’t,” he agrees. “Which is why we need a symbol. Someone who can unify people, give them a reason to keep fighting. Katniss Everdeen can be that symbol. Our Mockingjay.”

“Mockingjay?” Johanna repeats, cocking her head like she’s trying to make sense of the word. “Is Peeta ‘Tracker Jacker’ or something?”

Chaff snorts, shoulders shaking with laughter, and even Haymitch lets out a low chuckle under his breath.

Plutarch doesn’t laugh—of course he doesn’t. He adjusts his glasses again instead and tries to reclaim control. “Her mockingjay pin has become a quiet symbol over time,” he explains. “It started in the Games, but it’s been building. People are noticing. It’s spreading.”

Johanna leans back from the table, gaze flicking upward like she’s weighing her options—stay and play nice, or say something sharp enough to earn herself the boot. Typical Johanna math.

Honestly, if Katniss Everdeen had never stepped into the spotlight—on purpose or not—I think Johanna would’ve been our Mockingjay. I mean that. After I met her, I told Mags there was something about Johanna I couldn’t explain—something important. Something the Capitol couldn’t scrub clean no matter how hard they tried.

And I haven’t been proven wrong.

She’s rough edges and salt-rubbed scars, bitter truth wrapped in sharp laughter. But she doesn’t flinch from fire—she walks through it like it owes her something. People follow that. Not because she asks them to, but because she makes them believe she might just burn the Capitol down herself if no one else will.

And sometimes, I think she would.

She doesn’t say anything now. Just rolls her eyes and says, “Great. Birds and pins. What’s next? We all wear wings and start singing?”

But the corner of her mouth tugs up.

She won’t admit it, but part of her likes this.

The idea of doing something.

The idea of fighting back.

“Well, what would we do?” Lucia asks, her voice gentle but firm, like she’s afraid of the answer but wants it anyway.

Plutarch clasps his hands together, stepping forward with something too close to excitement in his eyes. “We need to make a plan,” he says, straightening. “One that preferably involves the Quarter Quell.”

There’s a beat of stillness, like we’re all waiting for someone else to say the obvious part.

“This brainstorming is nice and all,” Johanna cuts in, kicking one boot up onto the table leg and leaning back in her chair with the practiced swagger of someone who doesn’t care—except she absolutely does. “But if Katniss is supposed to be the symbol of this revolution or whatever, then where is she?”

Her eyes scan the room like it’s a game—find the missing piece, win a prize.

And I hate that she’s right.

My arms cross tighter across my chest before I even realize it. I stay quiet. I could say something—I always can—but I don’t. Because the truth is, I don’t like Katniss.

Not really.

Not in the way they all seem to. Not in the way everyone talks about her like she’s some burning banner we should all follow into battle. Her whole star-crossed lovers act with Peeta? It’s fake. You can see it if you look close enough. I did look. And it feels like a slap in the face to me.

There’s something about her that scratches under my skin, like sand in an open wound. Maybe it’s because the world calls her brave and pure and good—but I know what the Capitol does to people like that. And I’m still waiting for the moment it does it to her, too.

Seeder speaks up next, always calm, always steady. “We can’t involve her until we’re certain the foundation is solid. If we pull her in too soon and it crumbles…” She shakes her head. “We lose everything.”

“Then maybe we find someone else,” Johanna mutters.

Plutarch bristles, his hands twitching at his sides. “It has to be her. The districts already see her as something special. Not because we told them to, but because she made them believe it. You can’t manufacture that.”

“Plutarch, if I may,” Haymitch says, already halfway to the whiteboard like it was always his idea to take the floor. He doesn’t wait for a reply, just grabs the marker and uncaps it with his teeth, because of course he does.

Plutarch nods, smoothing his vest like he’s still in charge. “Katniss is the fire we need for this rebellion,” he says, voice rising with a practiced sort of conviction. “We failed once already. We can’t afford to fail again.”

“The circumstances surrounding Katniss and the Quell line up perfectly for us,” Beetee adds, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “Symbolically, politically—it all fits.”

“T,” Chaff whispers, low and careful, like he’s passing classified intel.

“R?”

“G?”

I glance over, confused for half a second, until I notice Johanna leaning against the back of her chair, smirking as her eyes flick toward the whiteboard. Then I see it: the unmistakable half-drawn stick figure, the little lines beneath it for blank letters.

Hangman.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

“A,” Johanna whispers.

I follow her gaze again, watching as Haymitch—without missing a beat in Plutarch’s impassioned speech—adds the R in the second-to-last slot. He’s not even looking down at the board anymore, just casually scribbling like he’s doodling through a Capitol debrief.

“M?” Chaff ventures next.

Haymitch makes a show of shaking his head as he adds another limp line to the stick figure’s body—maybe an arm or a leg, it’s hard to tell with Haymitch’s artistic talent.

“Idiot,” Johanna mutters under her breath, but she’s grinning now, eyes dancing with mischief.

Plutarch, still oblivious, presses on. “In my recent discussions with Snow—well, what passes for a discussion with a man like that—it’s clear he sees Katniss as a threat. A wildcard. She defied him in front of the entire nation. She made a joke out of his authority. Now, with the districts rising… it’s only a matter of time.”

“D?” Johanna whispers next.

Haymitch pauses long enough to draw a tiny, almost elegant D at the end of the word.

“B?” Chaff asks with a growing grin.

Haymitch scrawls the B in the first slot.

I see it before Johanna says it.

“Bastard!” she crows, triumphant, and slaps her palm into mine with a satisfying clap. I chuckle, returning the high five without hesitation.

Plutarch blinks. “Excuse me?” His face scrunches in confusion as he finally turns to look at what’s been happening behind him.

And there it is. A half hung stick figure. Seven blank lines, now filled in.

Game over.

“Are you seriously playing hangman right now?” Plutarch asks, incredulous.

“A game of ‘Hang Snow,’ actually,” Haymitch replies, tossing the marker onto the table with a flourish. “Very therapeutic.”

Mags covers her face with her hand, clearly trying not to laugh. Even Beetee allows himself a small smile.

Johanna leans back in her chair, satisfied. “Just trying to keep the mood light.”

“Or accurate,” I mutter.

Plutarch sighs, muttering something about “professionalism” and “wasting time,” but nobody’s really listening. Even he can’t deny the tension has thinned a little. We all needed the laugh. Even if the man we’re joking about has a noose ready for each one of us.

The fire might be Katniss. But in this room, it’s gallows humor that keeps us from falling apart.

Plutarch exhales sharply through his nose, clearly biting down on a lecture, but he lets it go. Maybe he realizes he’s outnumbered, or maybe he’s starting to understand exactly what kind of people he’s working with. Either way, he smooths his vest again and tries to gather the frayed edges of control back into his hands.

“Right,” he mutters. “Back to the matter at hand.”

But Johanna’s still smiling, arms crossed as she leans further back in her chair like she’s sitting on a throne made of defiance. “Hang Snow,” she says again, quieter this time, like a toast meant only for the people who really get it. Mags catches her eye and gives the smallest nod.

I glance around the room and see it—just a flicker in the others, but it’s there. Seeder’s fingers still steepled, thoughtful now instead of tense. Chaff’s shoulders more relaxed. Even Beetee looks a little less like he’s carrying the weight of thirteen districts on his back.

This is our crew. A bunch of damaged, dangerous, half-broken victors. And we’re going to war with nothing but our scars, our memories, and a girl with a bird pinned to her chest.

Plutarch tries again. “The Quell gives us a rare opportunity. The Capitol thinks it’s in control—"

“Don’t they always?” Johanna mutters.

Plutarch ignores her. “—but the plan is to let them walk straight into our trap. We manipulate the Games. We break the arena, and we make sure the world sees it happen.”

Plutarch looks like he wants to say something more, maybe to scold us, but Haymitch cuts him off with a shrug and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You want us focused, Plutarch? Give us something real to focus on.”

“I am,” Plutarch says, folding his arms. “The Quarter Quell is less than a year away. If there’s ever been a chance to push this rebellion forward, it’s now. The Games are the Capitol’s strongest weapon. If we can subvert them, we win.”

“Subvert how?” Johanna asks. “We don’t even know what the next Quell is. Could be a bloodbath, could be a tea party.”

“We’ll know soon,” Beetee says. “They always announce the twist months in advance.”

“Exactly,” Plutarch says. “Which gives us time to prepare. Train. Coordinate. Get the districts watching.”

Lucia frowns. “What if the Quell isn’t something we can use?”

Plutarch hesitates.

Seeder, quiet until now, finally speaks. “Then we adapt. We’ve been surviving on scraps for years. We know how to work with what we’re given.”

Johanna leans back in her chair, tapping her fingers on the table. “We’re just banking on Katniss again, huh?”

“She’s the spark,” Haymitch says.

Plutarch nods, straightening the edge of one of his notecards. “That’s why—”

“I’m going to say what we’re all thinking—like always,” Johanna interrupts, her voice loud enough to cut across the room. She leans forward, both elbows on the table now, eyes sweeping across every face like she’s daring anyone to argue with her. “I know we talked about this already, but shouldn’t Haymitch at least tell Katniss the plan if she’s such a major part of it?”

Her tone isn’t just blunt—it’s agitated, frustrated in the way someone sounds when they’re trying really hard not to care but clearly do. She casts a glance toward Haymitch, then another at Plutarch, as if daring them both to justify the silence.

Plutarch sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The circumstances surrounding her are complicated,” he says carefully. “She’s unpredictable. Emotional. And under constant surveillance. Until we know the Quarter Quell twist, that’s when we fill her in. Not a moment sooner.”

“So I just keep her in the dark?” Haymitch asks, voice low and edged with bitterness. “Lie to her face while the rest of you draw up your maps and missions?”

“Yes,” Plutarch confirms with a firm nod. “She’ll be kept in the dark for now. No one besides the people in this room should be told the plans without proper consulting.”

The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air.

“That means Cresta is off-limits, too,” Johanna says from beside me.

My head turns before I can stop it. She’s not looking at me, but the corner of her mouth twitches like she knows I am. Knows exactly what she just did. The jab isn’t cruel—it’s calculated. A well-placed hook, not to draw blood but to keep me grounded.

“Johanna—” I start, but she lifts her hand like she’s swatting a fly.

“I’m just saying,” she cuts in, feigning innocence as she leans back in her chair. “If we’re going to talk about loose lips and sensitive information, maybe we should keep the lovebirds out of it.”

“Annie’s not—” I bite down on the words before they tumble out too fast, too defensive.

“Relax, Odair.” Johanna’s smirk grows wider. “I’m only teasing.” But her eyes flick toward mine, holding for just a beat too long. And in that beat, I hear the part she doesn’t say: Be careful. Don’t give them another way to hurt you.

“She’s smarter than most of you give her credit for,” I mutter, my voice low, more gravel than defense now. “She wouldn’t say a thing. Not unless I told her to.”

“Which is exactly the problem,” Johanna replies, still casual, but her voice edges into something else—something closer to concern wearing the mask of sarcasm. “You’d tell her to. You’d spill everything just to see her sleep a little easier.”

Her gaze flicks to mine again, not sharp this time. Not mocking. There’s something quieter there. A weight that doesn’t match her smirk. A warning, yes—but a gentle one.

And I get it. She’s not calling Annie a problem. She’s not even really teasing me anymore. She’s reminding me how fast things can fall apart. How love makes you reckless in ways you don’t notice until it’s too late.

I nod, just once. That’s all she needs.

Across the table, Plutarch clears his throat. “So. For now, we move forward under the assumption that the Quell will be… volatile. Whatever it is, Snow will use it to try to crush the spirit of the Districts.”

“And we use Katniss to keep the spark alive,” Seeder adds, her voice steady. “She doesn’t need the whole plan. Not yet. But she needs to be protected.”

“She will be,” Haymitch mutters, though there’s something grim in his voice. Something that sounds like he already knows that protecting her might not be possible.

Gage shifts again on the floor, his head tilted like he’s listening to music no one else can hear. Lucia’s hand brushes his, anchoring him without words.

Blight taps his fingers against the table. “So we wait for Snow to announce the Quell.”

“And when he does,” Beetee finishes, “we act fast.”

The room settles again. No shouting. No arguing. Just the weight of what’s coming pressing down on all of us.

Johanna leans back in her chair, arms folded across her chest. “Better hope your little Mockingjay’s got good wings,” she mutters. “Because we’re all betting our lives on her flying.”

Chapter Text

“If Haymitch or anyone catches us here,” I whisper low, glancing over my shoulder like we’re about to get busted for some Capitol crime, “pretend we came here for our undying patriotism instead of trying to gauge the personality and habits of two sixteen-year-olds.”

Johanna snorts, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement. “When you say it like that, it sounds like we should be on a list somewhere. Probably one with jail time and a restriction against being in the vicinity of children.”

The Capitol party around us is a dazzling, overwhelming beast—loud, bright, and utterly exhausting. Massive chandeliers hang from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, dripping fake crystals that catch the light and scatter it in a thousand glittering shards across the gilded walls and ornate marble floors. Every inch of the room is coated in gold or glitter or both, as if the whole place is trying desperately to blind you with luxury and excess.

Behind the cacophony of voices and clinking glasses, a giant screen looms over the crowd, endlessly replaying Katniss and Peeta’s victory reel. Their faces flicker silently on the loop—smiling, tense, hopeful, terrified—all at once. It’s a cruel reminder of exactly why everyone is here.

“God,” Johanna mutters, rolling her eyes as she shifts on her feet. “I forgot how pretentious these parties are. And these heels? They’re murder.”

“You didn’t have to wear them,” I tease, a smirk tugging at my lips.

She lets out a sharp chuff of laughter. “And what? Show up in jeans and a leather jacket? You’re not about to upstage me.” Her tone is half-joking, but the challenge is clear.

I shake my head, amused despite myself. “Trust me, no one’s here to see either of us anyway. They want the Girl on Fire and her loverboy.” My voice drops just enough to carry a hint of sarcasm, like I’m letting them in on a Capitol secret.

Johanna shoots me a sideways glance, smirking. “Yeah, but we’re also some of the—hate to break it to you—most popular faces in the Capitol. More you than me, obviously.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help the grin. “That’s exactly why we need to stay hidden and casual. Katniss and Peeta can’t know we’re here. This isn’t a reunion or a victory lap. It’s reconnaissance.”

Johanna snorts, then nods toward the crowd. “Yeah, well, it’s kind of hard to ignore a girl with a very pissed-off face and red streaks in her hair—and a boy rocking a deep-cut shirt like he’s auditioning for a Capitol fashion show.”

I glance down at my chest, the stark cut of my shirt feeling more like a target than style. “I’d rather be wearing anything else right now.”

She shrugs, a mischievous glint lighting her eyes. “Yeah, well, I also won just three years ago. You won nine years ago. In Capitol time, that’s practically yesterday.”

“Do you love being so negative?” I ask, my voice flat but teasing beneath the weight of the party’s hum.

Johanna shrugs, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Favorite pastime. Someone’s got to keep it real in this glitter circus.”

I take a slow breath, trying to steel myself against the noise and nerves. “Alright, here’s the plan. So listen—”

She cuts in, voice dripping with mockery, “You sound exactly like Beetee.”

I roll my eyes but keep going, refusing to be derailed. “We get somewhat close to Katniss and Peeta. Observe them—gauge how much of their so-called ‘relationship’ is real, how much is Capitol theater. They can’t see us. We have to blend in, act discreetly. No flash, no fireworks. Under the radar. Got it?”

Johanna snorts, her eyes flicking upward with a sharp edge. “Yeah, yeah, that’s great and all, but can we talk about the fact that President Snow is just standing there, staring down at them from his balcony like some sinister hawk? Not exactly inconspicuous, huh?”

I follow her gaze to the lofty balcony where Snow’s cold eyes are fixed on the young victors below. His presence is like a shadow stretching across the whole party—an unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air. The glitter and gold suddenly feel a little less glamorous, a little more suffocating.

Johanna leans in, voice low. “If anyone’s watching, it’s him. Every move, every smile, every breath.”

The party pulses around us, but in that moment, all I can feel is the weight of Snow’s gaze. And the heavy burden Katniss and Peeta are carrying—one I’ve been carrying myself for years.

“I know they’re just children,” Johanna begins, her voice dropping low amid the glitter and noise, “and it’s awful that my mind is even going there—but we both know Snow doesn’t care. Do you think he’s going to… you know?”

Her eyes flick toward the balcony where Snow looms like a dark shadow over the crowd, his gaze cold and calculating.

“Propose the contract?” I say quietly, my voice barely cutting through the hum of the party.

I don’t like them, but no kid deserves that kind of price on their head.

Johanna’s nod is slow, weighed down with the bitter knowledge of experience. “He proposed both our contracts during our respective Victory Tours.”

Her words hang heavy between us, a grim reminder that no amount of hope can shield them from what’s coming.

“I feel like, in other circumstances, maybe,” I say, my voice low as I watch Katniss and Peeta from across the room, “but their whole image is that they’re together. That they’re a couple. The Capitol wants us to believe it’s real, and for now, that’s enough to keep the cameras happy.”

Johanna shrugs, a bitter twist at the corner of her mouth. “Yeah, but knowing Snow, if they get popular enough—if the crowd eats it up—he won’t just keep them as separate prizes. He’ll sell them as a set. Two victors, packaged and controlled. It’s easier that way. More profitable.”

She leans closer, her voice barely a whisper against the swirl of music and laughter. “And once that contract’s signed, their lives aren’t theirs anymore. They belong to the Capitol. To Snow.”

Her words settle over me like a cold fog. It’s not just a game anymore—it’s a cage. And I can see the bars closing in on those two kids, no matter how bright their victory seems right now.

I nod slowly, the weight of Johanna’s words sinking in deeper than I want to admit. It’s not just about winning the Games anymore—it’s about what comes after. The deals, the control, the endless performance. The Capitol’s grip doesn’t loosen once the cameras stop rolling.

Katniss laughs softly with Peeta, a genuine moment of ease that makes my chest tighten. How long before that smile gets hollow? How long before they learn to wear the masks the Capitol demands?

“We have to be careful,” I say quietly. “Watch for any cracks. For moments when the act slips. That’s when you know something’s wrong.”

Johanna snorts, but there’s no humor in it. “You and me both, Odair. We’re watching out for them—but there’s only so much we can do.”

A flash of something like sympathy crosses her face before she hides it behind her usual sarcasm. “But if we’re lucky, maybe we’ll be ghosts at this party. Invisible enough that Snow doesn’t notice us watching.”

I glance toward the balcony again. Snow’s cold eyes sweep over the room like a hawk, taking in everything. I can feel the tension coil tighter in my chest.

“Let’s just hope he doesn’t notice us,” I mutter.

Johanna smirks. “Or if he does, he doesn’t decide to ‘welcome’ us with a new contract of his own.”

We exchange a look that says we both know that threat is very real.

The party carries on around us—glittering, loud, and utterly exhausting—but in this moment, it’s just the two of us, silently bracing for the storm to come.

We settle into a corner with a decent view of Katniss and Peeta, but far enough away that we don’t scream “look at us.” The crowd swirls around, a sea of shimmering gowns and tailored suits, the air thick with champagne bubbles and fake smiles.

Every time I catch Katniss laughing, or Peeta’s easy grin, my throat tightens. But that’s the danger right there—getting caught looking.

Johanna nudges me and nods toward Peeta. He’s scanning the room, eyes sharp and careful. I freeze mid-breath, heart pounding. She catches the shift and whispers, “Heads up.”

I snap my gaze to a nearby statue, pretending to be fascinated by its intricate carving. Johanna suddenly whistles a soft tune, eyes fixed on the ornate ceiling as if she’s discovered some new detail.

Peeta’s glance drifts toward us, and we hold perfectly still—actors in this charade.

When his eyes slide past us, I let out a slow breath and meet Johanna’s eyes. She smirks, clearly amused by our covert act.

We repeat the dance a few more times. Every subtle glance their way followed by a quick retreat into whatever distraction we can muster—nibbling on an hors d’oeuvre, pretending to argue about the terrible music, inspecting the tiny diamonds on a stranger’s cufflink.

It’s exhausting. Like being a cat, stalking something you can’t quite catch without breaking the spell.

But it’s worth it.

Because these moments—they’re fragile. Real. Fleeting glimpses of the people behind the Capitol’s perfect stage.

And we’ll take every one we can get.

We station ourselves near one of the towering crystal drink sculptures, acting like we belong here—which we don’t. I nurse a fizzy green cocktail that tastes like melted peppermint and misery, while Johanna nabs a canapé, sniffs it, and then hides it in a fake potted plant behind us.

“Alright,” she says, eyeing the ballroom floor like she’s planning a heist. “How many times do you think Peeta will kiss Katniss before the party ends?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You betting for sincere or Capitol-pandering?”

“Both count.”

I glance toward the stage, where the two of them are standing shoulder to shoulder, smiling stiffly as another district anthem plays. “Three. One before dessert, two during the toast. Maybe a bonus forehead kiss if Snow’s still watching.”

“Bold,” she says, smirking. “I’m going with two and a hand squeeze that gets televised five times.”

We fall quiet as the crowd shifts, and I spot someone moving toward us in a soft purple, dramatic dress with hair done up in soft blue curls. It takes me a second, but then I remember Haymitch mumbling something once—Effie.

“Oh no,” I mutter. “Escort alert.”

Johanna straightens and hisses, “Hide.”

Too late.

Effie’s already walking toward us with the kind of determined cheer that makes me want to duck under the drink table. Behind her—perfect timing—Katniss and Peeta begin making their way down the stairs, heading straight past our spot.

We panic.

Johanna grabs the nearest Capitol magazine from a table and snaps it open. Upside down. It’s in Capitol script, which she can’t read anyway. She squints like it contains the deepest secrets of the universe.

I spin around and pretend to be deeply fascinated by the ice sculpture of a chariot horse beside us, placing a hand on its flank like I’m appreciating the artistic integrity of its rear leg.

Johanna doesn’t blink as Peeta and Katniss pass us. I sneak a glance—Katniss looks exhausted, Peeta focused, both totally unaware of the two idiots just feet away pretending they’re respectively enthralled with an upside-down tabloid and the sculpted ass of a horse.

We wait a few beats, then slowly break character.

Johanna lowers the magazine. “Well, that was smooth.”

“I’ve never felt more dignified.”

She snorts. “What’d you think of the horse’s ass?”

“I’ve seen better,” I mutter, and we both try to muffle our laughter as another server walks by giving us a puzzled glance.

“Alright,” Johanna says, once she’s composed herself. “Double or nothing—how long do you think it’ll take before one of them says something real?”

I watch as Katniss and Peeta are swept up in a conversation with someone in a gold feather cape. “Maybe never.”

She nods, writing something done on a napkin. Where she got a pen? I have no clue. “Tragic.”

We settle in again, pretending to be guests with nothing better to do. But under the surface, we’re watching everything. Every kiss. Every look. Every carefully placed smile.

Because we know the game.

And we know exactly what it costs.

“What are you two idiots doing here?”

Shit.

I know that voice.

I freeze mid-sip, then turn around slowly—like maybe if I move carefully enough, he’ll vanish into the glittering background of Capitol excess.

Nope. Still there. Haymitch, arms crossed, mouth set in a thin line, looking about as thrilled to see us as a Career tribute facing a beehive mutt.

“Oh, uh—hey, Haymitch!” I flash a dazzling smile that’s worked on half the Capitol’s richest citizens. “We’re just being…”

“Very patriotic,” Johanna cuts in smoothly, like she’s been rehearsing it.

I nod with exaggerated solemnity. “Exactly. Couldn’t miss out on this… once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to…”

“Breathe the air of Panem’s latest sensation,” Johanna finishes again.

Haymitch doesn’t blink. “You’re about as subtle as a cannon shot.”

Johanna tilts her head, smirking. “Thanks. We try.”

He looks between us, then sighs so deeply I’m genuinely concerned he might collapse from sheer frustration. “Let me guess. You’re here to observe my kids.”

“That’s such a cold word,” I say lightly, brushing imaginary lint off my sleeve. “We’re here to… admire. Silently. From a respectful distance.”

He rakes a hand through his hair like he’s trying to physically pull the headache out. “You’re both out of your minds.”

“We’re just doing our part,” Johanna says sweetly, clasping her hands behind her back like she’s a model citizen and not literally holding a napkin with Peeta and Katniss’s kiss tally scribbled on it.

“Uh huh.” Haymitch looks her up and down, unimpressed. “I don’t know if you remember—I certainly do—but didn’t you both spend an entire meeting ranting about how much you don’t like them?”

I wince.

Oh. Right.

We did do that.

Some back-handed comments may have come out of Johanna’s mouth. I think I might had said something or two. Who knows?

“What?” I say, putting a hand to my chest in mock offense. “Pfft. We’d never.”

“Never,” Johanna echoes, her tone flat as the floor beneath our feet.

Haymitch raises both eyebrows.

Johanna shrugs. “Whatever I might’ve or might’ve not said doesn’t mean I want them dead. There’s nuance.”

“Nuance,” Haymitch repeats, like he’s tasting a word he’s never heard in this context before. “That’s what you’re calling this now.”

“Observation with compassion,” I clarify. “Totally different. See, we’ve matured since that meeting.”

Haymitch blinks. “It was a month ago.”

“Lot can happen in one month,” Johanna says airily.

“You’re not helping,” I mutter.

Haymitch shakes his head again, eyes flicking toward the far end of the ballroom, where Peeta’s hand is hovering—awkward and hesitant—near Katniss’s waist. They’re surrounded by Capitol citizens in gowns shaped like birds and tuxedos that glitter like wet paint, all of them smiling too wide, drinking too much, and treating the victors like prized pets on display. Katniss looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“If you so much as breathe wrong near them, and it comes back on them—” Haymitch begins, voice low and lined with warning.

Johanna tilts her head, arms crossed. “Why do you care so much?”

Her tone isn’t mocking. Not quite. But it’s sharp. Like she’s trying to peel something back and see what’s underneath. There’s a flicker of something in her eyes—curiosity, maybe, or disbelief that he’d bother protecting anyone but himself.

I shift beside her and discreetly swat her arm. “Johanna.”

She shrugs but doesn’t look away. “I’m serious. I get it—they’re your first victors, and you don’t want them to get swallowed up by the machine. But there’s something else, isn’t there?”

Haymitch doesn’t answer right away.

He just stares across the room, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. His gaze lingers on Katniss—too long for it to be casual—and then flicks to Peeta, who’s smiling politely at a Capitol woman in a chandelier hat.

For a moment, the usual snark drains right out of him.

And he just looks tired. Worn down. Haunted.

He sighs, low and quiet. “There’s… background.”

That’s all he says.

No further explanation. No smart remark to follow. Just that one word, dropped like a weight between us.

Johanna tilts her head. “Background?”

He doesn’t look at us. Doesn’t clarify.

And that silence—his silence—says more than anything else he could've explained. Whatever he means by background, it’s enough to make him care. Enough to make him watch Katniss like that. Enough to make him worried in a way I’ve never quite seen from him.

Johanna glances at me, then shrugs, folding her arms. “Well. That’s cryptic.”

Haymitch doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t blink.

Just keeps staring out across the ballroom like he can will himself out of it. Like if he stares hard enough, maybe he can undo whatever fate’s already been stitched into the seams of Katniss Everdeen’s dress.

The silence hangs thick between us—strange, heavy, full of things that don’t want to be said.

But somehow, I don’t need him to say it.

I’ve seen that look before. In mirrors. In Mags. In the mentors who stopped talking altogether. I know what grief looks like when it’s wearing armor. And that’s what this is—something personal. Something buried so deep even Haymitch, drunk half the time and apathetic the rest, can’t keep it from showing.

He finally speaks, voice low and rough like gravel. “All I’m saying is they’re different from other tributes. And it wasn’t because they won.”

His gaze finds Katniss again. This time softer. Sadder.

I swallow.

There’s a note in his voice—something between guilt and reverence. A flicker of something that almost feels like love, or the ghost of it. Not romantic. Not even mentor-to-tribute. Something older. Deeper. Like maybe he’s trying to protect a promise no one else even knows exists.

I look at Johanna. Even she’s quiet now, her eyes narrowing a little in thought.

“What kind of different?” I ask, though I already know I won’t get the full story.

Haymitch just mutters, “The kind that makes things harder. More personal.”

We stay silent.

The glittering murmur of Capitolites fills the ballroom like static—laughter too loud, too fake, voices overlapping in a dizzying swirl of perfume and champagne. Someone giggles shrilly near the fountain, and a man in a feathered suit barks out something that sounds like a joke but might as well be a threat. The chandeliers clink with every breath of movement, like the whole room’s held together by glass and good manners.

Johanna shifts beside me, arms still folded, her mouth pulled into that half-frown she wears when she’s pretending she doesn’t care.

Haymitch sighs.

Not a casual exhale—no, this one sinks. Heavy. Like it’s been living in his ribs for a decade and finally clawed its way out.

“Just…” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face, “don’t break anything, okay? Don’t cause a scene. I’m not in the mood to deal with the messes you two bastards create.”

I grin before I can help it. “Mess? Us?”

“Offense,” Johanna says flatly, “I cause artistic disruption.”

“I’m serious,” Haymitch grumbles, eyes flicking again to the other end of the ballroom where Katniss and Peeta are still doing their rounds. “You so much as breathe wrong near them and it comes back on them. Not you.”

The reminder lands like a stone in my stomach.

Because he’s not wrong.

Johanna may joke. I might play dumb. But we both know how tight the leash is when the Capitol decides to care. One whisper, one sideways glance—and suddenly Katniss and Peeta aren’t star-crossed lovers. They’re problems. Replaceable ones.

I sober, just a little. “We’ll behave.”

Johanna lifts a brow. “Relatively.”

Haymitch grunts, unconvinced, and turns to melt back into the crowd—like always, pretending he doesn’t care half as much as he does.

We watch him go.

“Well, that’s not foreboding at all,” Johanna says when Haymitch is far enough.

I nod, my smile flickering. “He’s only ever that sentimental when he thinks something bad’s about to happen.”

Johanna snorts. “Great. Nothing like a little doom with your overpriced appetizers.”

She grabs a flute of something bubbly off a passing tray and downs it without a second thought. I don’t touch mine. My stomach’s already twisted too tight for anything sweet.

Across the room, Katniss and Peeta have made it to another cluster of Capitol elite, bowing their heads politely, Peeta’s hand hovering protectively near the small of her back. Katniss looks stiff. Controlled. Every movement like it’s been rehearsed. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“They’re holding up,” I say quietly.

Johanna follows my gaze. “Yeah, but for how long?”

A pause. Then: “Wanna make a bet on how many times Peeta tries to hold her hand tonight?”

I glance at her, eyebrows raised. “What’s the wager?”

She smirks. “Loser has to compliment Brutus next time we see him.”

I groan. “You’re evil.”

“And you love it.”

We pretend to scan the statues behind us. I examine a hideous marble rendering of what I think is a dolphin wrestling a seagull, and Johanna flips through a folded Capitol pamphlet as if it holds state secrets.

Katniss turns toward our side of the room, and we both jerk back to our “casual” poses—Johanna holding her program upside down, and me pretending I’ve just noticed something fascinating in the molding on the ceiling.

She snickers under her breath. “Subtle.”

“Says the girl reading about elevator maintenance.”

“Page-turner,” she whispers.

When Katniss’s gaze passes without lingering, I exhale.

We’re in the clear—for now.

“We are so bad at this,” Johanna murmurs.

“If it isn’t my two favorite rebels.”

Johanna and I freeze—hearts halfway lodged in our throats. Did we step out of line? Ruin the whole secrecy into the growing rebellion? Slowly, we turn, already bracing for a Peacekeeper or, worse, Snow himself.

But it’s Plutarch.

He stands there, half-shadowed by the edge of a golden pillar, one hand wrapped around a flute of something that’s probably older than we are. He’s smiling, of course—he always is. But behind it is the same calculating glint I’ve seen before on the faces of stylists selecting weapons disguised as jewelry.

“Easy,” he adds, chuckling softly. “It’s just… curious. Seeing you two here, of all places. Observing.”

His eyes flick subtly toward Katniss and Peeta, who are still busy being paraded around the ballroom like prized puppies. The music swells and the lights spin in warm circles across the marble floor, but for a moment it feels like the air’s thinned out. Like he’s testing us.

Johanna is the first to break the silence, slipping her smirk back into place like armor. “What, you thought we’d be home baking pies and knitting socks?”

“I imagined you’d be buried under piles of paperwork,” she continues, waving vaguely at him. “Or counting pebbles. Or whatever it is a Gamemaker-turned-Rebel does when they’re not actively planning to ruin the Capitol’s life.”

Plutarch only laughs. “Believe it or not, my hobbies are far more refined. Though I admit… this party is not my ideal evening either. Too much perfume. Not enough substance.”

He sips his drink, watching us over the rim of the glass. “Didn’t think you two were particularly fond of our sweethearts from Twelve.”

“Pfft,” I scoff, trying to play it off. “I think there was a… slight misinterpretation of our thoughts and feelings toward them.”

“Minor,” Johanna says, nodding solemnly. “Teeny, tiny misunderstanding.”

Plutarch’s smile doesn’t waver, but something about his posture shifts—he’s leaning just slightly closer now, voice lowering beneath the thrum of the music and chatter. “Hmm. That’s funny. Because the last meeting I orchestrated, you both made your distaste very clear.”

“Publicly clear,” Johanna chimes in unhelpfully. “Quite loudly, actually.”

He hums, turning the glass slowly in his hand, and then—without looking—says, “And yet here you are. Studying. Calculating. Like good little mentors who care about something more than their drink tickets.”

I shift my weight, suddenly aware of how close he is. “Just keeping an eye on the next generation,” I say casually. “Make sure they don’t embarrass us.”

He finally meets my eyes—really meets them—and for a second, all the warmth drains out of his expression. “Just be careful, Finnick,” he says softly. “You and I both know how expensive attention can be.”

The words land with more precision than any knife I’ve ever thrown.

My stomach knots, sharp and instinctive. He doesn’t have to say what he means—I already know. He’s talking about secrets. About deals made in quiet rooms and debts paid in flesh. About how quickly the Capitol decides you’re too valuable to have your own will.

And maybe—maybe—he’s warning me.

“Okay, ew,” Johanna says, making a face. “You were a little too comfortable with that one.”

Plutarch smiles wider, clearly amused, and folds his hands behind his back like a man with all the time in the world. “Well, marketability is relative, my dear. Some of us value honesty.”

“Then you must be in the wrong line of work,” Johanna shoots back, arching a brow.

I choke on a laugh, pressing my knuckles lightly to my mouth.

Plutarch doesn’t miss a beat. “Touché,” he smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners, “but really—I'm glad you're both here. I know this kind of thing isn’t exactly your scene.”

“You know us so well,” Johanna deadpans, swirling the last of her drink with a dramatic flourish.

Plutarch chuckles. “I’d like to think I do.”

His voice softens slightly, something earnest slipping beneath the Capitol polish. “You two… are different.”

Johanna and I glance at each other. Warily. “Uh… we hope so,” I mutter, brow raised.

Plutarch laughs again, but not mockingly. “I mean it. You’re two of the most interesting victors I’ve met.”

Johanna snorts. “That’s not a high bar. You’ve probably met Gloss.”

“And Cashmere,” I add.

“And Brutus,” she finishes with a shudder.

“Don’t forget Enobaria.”

Plutarch waves a hand, grinning. “Alright, alright, point made. But I’m not talking about theatrics or Capitol charisma. I mean you two are… real. Unfiltered. Most victors are amicable. Civil. Masterful at small talk and those little smiles when they cross paths in the hall or at an event. But you two? You’re… friends.”

The word lands heavier than I expect.

Friends.

Not allies. Not coworkers. Not co-survivors.

Johanna goes quiet beside me, and I glance at her again. She meets my eyes with something almost startled flickering across her face—quick, unspoken, then gone. Like the word friends had reached somewhere she didn’t expect. Somewhere tender she thought she’d buried a long time ago.

“Well—” I start, trying to cut the moment before it can grow too soft.

“No, really,” Plutarch interrupts gently, like he doesn’t want to let it go. “You two are always around each other. And it’s good. That’s rare with that kind of life you two have.”

There’s a beat of silence. The weight of that truth lands quietly, but solidly. It’s not the kind of thing you really say aloud in our world. That you care. That someone matters. But Plutarch says it anyway, and for a moment, the noise of the Capitol falls away.

“I guess you’re right,” I murmur, almost to myself. I turn toward Johanna, teasing ready on my tongue—but she just rolls her eyes at me.

“Don’t get all mushy on me, Odair,” she mutters, but her voice lacks bite.

And then I see it—just for a second—the corner of her mouth twitching up. A small smile. The real kind, not the stage kind. The kind you don’t give to just anyone.

I don’t say anything. I just smile back. Because we’ve never been the type to admit things out loud. Not in words. But we’re still here. Still standing. Still side by side.

And in a world built to isolate us, to hollow us out and pit us against each other, that’s not nothing.

Plutarch glances over his shoulder, and something shifts in his posture—subtle, but immediate. His smile doesn’t drop, but his tone changes. Intentional now. Focused.

“Excuse me,” he says lightly, adjusting the edge of his jacket. “I just spotted the Girl on Fire, and there’s a dance coming up soon. I need to catch her before the President starts his speech.”

Johanna raises a brow. “You’re going to try to talk sense into her before or after she stabs someone with a shrimp fork?”

Plutarch chuckles. “Hopefully before.”

He gives us one last look—something in it a little weightier than before, a flicker of warning or hope or both—and then slips into the crowd with practiced ease. He disappears between gowns and sequins and Capitol laughter, already re-assuming the role of friendly, harmless Gamemaker.

But I know better.

So does Johanna.

We watch him go for a beat, silent again.

Then she mutters, “Well. That’s not ominous at all.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “Nope. Totally normal. Just your average Capitol party where the head Gamemaker has to intercept a teenage girl before the tyrant-in-chief makes a speech.”

Johanna leans her weight onto one hip, scanning the crowd like she’s already anticipating something to explode. “And yet, somehow, we’re the ones who look suspicious.”

I follow her gaze toward Katniss. She’s standing stiffly near the refreshment table, jaw tight, arms locked at her sides. Peeta’s beside her, talking politely to someone dressed like a chandelier, but his eyes flick to her every few seconds like he’s keeping watch. Protective. Nervous.

Katniss, on the other hand, looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. Or set the place on fire.

“She’s going to lose it,” Johanna mutters, crossing her arms. “You can practically see the smoke coming out of her ears.”

“She always looks like that,” I say. “But she hasn’t lost it yet.”

“Yet,” Johanna echoes. “The night’s young.”

We go quiet again as the music swells and the lights dim slightly. Across the ballroom, the crowd begins to shift, a subtle rotation toward the center of the floor where space is clearing. The first notes of a formal waltz begin to play—soft, artificial strings echoing under the sound of champagne flutes and fluttering applause.

As the waltz swells louder and more people flood the dance floor in glitter and feathers and fake smiles, Johanna and I remain frozen at the edge like two cats thrown into a swimming pool.

Around us, victors and Capitolites alike pair off, spinning in elegant little circles under golden chandeliers. The lights shift to a romantic hue—soft pinks and golds and the warm, nauseating glow of Capitol opulence. It’s like watching the opening scene of a nightmare.

“If we want to stay close enough to watch them without looking like stalkers, we might have to—”

“Don’t say it,” she growls.

“—dance.”

She stares at me like I just suggested a public execution. “I would rather let Snow walk me around on a leash than dance with you.”

“That’s a little dramatic.”

Johanna throws her hands up. “Is it? You smell like sea salt and desperation, and I’m wearing heels that were probably made out of someone’s taxidermied cat. This night cannot get worse.”

I smirk, already stepping back and offering my hand like some ridiculous Capitol prince. “Come on. Think of it as infiltration.”

“You mean humiliation.”

“Same thing.”

She glares at me, her hand hovering in the air like it’s physically painful to make contact with mine. Then, with a groan loud enough to turn heads, she slaps her palm into mine. “If I step on your foot, it’s on purpose.”

“Duly noted.”

We step into the flow of the dance—clumsily at first, bumping elbows with someone in peacock feathers, nearly colliding with a man whose entire suit appears to be made of holographic fish scales.

“We are so bad at this,” I mutter under my breath.

“Oh please,” Johanna scoffs. “I’m incredible at this. You’re just throwing off my rhythm.”

“Right, because you look like you were born to waltz.”

“You look like you were born to drown.”

I laugh, nearly stepping on her toes. She jerks away and hisses, “Watch it, fins-for-brains.”

Still, we manage to keep moving—slowly circling the floor like half-bored predators, our eyes constantly flicking past each other’s shoulders, scanning for Katniss and Peeta.

I spot them a few paces away. Peeta is dancing with practiced grace, his hand respectfully at Katniss’s waist, his other holding hers loosely. He says something with a smile that’s too polished, too polite. Katniss doesn’t smile back. Her jaw is locked. She moves like someone forced to dance on a grave.

“She looks like she’s going to punch someone,” Johanna mutters.

“She looks like you.”

“I’m flattered.”

A pause.

“Wait, did you just compare me to her?”

“I mean—“

She stops spinning, gaze pinned on me. “You just compared me to Katniss Everdeen.”

“Think of it as a compliment,” I say, lifting a brow. “You’re both tempered in fire and deadly when riled.”

Johanna snorts, unimpressed, but her fingers find mine again. “Don’t be surprised when I step on your toes.”

“You’re making this enjoyable,” I say, deadpan, as we spin.

“Can’t say I’m enjoying having to dance with you. Especially while in a dress.”

“I’d rather be dancing with Annie.”

“Of course you would,” she says, voice dry. “Little Miss Ocean Eyes.”

I snort. “Don’t call her that.”

“Why not?” she says, tilting her head with a mock-innocent grin. “It’s either that or ‘your one true love.’”

“Again,” I reply, “not making this enjoyable.”

Johanna just shrugs, unapologetic as always. “You should take her out on a date.”

I miss a step.

Just half a beat, but it’s enough that Johanna gives me an unimpressed look as I stumble back into rhythm. “Excuse me?”

She raises an eyebrow, mouth tilted in a smug little smirk, like she knew exactly how much that would throw me. “You heard me.”

I stare at her. “Since when are you a romantic?”

“I’m not,” she says flatly. “But I’m also not blind.”

There’s something sharp and knowing in her gaze, the way her eyes narrow just slightly as we turn again beneath the hanging crystals. “You talk about her like she’s the only good thing in the world,” Johanna continues. “You get that stupid look on your face anytime someone mentions her name.”

“I do not get a look—”

“You get the look,” she interrupts. “Like the look of a guy who’s already halfway wrecked over a girl and just waiting for the rest of him to catch up.”

I open my mouth. Then shut it. Then open it again.

Nothing intelligent comes out.

Johanna sighs, adjusting her grip on my shoulder. “Look, I’m not saying rent a ballroom and throw rose petals at her feet. But maybe, I don’t know… do something real. With her. Just for you. Not for the Capitol. Not for the cameras. Just her.”

Her voice is quiet now. Not teasing, not sarcastic. Just… real.

“You don’t get a lot of those moments, Finnick,” she says. “You should take one when it shows up.”

I swallow hard, throat tighter than I expect.

The music swells again, carrying us forward through the crowd. But everything’s a little slower now. A little softer.

“I’ll think about it,” I say eventually.

Johanna rolls her eyes. “Please. You already are.”

I huff a breath through my nose—part laugh, part surrender—because she’s not wrong. I am already thinking about it. About Annie’s bare feet on the sand, how she dances without music when she thinks no one’s watching. The way her laugh curls around my ribs like sunlight. I’d give anything to dance with her under a sky that isn’t artificial. With no cameras. No Capitol. Just her.

“I think we need to talk about the bear in the room,” Johanna begins.

I blink at her, caught off guard. “What bear?”

Johanna and her District Seven idioms never cease to amaze me.

“The wedding.”

I frown.

Right.

That ridiculous wedding. The Capitol’s fairy tale—complete with glittering rings, fake smiles, and vows designed by Snow himself. A performance for cameras, for control.

“Don’t even remind me,” I mutter, the words tasting bitter.

Johanna raises her brows, watching me like she’s waiting for the crack in my voice. She doesn’t get it—no one does. That whole farce of Peeta and Katniss being star-crossed lovers… it’s survival, sure. But the price of it?

Is being able to love Annie openly just too much to ask for?

Every time their names are strung together like a storybook romance, the Capitol laps it up. And I sit here in the shadows with my silence, Annie’s face shoved into the dark because my truth isn’t marketable.

I rake a hand down my face, ignoring the ache in my shoulder. “That wedding is the biggest joke I’ve ever seen.”

Johanna smirks faintly, but there’s no humor in her eyes. “Yeah, well, jokes are what keep people alive around here.”

I look at her.

“Don’t look at me like that. You think I don’t see what’s eating you alive? Every time they roll out another ‘star-crossed lovers’ headline, you look like you want to smash your head into the wall.”

I scowl. “Maybe I do.”

“Figures.” She tilts her head, studying me. “But you’re missing the point. That little circus act? It’s not about them. It’s about Snow reminding everyone he owns the stage—and us along with it.”

Her words land heavier than I want to admit. Because she’s right. Katniss and Peeta are pawns, just like the rest of us. And if the Capitol can spin their tragedy into entertainment, then what chance do Annie and I have of ever being real in their eyes?

“Doesn’t make it sting any less,” I mutter.

“No,” Johanna agrees. “But if you keep glaring at every broadcast, you’re going to give yourself wrinkles. And I can’t have you uglier than you already are. It’d ruin my reputation by association.”

I huff out something that’s almost a laugh, but not quite.

Her smirk fades after a moment, her eyes flicking toward me, sharper now. “For what it’s worth… she knows, Finnick. Annie knows. She doesn’t need the Capitol’s blessing to love you.”

I freeze, caught between wanting to believe her and the gnawing ache in my chest that says otherwise.

A hollow ache gnaws through my chest. For her. For me. For all of us tangled in this circus of silk and lies.

And for Annie—always Annie—dancing barefoot somewhere I can’t reach.

A little while later—and begrudging dancing—the music shifts again, the last notes fading out like a breath held too long. The chatter dims, replaced by the soft rustle of anticipation.

Then the lights dim even further, spotlighting the grand balcony above the ballroom.

And there he is.

Snow steps out, the room immediately tightening, the air thickening. His pale face is as unreadable as ever, but the cold gleam in his eyes doesn’t escape anyone. Dressed immaculately in white and red, the rose pinned to his lapel looks almost out of place in the glittering chaos below.

The murmurs hush to silence as Snow raises a hand, commanding the room with nothing more than his presence.

“My fellow citizens of Panem,” his voice cuts through the quiet, smooth and precise. “Tonight, we gather to celebrate our victors—symbols of courage, strength, and unity.”

His gaze flickers to the massive screen behind him, now showing highlights from Katniss and Peeta’s Games—their training, their moments of defiance, their forced smiles.

“Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark have captured our hearts and reminded us of the glory the Hunger Games bring to our nation. Their bravery stands as a beacon of hope, a testament to the spirit of Panem.”

The room erupts in polite applause, some louder than others, but beneath the surface is an undercurrent of unease. We all know what this celebration really means.

Snow’s lips curl into a faint smile as he surveys the crowd, eyes settling briefly on the pair standing closest to me and Johanna—Katniss and Peeta.

“As we honor their victory, we must also remember the sacrifices made, the strength it took to survive, and the price of peace. May we continue to embrace the Games as a reminder of our unity and our resolve.”

The applause echoes around us, but my eyes stay locked on Snow’s face. For a brief moment, his expression shifts—his head tilts slightly, and I catch a flicker of movement in his hand. A subtle shake of his head, almost like a warning or a reprimand.

My breath catches.

Did he see us? Is he already marking us as the rebels we are?

Johanna stiffens beside me, her usual sarcasm gone, replaced by something tighter, sharper.

But then I realize—his gaze isn’t on us. It’s fixed on Katniss.

His eyes linger on her, sharp and calculating. The smallest crease appears between his brows, a quick, almost imperceptible shake of his head, as if disappointed—or displeased.

Snow lifts a delicate cup to his lips, the movement smooth and deliberate. My eyes narrow as I watch.

The liquid inside glows a deep, unnatural red as it touches his mouth.

Antidotes don’t always work.

Chapter Text

I finish up the plates left over from the afternoon, wiping them clean and setting them to dry on the rack. Mags had already turned in for the night, worn out after spending the entire day juggling both Annie and me. Honestly, after the way things went earlier, it felt like the least I could do. She has held it together while we frayed at the edges—she deserves the quiet.

The house is dim, the only light a soft orange glow from the low-hung lantern above the sink. Outside, the ocean murmurs against the shore, a lullaby I’ve known all my life. I dry my hands on a dishcloth, then make my way back to my room.

The door creaks slightly as I ease it open, and there she is.

Annie’s curled up on my bed—her bed now too, really—with her arms tucked under her cheek. She’s not asleep, though. Her eyes are open, watching the wall, distant in that way she gets when something’s pressing on her mind but she hasn’t found the words for it yet.

I walk over to her, quietly, so I don’t startle her, and stand beside the bed. I run my fingers gently along her arm, just a soft sweep from elbow to wrist.

“You okay, Ann?”

She shifts a little, blinking slowly before giving me a tiny nod. “Yeah…” she murmurs, her voice quiet, almost childlike. “I just need to wash my hair but I don’t want to.”

I lean over more, trying to catch her full expression. The light from the hallway spills faintly across her face, outlining her cheekbones, the small crease between her brows.

“Are you feeling okay?” I ask.

Another nod. “I’m just tired.”

I hesitate only for a moment before offering, “I can help wash your hair.”

Her eyes find mine—soft green meeting my favorite kind of green—and she tilts her head slightly, like she’s not sure she heard me right. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” I say, voice gentle, but steady.

She hesitates. Then, slowly, she gives me a small nod, more with her eyes than her head. Trust, silent and fragile.

I move carefully, one hand sliding beneath her knees, the other supporting her back, lifting her as easily as I would a drifting piece of driftwood in the tide. She loops her arms loosely around my neck, not out of need, but maybe just to feel grounded.

I carry her into the bathroom, the door already cracked from earlier. The tiles are cool under my feet as I set her down on the edge of the tub. She stays quiet, her eyes tracking my movements as I twist the tap and let the warm water run. I tug the stopper into place so it can begin to fill.

Steam curls slowly upward, softening the room around us.

When I’m done, I kneel beside her again, crossing my arms gently over her legs and resting against them. I lean into her, letting the silence fill the space between us—not heavy, not uncomfortable. Just quiet. Just ours.

I look up at her, her silhouette softened by the warm steam curling through the room. “Do you want to take anything off before you go into the tub?” I ask, my voice quiet, careful—carried by the kind of gentleness that only really ever appears when I’m with her.

She hesitates. Just for a second. Her gaze flicks down to her clothes, then back up to me, uncertain. Vulnerable. But she shakes her head. “I’m okay,” she murmurs, hugging her arms lightly around her middle.

I nod, not pushing. “I could give you my shirt if you want,” I offer, tugging at the hem a little, like that might sway her.

She shakes her head again. “It’s okay, Finn,” she repeats, her voice barely louder than a breath.

I let go of my shirt and give her a small nod, my eyes soft on hers. “Alright.”

A few quiet seconds slip by—just the sound of the water filling the tub and the faint hum of the world outside these four walls. Then she speaks again, almost shyly. “Can I have it after?”

I smile, something warm blooming in my chest. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

That earns the smallest laugh from her, the sound threading through the air like a note from a forgotten lullaby.

When the tub reaches a comfortable level, I lean forward and twist the handles off, the soft roar of the water quieting into silence. I glance back at Annie, giving her a gentle look. Then I hook one arm under her knees and the other behind her back and lift her again, careful as ever.

Her fingers curl loosely into my shirt as I lower her into the water. The surface ripples around her, rising gently to meet her frame as I settle her down on the slope of the tub.

“Is that okay?” I ask, crouching beside her, my hands still under the water for a second longer, like I’m afraid letting go too soon might be the wrong thing.

Annie nods, the tension in her shoulders melting just a bit as the warm water surrounds her. “More than okay,” she says quietly.

I smile and brush a few strands of hair from her cheek, then roll up my sleeves. “Then let’s get to work, why don’t we?”

I reach for her shampoo—the one that somehow ended up here permanently. It smells like the ocean, soft and sweet, like something made just for her. I squeeze out a quarter-sized dollop into my palm and rub my hands together. With my free hand, I cup some of the bathwater and gently pour it over her hair, watching it slick down across her shoulders like seaweed in the surf.

Annie closes her eyes and tilts her head forward, trusting, relaxed.

I bring my hands to her scalp and begin to massage the shampoo into her hair, my fingertips moving in slow circles, careful not to tug. Her hair is damp and tangled, soft and long and familiar. I take my time, working through each strand with the kind of patience I rarely show anywhere else in my life.

The room smells like salt and shampoo and home. Her breathing slows as I keep working through her hair, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades completely away. There’s just her. Just this. The water. Her voice. Her presence.

She hums quietly—barely a sound, more like the echo of a lullaby she hasn’t sung in years—and leans into my touch like a sleepy tide against the shore. I smile, my thumbs sweeping behind her ears, gathering the last of the suds near her hairline.

“You’re good at this,” she murmurs, her voice thick with comfort, as if the warmth of the water and my hands have melted something inside her. “You ever think about quitting your career to become a spa worker?”

I huff a laugh, brushing her damp hair back from her face. “Only if you promise to be my only client.”

Her lips twitch. “What a bargain.”

I hesitate for just a second longer, my hand hovering in the air, water dripping from my fingertips. The soap still clings to her hair in thin, pearlescent strands, and I know cupping water over it will take forever. But the thought of tipping her back, of submerging even a part of her, sends a flicker of worry through my chest.

She trusts me. I know that. But she’s also been through things that live in her skin like ghosts—quiet, unseen, and easily stirred.

Still, I have to try.

“Annie,” I say gently, my voice soft but steady as I reach for her shoulders, “I have to put your hair underwater to rinse it, okay?”

Her body tenses under my hands. Not all at once—just a subtle pull of her muscles, a tightness in her posture that tells me she’s afraid. She doesn't say anything, but her breath hitches slightly.

I squeeze her shoulder, grounding her, trying to keep her with me. “I’ll hold you the whole time. I won’t let go. I’ll be right here.”

She looks at me for a moment, searching my face. I don’t move. I let her take her time.

Then—finally—she gives a small nod.

“Okay,” she whispers.

Carefully, I slide one arm behind her back, supporting her weight. The other cradles the back of her neck as I slowly tip her backward, mindful of every inch. Her hair floats out like strands of kelp, fanning through the water.

I make sure her face stays above the surface, keeping her head tilted so only her hair is submerged. Her eyes are open—watching me, trusting me—and I meet them with every pass of my hand through her hair, rinsing out the lather with slow, deliberate strokes.

I’m gentle. So gentle. Like I’m trying not to break the sea glass that’s been softened but never truly mended.

When I’ve run my hand through enough times to be sure the soap’s gone, I carefully ease her upright again, my hands never leaving her.

I search her face. “How was that?” I ask, keeping my voice low, warm.

She doesn’t answer right away. For a moment I think maybe it was too much, but then she nods, just once.

“Good,” she says, quietly but clearly.

Relief washes through me. I smile and press a soft kiss to the top of her damp hair, letting my lips linger for a second.

“That’s good,” I murmur.

I reach for the shampoo again, this time more confidently. I squeeze another quarter-sized dollop into my hand and gently work it through the lower half of her hair, careful to avoid tangling it. My fingers slide through the strands like water between rocks—steady, rhythmic, safe.

She closes her eyes again, her shoulders slowly sinking back into ease.

Outside the bathroom, the world spins as fast and brutal as always. But in here—in this moment—it’s just us.

Just the rhythm of my hands, the sound of the water, and the fragile kind of quiet that feels like something we’ve both been chasing forever.

Annie shifts slightly, angling herself toward me, the water rippling gently around her like the tide responding to her movement. I pause, hands frozen in her hair, waiting to see what she needs—but she just nestles closer, her knees brushing against the side of the tub as she settles in again. Once she’s still, I pick up where I left off, letting my fingers disappear back into the sea of her hair.

There’s something almost sacred about this—about caring for her in the simplest of ways. The pads of my fingers glide along her scalp, parting through the tangles like I’m weaving through the current itself, slow and deliberate. Her hair clings wetly to her back and shoulders, long and shining, and the shampoo lathers into soft bubbles that shimmer faintly in the light.

I’m so focused—so wrapped up in the act of tending to her—that I don’t even notice her leaning in. Not until she’s suddenly there, her face close, and she presses a quick, feather-light kiss to my lips before pulling back just as fast.

It startles me, in the best way. I blink, then grin as warmth floods my chest.

“Well,” I say, teasing, “what a generous tip for my services.”

Annie smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling in that way they do when she means it. “Love you,” she murmurs, the words slipping out like a secret she’s not afraid to say anymore.

My grin softens into something gentler, something deeper. I lean in, brushing a kiss against her lips—tender and brief, but filled with everything I mean.

“Love you too,” I whisper.

And then I’m back to her hair, my fingers combing through it with more care than before, like her love gave my hands new purpose. The lather slips through my fingers and down her back, and she relaxes fully into the water, her arms resting over the edge of the tub.

I don’t rush. I don’t want to. This is the part of the day that feels real—our own quiet little tidepool in a world that's constantly churning. Her eyes flutter shut again, and I let myself watch her for a second longer, memorizing the peace on her face.

If I could bottle up this moment and keep it forever, I would.

Her eyes stay closed as I continue lathering the shampoo through her hair, my fingers gentle and slow, moving as though I’ve got all the time in the world. And maybe I do. For her, I always will.

She leans toward me again—not much, just a subtle tilt at first—and then presses a soft kiss to the edge of my jaw. It’s light, playful. Barely even a kiss. But it makes me smile.

“You’re very affectionate tonight,” I murmur, running my fingers along her scalp in slow, careful circles.

Annie just hums, not bothering to answer in words. Instead, she kisses me again—this time on the corner of my mouth. I pause, my hand stilled in her hair for a second as I turn to smile at her.

“You know this is supposed to be your relaxing moment, right?”

“I am relaxing,” she says innocently, but I can see the mischievous glint in her eyes now. She leans forward again and pecks the tip of my nose.

I laugh softly. “You’re going to distract me, Cresta,” I say, voice light, teasing.

“That’s the idea,” she whispers, and presses another kiss to my lips—just a soft graze this time, like she doesn’t want to interrupt the peace we’ve settled into.

I kiss her back, smiling against her mouth. “You’re lucky I like you.”

She giggles then—quiet and breathy and so perfectly her. Her eyes open just slightly, catching mine with a warmth that makes my chest ache in the best way. “I do too” she murmurs, and kisses my cheek again.

As I work the soap through her hair, she peppers my neck with soft kisses, giggling between them like she can’t help herself. Every time she presses a kiss somewhere new, I return one of my own—on her forehead, her wet temple, the tip of her nose.

“You’re making it hard to focus,” I whisper against her damp skin.

“Good,” she says softly, her smile curling as she leans in for one last kiss.

And I let her.

I run my fingers gently through the strands of her hair, feeling for the places where the shampoo still lingers. There’s a little more left—clinging stubbornly near the back. I’ll need to dip her back again to get it all.

I brush some wet strands away from her forehead and lean in a little. “Ann, I’ve got to dip you back again. Just for a second, okay?”

She doesn’t answer right away. I see the flicker of hesitation cross her face, the way her body goes still, just slightly—not afraid exactly, but unsure. The kind of pause that only someone who’s lived through too much would have. I know that feeling too well.

I bring a hand to her cheek and rub my thumb gently over her skin. “I’ve got you,” I murmur. “I won’t let anything happen.”

She gives the smallest nod, the kind that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else, but I know it’s her version of trust. So I ease an arm behind her back and tilt her down carefully—just enough that her hair slips beneath the surface.

The water rises around her hair like seafoam curling into the tide. I use my free hand to run my fingers through the strands beneath the surface, massaging out the last bits of shampoo with slow, precise movements.

Annie’s hands gently hold the edge of the tub, her knuckles white for a second—just until I murmur, “Almost done, love.”

I bring her up just as slowly, careful not to splash. Her lashes are wet now, but her eyes meet mine without fear.

Before she can say anything, I lean in and press a quick kiss to her cheek—gentle, warm, and grounding.

“There,” I whisper against her skin. “All done.”

She gives a tiny breath of laughter, like relief in the shape of a smile. “Thanks, Finn.”

“Anytime, Your Majesty,” I say, brushing a few wet strands behind her ear as she leans forward to my chest. I wrap my arms lightly around her shoulders, letting the warmth of the water and her closeness settle around us like a tide pulling in.

The water’s gone still now, the steam rising in gentle swirls around us. It clings to the mirror, curls into the corners of the bathroom, wraps the space in a soft, sleepy warmth. Everything smells like her shampoo—like salt and something sweet and familiar. Like home.

Annie sits in the tub, her knees drawn loosely to her chest, arms resting along the porcelain edges. Her wet hair trails over her shoulders and down her back. She looks calm, content, her face soft with something quiet.

I sit just outside the tub, crouched down on the bathmat with my arms folded across the rim, my chin resting on them. Close enough to feel her breath when she exhales. Close enough that the heat from the water fogs up my skin. My knees are bent awkwardly under me, but I don’t care. I don’t want to move. I just want to stay here with her, in this soft bubble of nothing else.

Annie doesn’t say much. She doesn’t have to. Her fingers trail lazily through the water, back and forth, and every now and then, she glances at me with a smile that makes something gentle swell in my chest.

She shifts slightly and leans toward me, placing a quick kiss at the corner of my mouth. I blink in surprise, then smile.

“Another tip for my excellent services?” I tease.

She hums and kisses my jaw next. Then the bridge of my nose. “Mm-hmm.”

I grin and return the favor, leaning forward just enough to kiss her temple. “You spoil me.”

She laughs softly, the sound a little sleepy and all hers. “Good.”

There’s something about this—about the way she looks so unguarded, about how peaceful she is with me here—that settles every storm in my chest. The world beyond this room doesn’t exist right now. There’s no Capitol, no nightmares, no memories clawing at us. Just Annie, clean and warm in the water, and me, perfectly still beside her.

She reaches out, her hand wet and a little pruney, and brushes her fingers along my cheek. I tilt my head just enough to press a kiss into her palm. She giggles and leans in for another kiss on my lips, soft and slow.

I don’t know how long we sit like that—her in the tub, me perched in front of her, exchanging soft glances and softer kisses—but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

After a while, when the water’s cooled and the steam has thinned, I glance up at her, voice soft. “Do you want to get out?”

Annie blinks at me, then nods. “Yeah.”

I sit up a little straighter, stretching my legs out from where they’ve been folded awkwardly beneath me. Just before I move, I remember—her voice, earlier. “Can I have it after?”

I smile to myself and tug my shirt over my head in one smooth motion. The fabric’s soft and worn, a pale sea-glass green that she’s always liked. I drape it neatly over the counter, safe from the water.

Then I grab a clean towel and lay it out on the floor in front of the sink, smoothing it flat so it’s ready for her.

“All right, c’mere,” I say gently, leaning in.

Annie shifts toward me, and I hook one arm under her knees, the other at her back, warm and steady. Her wet hair trails behind her like a silk ribbon as I lift her from the water.

She’s light, but I carry her carefully—like she might dissolve if I hold her wrong. She loops one arm lazily around my shoulder, eyes half-closed, trusting me completely.

Her wet clothes cling to her and press against my bare chest, soaking me through almost instantly, but I don’t care. The water is warm, and she’s warm, and I’d let the entire sea soak into my skin if it meant holding her like this a little longer.

I cradle her gently in my arms, then kneel down slightly and set her down on the towel I spread out earlier. I make sure she’s positioned comfortably before letting go.

“Here,” I murmur, voice low, and reach for the second towel—thicker, softer, still warm from the heat of the bathroom.

I unfold it slowly, then drape it over her shoulders, careful not to startle her. The towel wraps around her frame easily, and I pull it close around her like I’m wrapping up a secret only I’m allowed to keep. My fingers brush the side of her neck as I tuck the edges in, and I feel her exhale softly, leaning just the slightest bit into my touch.

Her damp hair trails down over the towel in strands, still dripping, and I gently brush some of it back from her cheek. She doesn’t flinch. She never does with me.

She lifts her gaze, and her eyes meet mine through the mirror’s reflection. Sleepy, serene. Her lips part slightly like she might say something—but then she doesn’t. Instead, she just smiles. Small and sweet and a little crooked, the kind of smile she only gives when the world feels still and safe.

And for a moment, I think maybe that’s exactly what we’ve found. A quiet tidepool away from the storm.

I reach for the brush sitting beside the sink and step in close behind her. She’s still wrapped in the towel, her shoulders peeking out damp and flushed from the bath. Her hair, heavy with water, clings to her back in curling strands.

I lift the brush and begin gently at the ends, working upward with care. The bristles slip through her hair, slow and rhythmic, loosening knots that haven’t yet dried into place.

She watches me in the mirror, her eyes tracking every motion.

“Your hands are warm,” she says softly, her voice low like she’s afraid to break the moment.

I meet her gaze in the reflection. “That’s because you’re freezing.”

She smiles a little, still watching me. “I’m not. Not really.”

I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers brushing her skin. “Good.”

Her voice is quiet again. “You’ve always liked brushing my hair.”

“I like taking care of you,” I say, shrugging a little as I gently guide the brush through another section. “It calms me down.”

“Me too,” she says, leaning back into me just slightly, her towel bunching at her shoulders. “This part. Being still.”

Her eyes flick up to mine again in the glass, and we just look at each other for a moment. The light is soft, the kind that turns everything golden. Her cheeks are still pink from the warmth of the water, her eyes half-lidded and safe.

“Finn?” she asks, her voice so soft I barely hear it.

“Yeah?”

She pauses, then smiles again. “Nothing. Just wanted to say your name.”

I huff a soft laugh and lean down, brushing my lips against the side of her temple. “Say it anytime.”

She shifts just a little in front of me, adjusting the towel around herself, and I keep brushing, smoothing the strands until they gleam like sea-glass.

The brush glides through the last of her damp hair, the strands now smooth and curling lightly at the ends. I keep my hand there a second longer than I need to, fingers trailing through the silk of it. I don’t want to stop. Being close to her like this feels like something sacred. Like I’m holding something the world doesn’t get to take from me.

She catches my gaze in the mirror again. “You're staring,” she murmurs, her lips quirking into a grin.

I grin back. “Can you blame me?”

She hums a soft laugh and shakes her head, just a little. “You’re so sappy.”

“Only for you,” I say, and then I lean forward—carefully, slowly—and kiss the top of her head. Her hair is still damp against my lips, but I don’t care. I linger there for a second, just breathing her in. Ocean and warmth and Annie.

She leans her weight back against me slightly, like a tide returning to shore. “You always make me feel like I matter,” she says quietly, eyes still locked with mine in the mirror.

“You do,” I say, brushing a lock of hair off her cheek, “more than anything.”

She turns her head slightly, just enough for her cheek to brush against my fingers, then smiles again—crooked and sleepy and beautiful. I lean forward and kiss that smile. Just the corner of her mouth this time.

Annie giggles softly, then lifts a hand to touch my arm where it rests at her side. “You’re never going to let me go, are you?”

I shake my head. “Not a chance.”

She tilts her head just enough to nuzzle into my hand. “Good.”

We stand there like that for a while, the mirror reflecting everything we don’t need to say. I tuck the brush away onto the counter but keep one arm wrapped around her front, just beneath her towel. My chin rests gently on her shoulder now, the side of my face brushing hers.

After a while—once her hair is dry enough that it’s no longer dripping and we’ve run out of excuses to stand here forever—I rest my chin a little heavier on her shoulder and murmur, “Do you finally want to get out of your wet clothes?”

She hesitates, then nods softly. I press a kiss just behind her ear before pulling away.

“I’ll grab you something,” I say, already moving across the room. I dig through a drawer until I find a pair of soft cotton shorts that she has left in my room, and bring them back.

She’s still standing near the mirror, arms tucked around herself. I hand her the bundle of clothes gently, grabbing my shirt off the counter. “Here.”

She accepts them with a small smile, and I catch the way her fingers linger on my shirt just a little longer.

Then I turn around, deliberately facing the opposite direction. “You’re torturing me, Annie,” I say dramatically. “First you take my favorite shirt, and now I don’t even get to look at you?”

She huffs a quiet laugh behind me. “I didn’t tell you to turn around.”

That’s true. She didn’t. But I can hear the gratitude in her voice, soft and sweet like the rest of her.

I glance over my shoulder just briefly enough to catch her reflection in the mirror as she pulls the shirt over her head. “Because I’m a gentleman, my love,” I say, grinning.

Annie just smiles to herself, tugging the shirt down over her hips until it swallows her completely.

“You’re ridiculous,” she mutters with a tiny, amused shake of her head.

I finally turn back around, eyes scanning her from head to toe. She looks impossibly beautiful in my shirt, like she was always meant to wear it. It hangs off her like a promise—one she doesn't even have to say out loud.

“You look better in it than I do,” I say, stepping close again.

“I know,” she replies, teasing, but there’s a flush in her cheeks that tells me the compliment hit home.

I lean down and press a kiss to the top of her head, arms looping gently around her waist.

“You’re still torturing me,” I whisper against her hair, “but I’m not complaining.”

Annie laughs softly, muffled by the fabric of my shirt as she leans into my chest, her arms slipping beneath mine to wrap around my back. “You’re dramatic,” she mumbles.

“I’m in pain,” I say, mock-serious, drawing small circles against the small of her back with my thumbs. “Real, actual suffering. It’s unbearable.”

She tips her head back just enough to look up at me, that small crooked smile playing on her lips again. “Poor thing,” she says, voice lilting with amusement. “Should I kiss it better?”

I grin. “Yes. Everywhere.”

Annie rolls her eyes, but she rises on her toes and presses a soft kiss to my jaw, then another to my cheek. “There,” she says. “Better?”

“Almost,” I say, letting my lips brush her forehead. “One more.”

She lifts her head and kisses me on the lips—slow, sweet, and warm. The kind of kiss that makes time feel like it’s stopped.

When she pulls away, I keep her close, one hand finding its way into her still-damp hair, the other holding her at the small of her back. “Now I’m better,” I say quietly, forehead resting against hers.

Annie hums, her fingers bunching lightly in the fabric of my shirt. “You know,” she says, “if I’d known how much you like me in your clothes, I would’ve stolen more of them a long time ago.”

“You’re welcome to everything in my closet,” I reply. “In fact, I insist.”

She tilts her head. “Even your fishing gear?”

I narrow my eyes. “Okay, let’s not get too crazy.”

Annie giggles, and the sound lights something deep in my chest. We stand there a while longer, her arms around me, my lips brushing her hair, both of us barefoot and quiet in the soft light of the bathroom.

No storm, no sea, no Capitol. Just us.

Annie’s laughter fades into something softer as she rests her head against my chest again. The damp ends of her hair tickle against my shirt—my shirt—her body warm beneath the fabric that hangs a little too big on her. She fits perfectly against me though, like she always does, like the tide curling right up to the shore and staying there just because it can.

I let one hand trail slowly up and down her spine, soothing, steady. Her breathing slows even more, her arms snug around me like she’s afraid I might float away if she lets go. But I won’t. Not ever.

“Do you want to go lie down?” I murmur into her hair, not really ready to move, but knowing she must be tired.

Annie nods against my chest, the movement small but certain. Her hair brushes my collarbone, and her arms tighten around me just a bit like she doesn’t want to break the moment—like if she does, it might slip away.

“C’mon then,” I murmur, kissing her temple again. “Let’s go lay down.”

She hums in agreement but doesn’t move, so I take that as my cue. I shift one arm beneath her legs, the other around her back, and lift her gently off the floor. She giggles softly as I adjust her just right, guiding her legs to hook around my waist.

“You’re gonna have to hold on,” I tease, walking us slowly toward the bed. “The floor’s slippery, and I’d rather not drop you.”

“I trust you,” she says sleepily, smiling against my neck. “But if I fall, I’m blaming you forever.”

“Fair enough,” I laugh.

When I reach the bed, I lower her over it dramatically—slow at first, then a sudden little drop at the end that makes her laugh.

“Finnick!” she says, still laughing, eyes bright now.

“What?” I grin, shrugging innocently. “I got you there in one piece.”

She’s still giggling when I climb onto the bed right after her, half on top of her before she can even get settled. My arm loops around her middle as I bury my face into her shoulder, the fabric of my shirt warm and soft between us. She smells like shampoo and saltwater and just—Annie.

“Comfy?” I mumble into her skin.

“Mhm,” she murmurs back, one hand threading into my hair, the other settling around my waist. “This is nice.”

“Nice?” I say, faking offense. “You wound me. I carried you across the bathroom and dropped you on the bed with flair. That’s not just nice. That’s amazing.”

She laughs again, soft and lovely. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” I reply, tightening my hold on her, heart feeling stupid full. “And I love you.”

She looks up at me with that soft smile again—the sleepy, ocean-deep one—and says, “I know.”

Then, quieter, “I love you too.”

Chapter Text

I’m honestly surprised I’ve made it through five whole days without my big mouth ruining the surprise.

I’ve come close—so close—at least three times. Once when she mentioned that she liked candlelight and I nearly blurted, “Wait till you see the resturant!” Another when she caught me hiding a reservation slip I had stupidly left on the kitchen table. And just yesterday, when she caught me grinning like an idiot and asked what I was thinking about. I had to bite my tongue so hard I think I tasted blood.

Thankfully, Mags has been playing her part like a seasoned actress. The plan was simple: distract Annie for a little while, keep her out of the house while I got ready. Something vague and time-consuming. “Finnick needs help with something,” she’d say? Too obvious. But “Can you help me reorganize the spice rack and identify the sea herbs?” Now that sounds just obscure enough to be real.

And it worked.

With Annie preoccupied in the kitchen, debating the difference between dried tideweed and saltroot—which may or may not be the same thing, I honestly made one up—I dashed into the bedroom and changed as fast as humanly possible.

Now, I’m standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of my shirt for the tenth time. The buttons are slightly uneven. I fix them. My hair won’t stay how I like it. I wet it again. My hands won’t stop fidgeting, so I clench and unclench them until they finally cooperate.

I’ve been on camera. On stage. In the Arena.

But this? This feels different.

It’s just dinner. A night out. A quiet little place by the shore with fairy lights strung up over the terrace and seafood dishes Annie loves. But it’s more than that, too. Because I picked every piece of it for her. Because it’s the first time I get to surprise her just to make her smile—not to survive, not to distract, not for show. Just because I love her.

All that’s left is giving her a few more minutes to get ready.

I pace near the front door, smoothing my hands down my shirt again.

Any second now, I’m going to walk her to that restaurant and hope like hell that tonight is half as perfect as she deserves.

“Thank you so much, Annie!” Mags calls from downstairs, her voice cheerful and clear.

My heart stutters. That’s my cue.

I hear footsteps on the stairs—light, steady, definitely Annie’s—and in a split-second scramble, I duck into the nearest spare room. I ease the door almost shut, crouching slightly like I’m doing something criminal. The hallway creaks as she passes by, humming faintly under her breath. I hear our bedroom door open, then click shut.

I exhale, finally letting go of the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Okay. Time.

I step quietly back into the hallway, straighten my shirt, and head to our room.

When I open the door, she’s already on the bed—one leg curled beneath her, dressed in one of her soft worn-in shirts and shorts, hair a little messy from the breeze. A book rests in her hands, thumb tucked into the spine. She looks up as I enter, eyes lighting up softly like they always do when she sees me.

“Are you going somewhere?” she asks, casual, curious.

I smile, stepping further into the room. “We’re going somewhere.”

She blinks. “We are?”

I nod. “If you’re free.”

She eyes me for a beat, taking in the nicer clothes, the subtle nerves in my shoulders. Then she smiles slowly and sets her book aside. “Is this a thing?”

“It’s kind of a thing.”

“What kind of thing?”

I extend my hand toward her. “The kind where you trust me, and I promise it’ll be worth it.”

She raises an eyebrow but takes my hand anyway, letting me pull her to her feet.

I give her a small smile, squeezing her hand gently. “I’ll give you some time to get ready.”

Her eyes light up, and she turns toward the closet, a soft smile playing on her lips as she starts rifling through her clothes like she’s trying to decide what to wear for a secret date.

I watch her for a moment—how the light catches her hair, the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking—and my chest tightens in a way that makes me almost dizzy.

“Don’t take too long,” I call softly, already turning to head downstairs.

The stairs creak beneath my feet as I move toward the kitchen, where Mags is still bustling around, pretending to look busy but glancing up with a knowing smile.

“Thanks,” I say quietly. “For keeping her occupied.”

She nods, her eyes warm. “Anything for you two.”

For a moment, the kitchen is quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall and the distant call of gulls outside.

“You’re nervous,” she says, eyes crinkling at the edges.

“Maybe a little,” I admit, fiddling with the edge of a chair. “It’s different this time.”

She nods, setting down the towel and walking over. “Different how?”

I meet her gaze, voice low. “Because it’s not about surviving. Or performing. It’s just… for her.”

Mags leans in slightly, like she’s letting me in on a secret. “That’s the kind that matters most.”

Her words settle over me, steady and true.

I smile, feeling a bit lighter than when I walked in.

“Thanks, Mags. For everything.”

She just grins. “Always, Finnick. Always.”

Mags’s hand comes up and squeezes my arm before she pulls back, the kind of gesture that says a lot more than words ever could. She doesn’t crowd me, doesn’t make a big show of affection. Just that simple, firm grip—warm and grounding—like she’s reminding me I’m not alone in this.

I settle into one of the kitchen chairs, exhaling slow. The nerves haven’t gone away exactly, but they’ve changed shape. Less sharp now. Softer. Buzzing more like anticipation than panic.

Mags returns to the counter, humming faintly to herself as she resumes chopping something—her rhythm familiar and comforting. It smells faintly of garlic and herbs. The kind of scent that clings to homes more than restaurants.

“I used to be scared of moments like this,” I say after a beat.

Mags glances over her shoulder. “Moments like what?”

“This,” I gesture vaguely, “quiet ones. Where nothing’s going wrong. Where it’s just… calm. I didn’t trust it.”

She nods once, knowingly. “When you’ve lived with storm after storm, clear skies feel like a lie.”

I lean forward, arms resting on my knees. “Exactly. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. Still do sometimes. But with Annie…”

“You forget to look for the storm.”

I smile faintly. “Yeah.”

There’s a soft shuffle of feet from upstairs, the sound of a drawer opening, then closing. Annie, still getting ready.

“She’s changed you,” Mags says gently.

I look at her, not denying it. “I know.”

“It’s a good thing, sweetheart.” She turns back to her cutting board. “You’re still you. You’re just more you now.”

I sit with that. Let it sink in.

Because she’s right. Annie didn’t pull me out of who I was. She helped me grow into who I’m supposed to be. The version of me that laughs more freely. Sleeps a little easier. Hopes a little harder.

“Should I be worried about how long she’s taking?” I ask, mostly to fill the quiet.

Mags snorts. “You told her to get ready for something special. You’re lucky she doesn’t have a Capitol team upstairs with her.”

I chuckle under my breath, shaking my head.

“I just hope she likes it,” I say after a moment.

Mags puts down the knife again and turns fully toward me. “Finnick. You could’ve dragged her to the docks with a candle stuck in a crab trap and she’d still look at you like you hung the stars.”

That gets a laugh out of me, real and full.

“She’d hate the crab trap, though,” I grin.

“She’d still kiss you afterward,” Mags says matter-of-factly, and that makes my chest ache in the best way.

“God, I love her,” I say softly.

“I know, sweetheart.” Mags smiles again. “She knows too.”

And I swear, that makes all the nerves settle in a way nothing else could.

Just as I hear the faint creak of the bedroom door upstairs, I push back from the chair and straighten my collar one more time. My heart picks up again—not panicked, just full. Loud in my chest, like it knows what’s coming before I do.

Her footsteps are soft at first. The stairs creak under her careful tread.

And then—

She turns the corner.

Annie.

Wearing a flowing teal dress that sways delicately with every step. The color clings to her in all the right places, sea-glass and sunlight woven into silk. Her hair is curled at the ends, a few strands of her hair tucked back behind golden earrings that shimmer when she moves. Her heels are gold, simple but elegant. A thin chain rests at her collarbone, and her cheeks are touched pink.

She smiles, small and sheepish, fiddling with the edge of her dress. “I, uh… I forgot to ask you how fancy the place is.”

And I just… freeze.

Because I swear to god, I fell in love with her all over again.

I’ve seen her in every kind of light—shaking with laughter, dripping in ocean water, half-asleep with a book still in her hands—but this?

This might be the most beautiful I’ve ever seen her.

Not because of the dress. Not even the heels.

Because it’s her. Still her. Trying for me.

Still looking at me like I’m worth trying for.

“You’re staring,” she says softly, eyes flicking up.

I shake my head slowly, still barely breathing. “Can you blame me?”

Her smile widens, soft and bright. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, stepping closer and offering my hand. “I had to try and keep up.”

She takes it—gently, like it’s the easiest thing in the world—and I lift her fingers to my lips.

She giggles quietly, eyes flickering down as I press a kiss to her knuckles. Her skin smells faintly like salt and citrus—warm and familiar and wholly her. I hold her hand there for a moment longer than necessary, not quite ready to let go.

“Can you walk in those shoes?” I murmur, teasing, still stunned by the way the gold catches in the low light of the hallway.

Annie lifts her chin. “I was a Victor in heels before I ever wore them to dinner.”

“True,” I grin. “But these ones look dangerously good on you. I might be the one tripping.”

She arches a brow. “You better not. I’m not carrying you through town.”

I laugh, the sound low and a little breathless, and tuck her hand into the crook of my arm.

Behind us, Mags clears her throat softly, and we both glance back to see her standing by the archway to the kitchen, smiling in that proud, quiet way of hers.

“You two go on,” she says. “Before your reservation turns into tomorrow.”

Annie beams. “Thanks, Mags.”

Mags nods toward me, then gives Annie a little wink. “He’s nervous. Be gentle.”

“I’m not that nervous,” I mutter, even though it’s absolutely a lie.

Annie leans into my side, her voice warm against my arm. “I’ll be very gentle.”

And I’m not sure if it’s the dress or the way she says that, but something in me melts entirely.

We step out into the early evening light, the air tinged with salt and the soft hum of waves in the distance. The sky is streaked in pinks and soft purples, the kind of dusk that only District Four can really get right.

I glance sideways at her as we walk. She’s looking straight ahead, but there’s the smallest hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” she says.

“Good,” I murmur. “I like when you’re curious.”

She squeezes my arm, and just like that, my nerves disappear.

Because she’s here. With me. And somehow, that makes everything right.

We step out into the soft glow of dusk, salt breeze tangling in Annie’s hair as we make our way down the cobbled path toward the bluff-top restaurant. The sky is painted in streaks of rose and lavender, and the distant crash of the surf underlines every footstep.

I loop my arm around hers, careful never to jostle those gold heels, and we fall into an easy rhythm. Lanterns hung along the path flicker to life, guiding us like fireflies toward the wooden deck nestled on the rocks.

Annie glances up at me, eyes bright. “I still don’t know where we’re going.”

“Thank me later,” I promise, flashing my signature grin.

She rolls her eyes but leans closer. “You and your stupid enigmas.”

I laugh softly. “Keeps life interesting.”

As we crest the final rise, the restaurant comes into view: a low, whitewashed building with wide windows framing a terrace of driftwood tables. Tiny candles shimmer in glass jars, and a few other couples dot the deck—but none close to us. Beyond, the black sweep of ocean meets sky in endless promise.

Annie takes a breath, stepping onto the deck. The warm wood creaks beneath our feet, worn smooth from years of sand and sea air. The glow of string lights hangs between the beams overhead, casting a soft golden hue over the tables set with simple linens and glass jars filled with flickering candles. Beyond the rail, the ocean stretches out like a living painting—dark blue and endless, the salt breeze soft and familiar.

“Finnick…” she murmurs, eyes sweeping across the view, the tables, the open-air charm of it all. “This is perfect.”

Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it wraps around my heart like a tide. She’s not saying it for the sake of it—she means it. And that’s everything.

“All for you,” I say quietly, fingers laced through hers as I guide us toward the small wooden host stand near the entrance. It’s not some stuffy Capitol place with velvet ropes and perfume in the air. It smells like grilled fish, sea herbs, warm bread, and salt. Real. Home.

The hostess, a woman in her forties with windblown curls and a sea-glass pendant around her neck, smiles when she sees us. “Welcome to Docklight,” she says, her voice gentle and familiar. “Table for two?”

I nod. “Yeah. The reservation should be under Finnick Odair.”

Recognition flickers in her expression—not the Capitol kind, not starstruck, just warm. Proud. District Four proud. “Of course it is,” she says, flipping through a small leather-bound book instead of a screen. “Right on time. You’re out on the west deck, like you requested.”

She gestures for us to follow her along the wooden planks, weaving past other tables lit by small lanterns. Couples sit here and there, a few families, some older locals in weather-faded jackets. There’s music, soft and acoustic, drifting from somewhere inside—fiddle, maybe, and a guitar. The kind of thing people hum along to without realizing.

As we reach the edge of the deck, the hostess waves a hand toward the table tucked in the corner—quiet, private, with the best view of the shoreline. The tide is low, and you can hear the gentle lap of waves on the rocks below.

“Here we are,” she says, placing two menus down on the table. “Your server will be right with you. Let me know if you need anything.”

Annie runs her fingers over the edge of the table, her eyes catching in the candlelight. “Finnick,” she says again, softer this time. “This really is perfect.”

I pull out her chair for her, grinning as I say, “You haven’t even seen the dessert menu yet.”

She laughs, and the sound melts every bit of tension in my chest.

This isn’t a performance. It’s not survival. It’s just us.

And here, in our own corner of District Four, with the sea close and her even closer, that’s all I’ve ever needed.

Annie settles into her chair, smoothing the folds of her dress with a kind of unconscious grace that makes it hard to look away. I take the seat across from her, our knees nearly touching beneath the table.

For a beat, we just sit there. The quiet hum of the restaurant settles around us—low conversation, the occasional clink of silverware, the soft strum of strings drifting through the open air. The breeze lifts the edge of the tablecloth and tugs gently at Annie’s hair. She tucks it behind her ear without thinking, her eyes meeting mine again.

“I’ve never been here,” she says, almost surprised by it.

“I know,” I reply, fingers brushing the edge of my menu. “I wanted to take you somewhere new. Somewhere we didn’t already have memories. Just something… clean.”

Her gaze softens. “That’s thoughtful.”

I shrug, trying to keep it casual, but the truth is it took me hours to pick this place. Weeks, really. I’d asked every local I trusted. Took late walks past closed kitchens just to catch the smells drifting out the windows. Even asked an old fisherman if the oysters here were worth the effort. He’d said no, but the scallops were divine, apparently.

Our server appears—a young man with sandy hair and sunburnt cheeks—and rattles off the specials. Annie listens politely while I watch her instead, cataloging every flicker of expression as she nods along. It’s ridiculous how easily she holds my attention. How natural it feels to just… be here. Like this.

We place our orders—she goes for the grilled lemon scallops, I ask for the house crab pasta—and as the server disappears, the silence stretches again.

But it’s not uncomfortable.

It’s not the silence we used to know. Not the kind that hung in hospital rooms or crept in after nightmares or filled the space between words we didn’t yet know how to say. This silence is warmer. Easier.

Her fingers brush the edge of her napkin, absently folding one corner into a triangle. The candlelight flickers against her cheekbones, soft and golden, and I have to look away before I say something stupid.

Or before I say exactly what I came here to say.

Which would be… even stupider.

The truth is, I want to officially be Annie’s boyfriend.

It sounds childish, maybe. Pointless, even. After everything we’ve been through, after the Games, after the Capitol, after nights tangled in each other’s arms whispering fears no one else knows—we’re already so much more than whatever “boyfriend” even means.

I mean, for crying out loud, Annie and I kiss all the time. We sleep in the same bed, we call each other “love” or “my love”, and when Johanna asked, I literally told her I was dating her and that she was my girlfriend.

But still.

That’s why I brought her here tonight. Why I made reservations at some little seaside place with linen napkins and real candles on the table like we’re normal people. Like we have room for dates. For firsts.

I haven’t told her yet. I can’t. Not tonight.

I’m nervous, and I hate that I am, but the words keep crowding my throat.

May I be your boyfriend?

God, I’m overthinking this.

She’s looking at the ocean now, sipping from her water glass, hair catching the wind in that perfect way it always does. Like she belongs to the sea. Like the sea belongs to her.

I think I’d drown for her, if she asked.

I clear my throat and tug a little at my collar. Why did I wear a collar? I don’t even wear shirts like this. What was I thinking?

“Y-you, uh—” My voice cracks. Perfect. I try again. “You look really pretty.”

Her eyes flick up, amused. “Thank you.”

I nod. Like an idiot. “I mean—you always do. But, uh. Tonight especially. Not that you don’t look—uh—not that you ever don’t—” I shut my mouth and exhale through my nose. “I’m just gonna stop talking now.”

She giggles. Actually giggles. And I think I might melt into the floor.

She leans in a little, resting her chin in her palm. “Something on your mind?”

“No.” I say it too quickly.

Her other eyebrow lifts, just a little, playful and curious. “Finnick.”

I shift in my seat, tugging again at the collar like that’ll magically cool me off. “I’m fine. Really.”

She tilts her head. “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not acting weird,” I say, extremely weirdly.

She gives me that look—the one that’s half amused, half skeptical, and one hundred percent effective at making my brain short-circuit.

I reach for my water glass like it’s a life raft. “You’re just… really beautiful. It’s making me nervous.”

It’s not technically a lie.

She blinks, surprised—and then that soft, startled smile spreads across her face like the tide coming in, gentle and slow. Her eyes drop for a second, like maybe she’s flustered now, which feels like a miracle and a tragedy all at once because it only makes me want to tell her more.

I keep my eyes on the glass in my hand, twirling it slightly. “And don’t say I’m being dramatic. I can hear you thinking it.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” she says, voice light, teasing. “Just wondering how I got so lucky to be the one making Finnick Odair nervous.”

I almost choke. “I—I didn’t say I was nervous. I mean, I did. But it’s not like—” I cut myself off, already spiraling. “It’s not a bad nervous.”

“Oh no?” she says, resting her chin in her hand again, head tilted slightly. She’s doing that thing—that thing—where she looks at me like I matter more than anything else in the room.

I drag a hand through my hair and laugh under my breath. “I’m sweating through this shirt,” I say, pushing up my sleeves.

Annie raises one brow again, slow and deliberate. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yep,” I say. “Totally fine. Just… overthinking things I probably shouldn’t.”

“Like what?”

Like how to ask you to officially be mine. Like whether it’s dumb to want labels when what we have is already so real. Like whether you’d say yes, or whether you’d look at me with that sad smile you sometimes wear, like you’re already bracing for me to leave.

But I can’t say that.

So instead, I flash the most confident grin I can muster. “Like dessert. I mean, do we split something? Get two? Order five and call it a tasting flight?”

Annie lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Finnick.”

“What?”

“You’re being weird again.”

“I warned you,” I say, hands raised in surrender. “Beautiful girl. Candlelight. Seafood. It’s a dangerous combo.”

She giggles again, and I swear I could bottle that sound and live off it forever. The tension in my chest loosens a little. I made her laugh. That counts for something.

She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, slow and gentle, like she’s telling me it’s okay to be a mess right now. Her touch is warm and steady, and for a moment, it’s like the whole noisy world around us shrinks down to just that—her fingers wrapped in mine. “Love you,”

I want to tell her how much that means. How much she means. But my tongue feels thick and tied up in knots. Instead, I swallow hard, forcing out a shaky smile. My fingers squeeze hers back, awkward but earnest.

“Love you, too.”

The candle flickers between us, casting shadows that dance along the tablecloth and on her face. It catches the little curls of hair that have escaped her clip, framing her eyes in that way that makes me forget how to breathe.

The smell of salt and grilled lemon from her scallops mingles with the faint scent of the ocean breeze drifting in from the open windows. It all feels impossibly real and impossibly fragile at the same time.

I want to tell her about the nervous knot tightening in my stomach—the one that’s got me fumbling over my words and twisting my napkin like a lifeline. But I can’t. Not yet.

Because tonight isn’t about declarations or promises. Not yet.

It’s about this: sitting here, just us, away from the Capitol’s eyes and the weight of the Games. About letting her see the real me—messy, nervous, and utterly in love—without all the masks and performances.

The server returns, setting down my crab pasta with a flourish. The steam curls up, carrying with it the familiar scents of garlic and fresh crab meat. I pick up my fork but keep glancing at Annie, the way her eyes reflect the candlelight, the way her lips curve into that shy smile meant only for me.

It hits me again—how lucky I am. How despite everything, we’ve carved out this little pocket of normalcy.

The words I want to say—the ones that would put a label on this, that would make official what’s been simmering beneath the surface—stay locked tight inside me for now.

Because tonight, I’m not ready.

Not yet.

But soon. Soon I’ll find the courage.

For now, I just keep holding her hand, stealing glances, and letting the silence between us speak volumes.

Because sometimes love is in the quiet moments. The stolen looks. The nervous smiles.

And tonight is ours.

Dinner passes in a blur of soft laughter and stolen glances. She keeps catching me staring, and every time she does, she grins like she knows exactly what I’m not saying. Maybe she does. Maybe I’m worse at hiding things than I thought.

By the time we finish—her plate practically licked clean and mine not far behind—I realize I didn’t taste a single bite of my pasta. I’ve been too busy watching the way she laughs with her whole face, how she leans across the table when she’s excited, how she chews the inside of her cheek when she’s thinking.

I pay the bill quickly, nervously. My hand’s a little sweaty when I reach for hers again, and I hope she doesn’t notice.

“Wanna walk?” I ask as we step outside. The sky is turning that deep violet-blue, stars just beginning to blink into view above the horizon.

“Sure,” she says, squeezing my hand.

We head down the wooden steps that lead toward the sand, and she pauses at the edge, brow furrowing. “Ugh. Heels.”

I hold back a smile. She must notice because she playfully glares at me as she lifts her skirt just a little, slipping the heels off and holding them in one hand. “You laugh now, but if I sink into the sand like a Capitol statue, you’re carrying me.”

“Gladly,” I say without hesitation, which earns me a playful eye-roll and a quiet blush.

Barefoot, she steps into the cool sand, and I follow, matching her pace. The beach is nearly empty, just the sound of the waves and the occasional gull overhead. The kind of quiet that lets you breathe a little deeper.

I don’t say much. I don’t need to. For now, I just keep holding her hand, stealing glances, and letting the silence between us speak volumes.

We start walking again, this time along the edge of the tide, where the water laps over our feet every few steps. She lets the waves roll over her toes without flinching, still carrying her heels in one hand, the other tucked securely in mine.

I keep glancing at her when I think she’s not looking, but I swear she knows. She always knows.

“So,” she says lightly, “are you ever going to tell me what this whole ‘fancy dinner by the harbor and moonlit stroll on the beach’ thing is about?”

My heart leaps into my throat. “What—what do you mean?” I stammer, way too high-pitched to sound innocent.

She gives me a slow side-eye. “You don’t usually blush when I order scallops.”

“I—I wasn’t blushing,” I say, absolutely blushing. “It was just warm in there. You—you didn’t feel that? I was sweating.”

“It was an outdoor patio,” she says, deadpan.

“Oh,” I mutter. “Right. Yeah. I forgot.”

There’s a pause. I feel her thumb brush along my knuckles, slow and steady. She doesn’t say anything about how I keep wiping my free palm on my pants every few seconds like a panicked trainee.

“You okay?” she asks gently. “You’ve been jittery all night.”

“Jittery? No. I—I’m fine. I’m just…” I try to laugh it off but it comes out weirdly sharp. “It’s the ocean air. Makes my brain fuzzy. Not enough oxygen. Salt. Probably.”

She stops walking, tugs my hand until I stop too. “Finnick.”

I look at her, completely doomed.

“Are you about to ask me something stupid like whether or not I had fun tonight?”

“No,” I say too quickly. “Maybe. I don’t know.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yes?”

She laughs, and I nearly melt from relief. “I had fun, you idiot.”

I look down at our hands, swinging slightly between us. “Okay. Good. Cool. That’s… good.”

She’s still smiling at me, but there’s a softness now behind it, and it’s making me forget all the sentences I used to know. “You—”

“Annie, I need to ask you something,” I blurt.

Oh no. Oh great. That wasn’t smooth at all. I sound like I’m about to propose a bank robbery.

She tilts her head, her green eyes flicking over my face, calm and unshaken by my implosion. “Yes?”

I panic a little. My hands find hers, and I clasp them tightly between mine—partly for emphasis, mostly because I need to anchor myself to something real before I spiral into the sky.

“I love you,” I say, the words tumbling out fast and raw, like they’ve been waiting too long. “I really, really do. You’re everything to me. You’re—”

I swallow hard, trying to slow down, to breathe.

“You’re the last thing I think about before I sleep, and you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up. Every day, without fail. And just… just having you in my life has improved it so much. I mean it, Annie. You’ve changed everything. I seriously can’t imagine my life without you.”

“I seriously can’t imagine my life without you,” I say, and my voice shakes a little, but I can’t stop. I don’t want to. The words have been sitting in my chest for what feels like forever, and now they’re rushing out like the tide.

“You’re not just the girl I love, Annie. You’re the person who makes me feel like I’m more than just… what they made me be. When I’m with you, I don’t feel like some Capitol puppet, or some pretty face with a price tag. I just feel—me. Like I’m allowed to exist. And that’s not something I ever thought I’d get to have.”

She’s still watching me, wide-eyed and still, and it only makes me more desperate to get the words out before they vanish.

“You make everything lighter. Even the bad days. Even the ones where it’s hard to breathe. You always know when to hold my hand without asking. You always know how to laugh at the worst possible time, and somehow make it exactly what I needed.”

I laugh, breathless and messy. “And gods, I’m such a mess around you. I trip over my own tongue and I say stupid things and you still—still look at me like I’m worth something.”

My hands are trembling a little now. I don’t even care. I squeeze hers tighter.

“I love the way your hair curls when it’s humid. I love how you talk with your hands when you’re excited. I love that you collect sea glass like each piece has a secret. I love your brain, Annie, I love your heart. You’re so smart and kind and fierce and strange and perfect, and I just—I love you so much it’s borderline humiliating.”

She lets out a choked laugh, and I barrel on, heart thudding like it’s trying to escape my ribs.

“I don’t care if we never go to fancy places or do anything impressive. I just want mornings with you. I want to hear you hum when you cook. I want to find your socks in weird places and watch the way your nose scrunches when you think. I want years of that. I want everything, Annie.”

I draw in a breath, finally daring to meet her eyes. “If I could bottle the way I feel about you and give it to you to hold, you’d understand. It’s—it’s so much, Annie. It’s everything.”

I take a deep breath, trying to anchor myself, but the moment feels like I’m standing on a cliff’s edge, wind in my face, heart thundering. “So, what I’m trying to ask is…”

I trail off because she’s looking at me like that again—soft and radiant and so unguarded it nearly knocks the words right out of me.

I push forward before I lose my nerve. “May I be your boyfriend?”

Annie blinks at me, her expression unreadable for half a second that feels like a full decade.

Panic surges. “And I know what you’re thinking,” I rush out, hands flailing a little as I stumble over the words. “It’s—it’s pointless, right? I mean, we kiss each other. We fall asleep tangled up on the same bed, and I’ve already called you my love about a hundred times—loudly, I might add, in front of Mags, who definitely heard—and none of that needed a label. What we have, it’s already so much more than just some title.”

I can’t stop, not now. “But I guess I just—well, I want the title, you know? Not because I think it changes anything between us, but because it’s you. Because when someone says your name, I want to be able to say, ‘yeah, that’s my girlfriend,’ and feel like the luckiest idiot alive. And I swear, I’m not trying to pressure you or trap you or whatever, I just—”

“Finnick,” Annie says gently, and I go completely still.

She squeezes my hands. “Breathe.”

I blink. My mouth opens. Closes. Obeys.

She smiles, and it’s like sunrise over water—quiet, breathtaking, soft enough to crack my whole chest open.

“Of course you may be, Finn,” she says. “I love you.”

There’s a pause where I forget how to stand upright, and then the warmth floods in—pure and golden, rushing through me like a wave. My grin spreads fast and helpless, and I don’t even care how ridiculous I must look.

I don’t even think. I just move.

My hands find her face, cradling her cheeks as if she’s made of something impossibly precious, and I lean in and kiss her.

It’s not planned or polished or smooth—it’s everything I feel crashing out of me all at once. Relief. Joy. Love. That breathless, dizzy kind of love that makes the world blur at the edges. And she’s kissing me back, immediately, eagerly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment just as long as I have.

I feel her smile against my mouth—soft and giddy and so unmistakably Annie—and it makes me laugh into the kiss, just a little, overwhelmed and weightless. Her arms loop around my shoulders, drawing me closer like there’s nowhere else either of us is supposed to be.

We’re both grinning too hard to kiss properly now, noses bumping, breath mingling, the two of us laughing and holding and kissing again like we’re trying to bottle the moment forever.

And maybe we are.

Because right here, kissing on the sand, with the ocean murmuring beside us and the stars blinking high above, it doesn’t feel like just a kiss.

It feels like a promise.

We pull apart, just barely, and we’re still smiling—so much it almost hurts. Her eyes are glowing, wide and shining with that soft, sparkling joy that makes my chest ache in the best way.

I can’t help it.

With a laugh bubbling out of me, I grab her by the waist and lift her off the ground, spinning her in a wide circle before she can even react.

She lets out a squeal of surprise that melts into laughter, arms tightening around my shoulders as I twirl her under the stars. Her head falls back, hair flying, the sound of her joy echoing out over the quiet beach. And I’m grinning like a complete fool, holding her close, heart thundering like the tide.

When I finally set her back down, her heels dangle in one hand and her cheeks are flushed pink. She’s still laughing, breathless and radiant, and she looks at me like I’ve just handed her the entire moon.

“I’m your boyfriend,” I say, a little dazed, still catching up with the reality of it.

Annie giggles, eyes crinkling. “I’m your girlfriend.”

I look at her—really look at her—and my heart does this ridiculous flip that makes me feel fourteen again. She’s glowing. Glowing in a way that makes everything else around us fade into the background.

So, without a word, I bend down and scoop her into my arms, bridal style.

Annie lets out a surprised little yelp, then laughs, wrapping her arms around my neck. “Finnick!”

“What?” I grin, already walking toward the ocean. “Just thought I’d sweep my girlfriend off her feet.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, but she’s beaming, her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of my neck like she never wants to let go.

The cool sand gives way to the soft rush of waves lapping at my ankles. The ocean breeze catches her hair, tossing it gently across her face, and she tucks it behind her ear with that quiet grace I’ve always loved.

“You’re going to get us soaked,” she says, even as she leans closer.

“Worth it.”

And then she kisses me again—soft and slow at first, then deeper, like she’s memorizing the shape of my mouth. I sink a little in the wet sand, but I don’t care. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled this much in my life. My heart’s practically doing backflips in my chest.

The water reaches my calves now, cold and sharp, but all I can feel is her—warm and close and real in my arms. She pulls back just enough to laugh breathlessly, forehead against mine, and we’re both giddy, a little drunk on happiness.

“I love you,” I whisper, brushing my nose against hers.

She grins. “I love you more.”

We stand there, in the ocean, under the stars, holding onto each other like we’re the only two people in the world.

And maybe—just for tonight—we are.

Chapter Text

It’s the day of the Seventy-Fifth announcement. A Quarter Quell. A way to make an already hellish situation even worse.

The Quarter Quells are never pretty. They aren’t meant to be. They exist to remind us that the Games aren’t just punishment—they’re a spectacle. A lesson carved into history with blood and suffering. Mags once explained the first Quarter Quell to me, how each district was forced to elect their tributes. Imagine that—having to choose which of your own children to send to slaughter. Last time, during the Fiftieth Games, the Capitol doubled the number of tributes. Twice the blood. Twice the carnage. And, somehow, against all odds, Haymitch walked away alive.

Now it’s time for the third.

In just a few minutes, President Snow is going to appear on every screen in Panem. His face, cold and unreadable, will flicker into every home, every town square, every darkened room where people are already dreading what’s coming. The announcement will be short, efficient, and devastating. I have no doubt that whatever this twist is, it’ll be cruel. Calculated. Designed to shatter whatever fragile hope the districts might still cling to. It's going to make the unfortunate young tributes’ lives hell.

The question isn’t whether the Quarter Quell will be brutal.

The question is just how much worse it can get.

Hopefully, this can mark the beginning of the end.

The rebellion has been simmering beneath the surface for years, long before I was even alive. Plutarch has been carefully threading his web, building something dangerous right under the Capitol’s nose, pulling together the right people, planting the right seeds. Haymitch, Mags, Beetee, Wiress, and Chaff have likely been involved the longest, their influence spanning Games after Games, their carefully chosen whispers weaving through the districts like an underground current. I haven’t told Annie yet. But it’s best if she doesn't know. She’ll be safer that way.

I joined two years after my own Games, after I realized the Capitol was never going to let me go, that I would always be their pawn unless I played my own game. Johanna practically threw herself in the moment she saw what they turned her into, what they stripped from her. It didn’t take much convincing on my part. I knew I could trust her—angry, reckless Johanna. She never hides what she feels, and I respect that. She’s the only one besides Mags and Annie who never lies to me.

Katniss and Peeta have either not been told yet or have already been drawn into the conversation. Either way, I doubt they would hesitate. They’ve already sparked something in the districts, something dangerous. People are watching them. The way Peeta speaks, the way Katniss defies—it’s not just a show anymore. It’s a spark.

We just need one tribute, one sliver of defiance to ignite the whole thing.

Someone from Three, Four, Seven, Eleven, or Twelve. Those are our best chances. District Three is always thinking, always building, and if we get the right mind in the arena, they’ll see the possibilities. District Seven, well—that’s Johanna’s district. If anyone from there has a mind for rebellion, she’ll find them. Eleven has always suffered, always carried anger just beneath the surface. And Twelve… Twelve already set the match to the fire.

I exhale slowly, my hands curling into fists at my sides. Beside me, Annie shifts, her fingers brushing against my wrist, grounding me. She hasn’t said much since we sat down, but she doesn’t need to. I know she’s thinking the same thing I am.

The Quarter Quell is going to be devastating.

But if we play this right, it won’t just be another massacre for the Capitol’s entertainment.

It’ll be the start of something bigger.

The clock on the wall ticks down the minutes. Each one feels slower than the last, stretching the silence between us like a fishing line pulled too tight. Annie sits close to me on the couch, her knee pressed lightly against mine, her fingers fidgeting in her lap. Mags sits in her usual chair, her expression unreadable as she stares at the blank screen in front of us.

None of us speak for a while. The weight of what’s coming sits heavy in the air, unspoken but understood. The Quarter Quell announcements are never good. They’re always worse than the last.

“This one’s going to be bad, isn’t it?” Annie finally says. Her voice is quiet, but not timid—more like she’s already bracing herself for the answer.

I glance at her, my stomach knotting at the tension in her shoulders. “They always are.”

Mags hums in agreement. “Worse than usual,” she murmurs, and that just confirms it.

Annie presses her lips together. I can see the thoughts racing behind her eyes, the worry she won’t say aloud. “I hate this,” she mutters instead. “All of it.”

I reach over and take her hand, squeezing gently. “I know.”

She exhales, staring down at our joined hands for a second. Then, “What do you think it’ll be this time?”

I shake my head. “No idea. They’ve done selection by votes, doubling the tributes—”

“Maybe they’ll make it an all-out massacre from the start,” she suggests bitterly. “Throw them in with nothing but their hands and see who survives.”

The thought makes my stomach churn. “Wouldn’t put it past them.”

Mags shifts in her chair, her gaze flickering to the clock. “Not long now.”

Annie’s grip on my hand tightens, just barely, but I feel it. I squeeze back, grounding her, grounding myself.

The screen flickers to life.

And just like that, the moment of calm is gone.

My stomach knots as the Capitol seal flashes across it. The anthem plays, grand and oppressive, and I glance at Mags. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, her eyes fixed on the screen. Annie’s fingers tighten around my wrist, just barely, but it’s enough. I squeeze back, grounding her as much as she’s grounding me.

Then, President Snow appears.

“Ladies and gentlemen. This is the Seventy-Fifth year of the Hunger Games. It was written in the charter of the games. In every Twenty-Five years there will be a Quarter Quell. To keep fresh for each new generation the memory of those who died. And the uprising against the Capitol. Each Quarter Quell is distinguished by games of a special significance. Now on this eve, we celebrate the third Quarter Quell,” He says, looking straight at the camera as he opens a sealed envelope.

My heart beats faster from each drawn out second as I lean forward. “As a reminder that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, in this the third Quarter Quell game,” He pauses. “The male and female tributes. Are to be reaped from the existing pool of victors in each district.”

The words ring in my ears, but I don’t register them right away.

And then, the meaning sinks in.

Annie gasps beside me, sharp and sudden, and my whole body locks up. The room tilts, the air vanishes from my lungs, and my heartbeat roars in my ears.

Victors.

Only victors.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I don’t blink.

The Capitol seal flashes again, signaling the end of the announcement, but the room stays silent. The TV goes black, and still, none of us move.

No.

No, no, no.

Annie is shaking. I can feel it through our clasped hands, the tremors traveling up my arm, rattling through my already frayed nerves. But I can’t look at her. Not yet. If I do, I might break completely.

My own hands feel numb, like they’re not even mine anymore. My chest is tight, suffocating, as if the room is closing in on me, squeezing every bit of air from my lungs. I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears, loud and unrelenting.

This isn’t about the Games. It never was.

This is a calculated purge. A way to wipe out anyone who poses a threat to Snow, anyone who doesn’t play his game the way he wants them to. It’s not enough for us to be broken. He wants us gone.

There are other Victors in Four. Hudson, Oceanelle, Pierre… names that should mean something right now, but they don’t. Not to Snow. They never stood on a stage draped in gold and smiled for the cameras while the Capitol whispered about what a dangerous little piece their newest toy was. They never charmed their way through banquets, slipping secrets past painted lips while their hands were tied in silk. They never made themselves a problem.

I did.

And now I know, without a doubt, my name will be called.

There is no chance. No luck. No avoiding it.

But then a worse thought crashes into me like a wave against jagged rocks, knocking the breath from my lungs.

Mags. Annie.

There are other Victors in Four, yes. But most of them are men.

And if they need a female tribute…

My stomach twists violently, a sickening, hollow feeling spreading through my entire body. The taste of bile rises in my throat. My head is spinning, and for a moment, I don’t know if I’m about to pass out or throw up or both.

My two favorite people in the world are in danger.

And I am completely, utterly powerless to stop it.

Annie’s breath is coming in quick, shallow bursts, her panic curling around me like a rising tide. I should say something. I should do something. But I can’t. My mind is stuck, looping through the same horrifying realization over and over again.

Snow isn’t just sending me back.

He’s going to take Annie too.

I know it. I feel it deep in my bones, the same way I know the tides will always return to the shore. Snow doesn’t make random choices. He doesn’t leave things to chance. He picks his victims with precision, with cruelty, with the kind of meticulous malice only he is capable of.

And he knows exactly who I love.

My stomach twists violently. The room feels too small, the air thick and cloying.

Annie lets out a small, shuddering breath, and I finally turn to look at her.

She’s trembling. Not just her hands—her entire body, like she’s been caught in the middle of a storm with no shelter. Her green eyes are wide and unfocused, her lips parted slightly, but no words come out. She’s spiraling.

I squeeze her hand hard enough to hurt. “Annie,” I say, but my voice barely sounds like my own.

She blinks, her gaze snapping to mine. “Finnick,” she breathes, and her fingers tighten desperately around mine.

I want to lie to her. I want to tell her it’ll be okay. But we both know the truth.

It won’t be.

Mags shifts again, drawing my attention. Her face is unreadable, but I know her too well to miss the sadness in her eyes. And beneath it, something else.

Guilt.

Because she knows, too.

Because she’s been here before.

I swallow hard. “Do you think…” I trail off, unable to finish the thought. But Mags understands. She always does.

She exhales through her nose, slow and deliberate. “I don’t know,” she admits, voice barely above a whisper. “But Snow doesn’t forget.”

I stiffen.

He doesn’t.

Mags isn’t just another Victor. She’s a survivor, yes, but more than that—she’s a rebel. She once tried to destroy an arena, tried to help someone escape the Games entirely. And for that, Snow made her suffer. I don’t know the details. She’s never told me, and I’ve never asked. But I know enough to understand what he’s capable of.

He could still have it out for her.

But she’s old now. And that’s what keeps my fear from settling on her for too long.

Annie, though. Annie is young. She’s strong. And worst of all, she’s mine.

That’s why it’ll be her.

I can feel it in my bones. Snow isn’t just trying to hurt me. He’s trying to destroy me.

And there is nothing—nothing—I can do to stop it.

Annie lets out a shaky breath, her fingers still curled tightly around mine. But then, without warning, a sharp, broken sound escapes her throat.

A sob.

I tense. “Annie—”

She squeezes her eyes shut, a fresh wave of tears slipping down her cheeks as her breath shudders unevenly. I can feel her trembling, her entire body curling inward like she’s trying to make herself smaller, like she can disappear if she just folds in on herself enough.

She’s scared.

Of course, she’s scared.

I tighten my grip on her hand, my heart pounding against my ribs. “It’s okay,” I murmur, even though it’s not. Even though nothing about this is okay. “You won’t be alone. If—if it happens, I’ll be there. I won’t let anything happen to you, I swear.”

Her eyes snap open. She looks at me then—really looks at me—and something shifts in her expression.

Her face crumples, but it’s not the same kind of fear I was expecting. It’s something worse. Something deeper.

She chokes out my name, shaking her head frantically. “Finnick.”

I swallow hard. “Annie, it’s—”

“No.” She cuts me off with a strangled sob, her free hand reaching up to clutch the front of my shirt like she needs something solid to hold onto. Her tears are falling faster now, her breath coming in uneven gasps. “Finnick, it’s going to be you.”

I freeze.

“It’s going to be you,” she whispers again, her voice breaking, her fingers gripping me like I might disappear at any second. “Snow—he’s doing this to get rid of you. Not me. Not Mags. You.”

My stomach twists violently.

I want to tell her she’s wrong. That she’s just panicking, that she’s not thinking clearly. But I can’t. Because I know she’s right.

I’ve always known.

This was never about the other Victors. It was never about anything other than eliminating the ones Snow saw as threats. And I—whether I meant to or not—have become one of them.

I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry. My hands are shaking.

Annie is sobbing now, clinging to me with a kind of desperation I’ve never seen before.

“I can’t—I can’t do this without you,” she gasps.

Something inside me shatters.

I don’t think. I just pull her into me, wrapping my arms around her as tightly as I can. She buries her face in my shoulder, her whole body trembling against mine, and I press my lips to the top of her head, squeezing my eyes shut.

“I’m right here,” I whisper. “I’m right here.”

For now.

Annie shakes her head violently against my shoulder, her sobs coming in choked, gasping breaths. Her hands fist into my shirt, like if she holds on tight enough, she can stop this—stop the Games, stop Snow, stop the inevitable.

Mags shifts beside us, her wrinkled hand finding Annie’s back, rubbing slow, soothing circles. “Shh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, her voice as gentle as a calm tide. “We don't know anything yet.”

But Annie won't—can’t—be soothed. She lifts her head just enough to look at me again, her green eyes red-rimmed, desperate. “You can’t go,” she sobs, her fingers tightening in the fabric over my ribs. “Finnick, you can’t—”

I don’t know what to say.

Because what can I say?

That I won’t? That I’ll be fine? That I’ll make it out? That Snow doesn’t have it out for me specifically?

She would see through every single lie.

Annie lets out another wrecked sound, her hands pushing weakly against my chest, like she doesn’t know whether to hold me closer or shove me away from this nightmare entirely.

Mags tries again, her voice quiet but firm. “Annie, darling, deep breaths. Come on now.”

But Annie is shaking her head, her breathing uneven, her whole body trembling uncontrollably.

“He wants you dead,” she chokes out, staring at me, her vision blurry with tears. “Finnick, he wants you dead, and I can’t—I can’t—” Her voice breaks, and she presses her forehead against my shoulder, her sobs rattling through her. “I can’t lose you.”

My arms tighten around her, my own throat closing up.

“I know,” I whisper. It's the only thing I can say. “I know, Annie.”

She just keeps crying. Full-body, gut-wrenching sobs, like the weight of all of this is finally crashing down on her, like the fear and the grief and the sheer helplessness of it all is swallowing her whole.

Mags exhales softly, her hand steady on Annie's back, but even she knows there’s nothing she can say to make this better.

Because Annie’s right.

Snow wants me dead.

And there's nothing any of us can do to stop him.

“Annie,” I say, cupping her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing away the tears that keep slipping down her cheeks. But they won’t stop falling, no matter how many times I try. My heart clenches at the sight of her—her wide, tear-filled eyes, her trembling lips, the way her whole body is shaking like she can barely hold herself together.

“Everything is going to be okay,” I whisper, even though I know how empty the words sound. Even though I don’t believe them myself.

Annie shakes her head, a broken, breathless sound escaping her lips. “It won’t be.” Her voice is small, but it still cuts straight through me, carving out a hollow space in my chest.

I swallow hard, trying to push past the suffocating weight pressing down on me. “Nothing is set in stone yet,” I try to reassure her, but my voice wavers, betraying the lie.

She looks at me then, really looks at me, and something shifts in her expression. The raw fear is still there, but beneath it, something else—a terrible kind of certainty. Her fingers wrap around my wrists, gripping them like I might slip away at any second.

“Finnick,” she says, her voice suddenly serious despite the tears still slipping from her lashes. “I love you.” Her grip tightens, as if saying it out loud makes it more real, more terrifying. “I am so madly in love with you that it terrifies me because now I can’t imagine a life without you in it. And I can’t—I can’t do this.”

My breath catches.

She’s scared of going back. Of being reaped. Of the nightmare that awaits any Victor forced into that arena again. But in this moment, that isn’t what’s breaking her—it’s me. The realization that this time, it might be me who doesn’t make it out.

My heart shatters at the sound of her voice, at the way she’s looking at me like she’s already mourning me, like I’m slipping through her fingers and there’s nothing she can do to stop it. I want to tell her she’s wrong. That I’ll survive. That I have to. But my throat is tight, and a sob is rising in my chest, threatening to tear its way out.

I can’t fall apart. Not now. Not when she needs me to be strong.

So I move my hands from her face to her hands, pulling them against my chest, pressing them over my heart like I can make her feel how hard it’s beating for her. “Annie,” I manage, my voice barely more than a whisper. It shakes. I can’t help it. “If death do us part—”

“Finnick, we're not married,” she cuts in, a choked, broken thing, like the words physically hurt her.

I shake my head, unwilling to let her stop me, unwilling to let anything stop me from saying this, from making her understand.

“If death do us part,” I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper, my throat so tight it hurts to speak. I press our joined hands harder against my chest, as if I can carve this moment into our skin, as if I can make this promise real, unbreakable. My voice shatters on the next words. “I promise to find you in every lifetime.”

Annie makes a sound—a choked, broken sob that she tries to swallow down, but it still slips out. Her fingers clutch at mine, like she’s trying to anchor herself, like if she just holds on tight enough, she can stop this from happening.

But we both know she can’t.

I can feel her shaking through our joined hands, can feel her breath hitch unevenly. She squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head, her dark hair falling in loose waves around her face. “I don’t want another lifetime,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “I want this one. You.”

Her words gut me. I feel like I can’t breathe.

I pull her closer, pressing my forehead against hers, and for a moment, we just sit there, wrapped up in each other, in the sharp, unbearable weight of this moment.

“I know,” I whisper back. “I know.”

A fresh wave of tears spills down her cheeks. She sucks in a shaky breath, her hands gripping mine like a lifeline. “I don’t want you to go.”

I want to tell her I won’t. That I’ll find a way out of this. That I’ll fight, claw, kill if I have to, just to make sure I come back to her. But I don’t say anything. Because I don’t know if that will be true.

So instead, I tighten my grip on her hands, let my lips brush against her forehead, let her feel the truth of what I can promise.

“I love you,” I murmur.

She lets out a sob, turning her face so her nose brushes mine, so close our breaths mingle. “Then don’t leave me,” she pleads.

I wish I could promise that. I wish I could give her the one thing she needs to hear. But I can’t.

All I can do is hold her like this. Like maybe, for just a few seconds longer, we can pretend the world isn’t about to rip us apart.

===

Everything has quieted down for the most part. The room still feels heavy, weighed down by the grief and fear that lingers in the air like an approaching storm. The only sound is the occasional sniffle, the shallow breaths of those around me. But crying always makes Annie tired, and now, after everything, she’s drifted off, her breathing slow and unsteady against my chest.

She hasn’t had an episode this bad in a while. It drained her completely, pulling her under like the tide. I can still feel the tremors in her body, the way her fingers curled desperately into my shirt before she finally let go, slipping into exhausted sleep.

My hands move numbly through her hair, stroking through the tangled strands with a slow, rhythmic motion. It’s all I can do. I can’t stop what’s coming. I can’t change it. There’s nothing I can do to stop the pain that’s about to crash into our lives like a tidal wave.

Annie can’t go back. She’s been healing, getting better, but she’s not there yet—not fully. And the Games—going back into that nightmare—will unravel everything. It will drag her under again, deeper this time, until there’s nothing left of the girl I love. If the arena doesn’t kill her, it’ll break her in a way that can’t be fixed.

Or worse. She could die.

The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my forehead against the top of her head. She’s warm, solid, alive. But for how much longer?

None of this feels real. It’s like I’m watching a ship sink from the shore, knowing I can’t do anything to stop it.

I wonder what Johanna is thinking. She has to know she’s on Snow’s list, just like me. Just like all of us who have defied him, who haven’t fallen in line like we were supposed to.

But I wonder about the others—about Haymitch, Peeta, and Katniss.

Katniss is going in, no question about it. She’s the only female victor from Twelve, besides the one Mags told me about, but she’s not alive anymore. The odds were never in her favor.

But then it’s between Haymitch and Peeta. And Snow hates Haymitch. He’s always been a problem, someone who refuses to play by the Capitol’s rules. If Snow has a choice, he’ll make sure Haymitch goes in over Peeta.

But knowing Peeta—how much he loves Katniss—he’ll volunteer before he lets that happen.

And just like that, Snow has them both.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mags watching me. She doesn’t say anything, just lifts a hand, gesturing for me to come over. There’s something in her expression, something knowing, something final, that sends a chill through me.

Carefully, I shift Annie off my lap, settling her gently against the cushions. She stirs slightly, a small noise escaping her lips, but she doesn’t wake. I linger for a second, brushing a strand of hair from her face, then force myself to stand.

I make my way toward Mags, my legs feeling heavier with every step.
Mags doesn’t speak right away. She just watches me, her eyes tired but sharp, as if she’s looking straight through me, past the calm I’m trying to force onto my face. I swallow hard and glance back at Annie, curled into the chair, her breaths slow but uneven. Even in sleep, she’s not at peace.

Mags lets out a slow breath, then gestures for me to sit next to her. I do, the weight of everything pressing down on my shoulders like an anchor dragging me to the ocean floor.

“You already know, don’t you?” she finally says, her voice barely above a whisper.

I don’t answer right away. I can’t. Because saying it out loud will make it real.

But Mags knows me too well. She sighs again and reaches for my hand, squeezing it with a strength that startles me. “He’s going to make you go in.”

It’s not a question.

I nod once, my throat too tight to speak.

For a long moment, neither of us says anything. I just stare at our hands, at the way Mags’ fingers, wrinkled and rough with age, still hold a steadiness that I can’t seem to find in myself right now.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” she finally says.

I let out a bitter breath. “I’m not afraid to die.”

Mags shakes her head, giving me a knowing look. “I wasn’t talking about you.”

My jaw clenches. Of course she knows. She’s always known.

“I can’t lose her, Mags,” I whisper, barely able to say the words. “She can’t—she can’t go back.”

Mags is quiet for a moment, and I almost think she’s going to try to reassure me. But when she finally speaks, her voice is firm, unwavering.

“Then don’t let her.”

I look up at her sharply, but there’s no hesitation in her gaze. She means it.

“She can’t be reaped if someone else volunteers first.”

My heart pounds against my ribs. “Mags—”

She tightens her grip on my hand. “I’ve lived my life, Finnick.”

“No.” My voice cracks. “Don’t—don’t say that like it’s nothing.”

She gives me a small, sad smile. “It’s not nothing. It’s you. It’s her.”

I shake my head, my stomach twisting. “You can’t—”

“I won’t let her go back.” Her voice is suddenly fierce, stronger than I’ve ever heard it. “And neither will you.”

“No.” The word comes out broken, desperate. I take a step closer, my hands clenched into fists. “There has to be another way. We can think of something. There has to be another way where we all make it out.”

But Mags just watches me, waiting for me to catch up to what she already knows.

There isn’t another way.

And she’s already decided it’s going to be her.

“No.” My voice wavers, but I refuse to let it. “You don’t have to do this.”

She exhales softly, shaking her head, her expression filled with something I can’t name—something heavier than the ocean. “Of course I do.”

I feel like I can’t breathe. My hands tremble at my sides. I want to drop to my knees, to beg her not to do this, to find some loophole, some way out where none of us have to go.

But this is Snow.

There is no loophole.

Mags reaches out, presses a warm, calloused hand against my arm. “Finnick,” she murmurs, her voice so gentle it makes my chest ache. “I’ve lived my life. But you—you and Annie—you still have so much left.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath shuddering. “You’re not allowed to decide that.”

She laughs softly, but it’s sad. “I think I just did.”

“No,” I rasp, shaking my head so hard it makes me dizzy. “No, no, no. I won’t let you.” My voice cracks under the weight of it all, but I don’t care. “I’ll find another way. There has to be another way.”

Mags just watches me, calm as the tide before a storm. But I’m the storm, and I can’t stop the destruction ripping through me.

I clutch her hands, gripping them tight, as if holding onto her can keep her here, keep her safe. “Please,” I whisper, my breath shuddering. “Please don’t do this.”

She squeezes my hands, steady, unwavering. “Finnick.”

I shake my head. “I’ll—” My voice is a wreck, breaking apart like a ship against the rocks. “I’ll go to Snow. I’ll—” I choke on the words, on the sheer desperation clawing up my throat. “I’ll do whatever he wants. I’ll beg if I have to.”

A flicker of something—pain, anger, love—crosses Mags’ face, but it’s gone before I can grasp it. She shakes her head, gentle but firm. “You’ve done enough,” she murmurs. “More than enough.”

Tears blur my vision. My grip on her tightens. “Then let me do more.”

But she just smiles, that soft, knowing smile that has always felt like home. “You and Annie,” she says, her voice warm, steady, certain. “You deserve to live. To be happy. To be safe.”

A sharp, broken sound rips from my chest. “We can’t be safe without you.”

Her thumb brushes over my knuckles, like she’s trying to soothe a wound that will never heal. “You’ll have each other.”

I let out a quiet, fractured sob, because it’s not enough. It will never be enough.

Mags leans in, presses a kiss to my forehead like she used to when I was younger, when I was scared. “Take care of her,” she whispers.

I clutch at her hands like a lifeline, like if I just hold on tight enough, I can stop time. “Please,” I whisper one last time, the word almost inaudible.

Mags just watches me, her old, wise eyes steady and full of something I can’t bear to name. Resignation. Peace.

“Don’t do this,” I plead. My voice cracks, but I don’t care. “Please, Mags. I’ll—I'll find another way. We can talk to Plutarch, we can—”

“There is no other way, Finnick.”

“There is!” I insist, my voice growing frantic, wild. My hands tremble as I clutch hers tighter, as if I can anchor her here, keep her from slipping away. “You don’t have to do this! We can—We can figure something out—”

She shakes her head, and her hands, though smaller than mine, feel impossibly strong as she holds onto me. “There’s nothing to figure out,” she says gently. “You know that.”

She’s looking at me the way she always has—like she’s proud of me. Like she loves me. Like she knows this is goodbye.

And I want to scream.

“Mags—” I beg, my voice barely above a whisper.

She reaches up, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear like she did when I was younger. “It’s okay,” she murmurs.

“It’s not okay,” I snap, my voice breaking as the tears finally spill over. “Nothing about this is okay!”

She sighs, but it’s not exasperated or impatient. It’s understanding. “Finnick.”

I shake my head violently. “You can’t. I won’t let you—”

“You will,” she says firmly, her grip tightening on my hands. “Because you have to. Because Annie needs you. Because you both deserve more than this.”

My throat closes up. “You deserve more.”

Mags just smiles, and it shatters me. “I’ve lived my life,” she says simply. “You and Annie are just starting yours.”

A sob rips out of me, uncontrollable, shaking my entire body. “I need you.”

Her hands squeeze mine one last time. “Not as much as she does.”

I shake my head, trying to form words, trying to force anything out that will change her mind. My throat tightens, my chest heaving, my hands trembling like I’m fourteen again and everything feels too big, too cruel.

Mags has always been as immovable as the ocean itself, a force I’ve leaned on for ten years, ever since I lost my parents and the world became colder and emptier overnight. She’s been my anchor, my safe harbor, the one person who has never let me fall apart completely. And now… now I feel that familiar, terrifying weight of helplessness creeping back.

“I can’t lose my mom again,” I whisper, my voice small, breaking, like a boy lost in the aftermath of too many storms.

The words hang in the air, fragile and raw, and when I look up, I see it. Mags’ eyes—usually so steady, so unshakable—flicker with a sharp, painful break, as if my words have cut straight to the part of her that has carried me all these years. Her lips press together, trembling just enough to betray the weight behind her calm facade.

For a heartbeat, she looks like she might crumble, like she’s not just a steady hand in my life anymore, but someone who feels the threat of losing me as keenly as I feel the threat of losing her. Her hand tightens around mine, and I swear I can feel the tremor of her heartbeat through her fingers, as if she’s trying to anchor herself while carrying the unbearable ache I’ve just laid bare.

“I—Finnick,” she murmurs, her voice catching in a way I’ve never heard before.

“Mags, please,” I beg, searching her eyes.

She frowns. “My sweet boy,” she says, cupping my face. “You—”

“What’s going on?”

My heart lurches. This is my chance. If she knew what Mags was planning, she’d fight it with everything she had. She could convince Mags to find another way. We could find another way. I just have to say it.

I open my mouth—

And then Mags’ hands go from my cheek to around my wrist, stopping me before I can even get a word out.

The grip is gentle but firm, her skin papery and warm against mine. I turn to look at her, and she slightly shakes her head. Just once. Barely noticeable. But I see it. And I understand.

She’s asking me—no, telling me—not to say anything.

She doesn’t want Annie to know.

I feel sick. My throat closes up. My hands curl into fists against my legs.

Mags holds my gaze, waiting.

I swallow hard, my whole body trembling, but I can’t look away from her.

A promise.

She’s asking me to promise her.

My chest tightens, my stomach twists, but I give her the smallest, most broken nod.

Mags lets go of my wrist.

I turn back to Annie, forcing myself to breathe, forcing my face to stay neutral.

I can’t tell her.

I can’t save Mags.

And I feel like I might shatter apart.

Mags’ eyes flick to me once more, that quiet, determined look. It's the same expression she's had throughout all this—calm, resolute, as if she’s already made peace with the decision.

And I know, in my heart, that there’s no arguing with her. Not now. Not ever.

Annie looks between us, her expression growing more concerned, more confused. “Finnick…”

“I—” My voice cracks. I can’t find the words, and I know it’s killing her. It’s killing me, too.

I wish, with everything in me, that I could lie to her. That I could say things would be okay, that Mags would find another way. That we would all make it through this and live.

But the truth is, I don't know if we can.

“Nothing's going on,” I finally say, my voice quieter than I want it to be. “Mags is just… just trying to make sure you're okay.”

Annie stares at me for a moment, not fully convinced, but I can see the doubt creeping into her eyes. She knows something’s being kept from her, but she doesn’t press. Not yet.

“Okay,” she whispers softly, though I can tell she isn’t fooled.

I’m grateful for the silence that follows. For a moment, I don’t have to speak the words I can’t say. We just stay like that, Annie so close I can feel her heartbeat.

But inside, I’m suffocating.

Chapter Text

I hate these phones.

Half the time, they don’t even work, their wires corroded from years of neglect. The other half, they might as well be useless anyway—bugged, tapped, monitored by the Capitol’s ever-watchful eyes. Every word spoken into them is probably recorded, analyzed, dissected for any trace of rebellion.

But right now, I don’t care. If Snow wants to be more furious with me than he already is, let him. It’s not like I can do anything to change that. I just need to hear a voice that isn’t soaked in fear or burdened with impossible choices.

“Come on…” I mutter, gripping the receiver tighter as my foot taps against the wooden floor. The line rings, the dull, hollow sound filling the silence of the room.

Finally, the call connects. “What the hell do you want?”

The familiar bite in her voice makes me smirk, despite everything. “It’s me, Johanna.”

There’s a brief pause. “Oh,” she says, her tone shifting only slightly. “My bad, I thought this was Haymitch.”

I raise a brow, even though she can’t see it. “Haymitch ripped his phone out of the wall, remember?”

“A girl can dream,” she replies dryly.

I let out a short breath—maybe something close to a laugh, though it feels like a foreign thing right now. It’s ridiculous, really, how much I missed this, missed her, missed something that isn’t drenched in suffocating dread. But Johanna’s voice is grounding, sharp as ever, cutting through the noise in my head like an axe to a tree.

And for just a second, I let myself forget the storm brewing over us.

And she’s saved me more times than I can count.

Without her, I don’t think I would’ve made it through the past five years. Not with Annie stuck in Four, and me trapped in the Capitol—paraded out, painted up, smiling for people who’ll never understand what we lost down there in the sand and blood.

We’ve gotten close. Closer than I ever expected. She was sharp edges and fire when I met her—still is, most days—but somehow, we figured each other out. When the Capitol became unbearable, she was the one cracking jokes beside me at the Victory banquets. When the nights stretched too long, she’d come over and sleep on my floor instead of facing another nightmare alone. When I snapped, she snapped right back—never coddling, never flinching, just there. I trust her.

But it’s not just her.

Haymitch with his dry mutterings of wisdom that he pretends are just grumbles. Chaff with his booming laugh and steady hand on my shoulder when I needed to be reminded I wasn’t going insane. Even Mags—especially Mags—has remained the quiet anchor beneath it all in Four and in the Capitol.

We’ve all been glued together by grief and years and the Capitol’s golden chains. But somehow, it’s started to feel like family. A strange, broken one—but real.

I grip the phone a little tighter, resisting the urge to glance over my shoulder, even though I know I’m alone. I have to be careful. There’s no way of knowing who’s listening—whether it’s Peacekeepers, spies, or Snow himself, waiting for me to slip up.

“You heard, right?” I ask, frowning, keeping my voice steady.

“No, Finnick,” Johanna says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “I actually decided not to pay attention to the nationwide announcement from a president I have less-than-kind words for. What’s up? Care to fill me in?”

I roll my eyes. “Funny.”

“I was actually going to call you about that, but you beat me to it,” she continues, her voice losing some of its teasing edge. There’s something heavier beneath it, something we don’t dare say outright. “How’s Mags holding up? And Annie?”

I hesitate for half a second too long. Every word I say could be another weapon in Snow’s hands. If he’s still deciding between Mags and Annie, I can’t tip the scales. I can’t make him think one is more valuable than the other.

“They’re… managing,” I say, carefully choosing my words. “Mags is, you know, Mags.” The strongest person I know. The one who raised me after the death of my parents. The one who doesn’t deserve any of this. “And Annie… well, she’s trying.”

Johanna exhales sharply, like she already knows what that means. “Damn,” she mutters. “I hate this.”

That, at least, is something we can say freely. Hate. It’s not outright rebellion. Just a natural reaction, one Snow can’t punish us for—though he’d still try.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “Me too.”

There’s a pause, just long enough for the silence to feel heavy. I can hear Johanna breathing on the other end, and for a second, I wonder if she’s about to say something real—something we both know we can’t afford to say.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she exhales sharply. “You keeping it together?”

I let out a short laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “Depends on your definition of ‘together.’”

Johanna hums like she expected that answer. “Right.” Another pause. Then, “What are you gonna do?”

That question is too big. Too impossible. I scrub a hand down my face, letting out a slow breath. “I don’t know yet.”

“Well, you’d better figure it out fast,” she mutters. “We don’t exactly have time to sit around and—” She stops herself, but I know what she means. We don’t have time to wait for a miracle. There are no miracles in Panem, not for people like us.

“I know,” I say quietly.

Johanna sighs again, and I can picture her, pacing in her home in Seven, running a hand through her hair in frustration. “Snow’s making an example out of us,” she says, not even trying to hide her disdain now. “Like it’s not bad enough that we already won his damn Games. Now he’s throwing us back in just to make a point.”

“Johanna—” I warn.

“Oh, please,” she snaps. “What’s he gonna do? Kill me? Might as well at this point.”

“Don’t say that,” I say, my voice sharper than I mean for it to be.

She lets out a dry laugh. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

I press my lips together. She’s right. Of course, I’ve thought about it. All Victors do. But that doesn’t mean I want to hear her say it. It doesn’t mean I want it to be real.

“Just… be careful,” I say instead.

“I’m always careful,” she deadpans.

I snort. “That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told me.”

There’s another pause before she says, “Finnick.”

I know what she’s about to say. I don’t want to hear it.

“If it’s you,” she says slowly, carefully, “I’ll have your back.”

My throat tightens. If. As if there’s any question. As if we don’t both already know how this is going to play out.

“Same here,” I murmur.

The silence stretches between us, heavy and thick, like the weight of everything we can’t say is pressing down on the line. There’s no point in talking about things we can’t change. No use in pretending that this isn’t already set in stone.

I shut my eyes, listening to her breathing, steady but distant, like she’s trying to figure out something—anything—that can get us out of this. But there’s nothing. We both know that.

“Is Mags awake?” she finally asks, breaking the silence.

I huff, opening my eyes again. “Jo, you’re an hour ahead of me. It’s eleven where you live. What do you think?”

She scoffs. “Sorry for trying to be considerate.”

I can hear the roll of her eyes through the phone, and for half a second, I almost smile. Almost.

“I’m taking Annie is too?”

“It’s ten where I live.” I say, a weak attempt at dodging the question.

“You never know with that girl.”

“I’m hanging up,” I say, but I don’t mean it.

“You won’t,” Johanna replies easily, like she knows me better than I know myself.

And she does. She knows that as soon as I hang up, the silence will be unbearable. That for just a little while longer, I want to pretend we’re just talking like we always do, like nothing has changed. Like I’m not about to lose everything.

“But hey, think of it this way,” she says, slightly mischievously. “We finally get to meet Panem’s newest topic: The Star-crossed Lovers.”

I scoff. “It’s an act, Johanna.”

Johanna snorts. “Doesn’t everyone lie in their games to some degree? Yet again, this is coming from someone who lied to the whole nation during my Games.”

I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “It’s a game. A strategy. They’re playing it up because it’s what the audience wants.”

“And yet,” she muses, her voice almost amused but laced with something else, something knowing, “you sound an awful lot like someone trying to convince himself of that.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t have time to analyze a teenage romance, Johanna.”

She hums in mock agreement. “Of course not. You’re far too busy with your own doomed love story to worry about theirs.”

My breath catches, and for a second, I can’t speak.

“Too soon?” she asks, but there’s no teasing in her tone anymore.

I swallow hard. “Yeah.”

“You gonna take care of her?” Johanna asks, voice quieter now.

I don’t need to ask who she means. “Always.”

She sighs. “Good. Someone should get to have something good.”

It sounds dangerously close to something real, something vulnerable, so I lighten my tone. “And what about you? What do you want, Johanna?”

She clicks her tongue. “Please. I’m happy right where I am.”

I scoff. “Sure.”

“Dead serious,” she says, though there’s no conviction behind it. “Living the dream. Counting down the days until my next mandatory Capitol visit, waiting to see which of my friends gets killed first. What could be better?”

I don’t answer. Because I don’t have one.

The silence stretches between us again, heavier now.

Johanna exhales sharply. “Well, if nothing else, at least we’ll get front-row seats to whatever disaster this turns into.”

“Lucky us.”

Johanna must sense the shift before I even say anything else because she beats me to it. “Alright, Odair, what’s with the mood change? You sound like you’re about to ask me to be your best woman.”

I don’t laugh. “I have one thing to ask of you.”

“Oh, so this is serious,” she muses. “Alright, let me guess—you want me to help you finally perfect that stupid knot you’re always tying.”

I sigh. “No, Johanna—”

“Oh! You want me to tell you how I get my hair looking good every morning? Hate to break it to you, but even with your so-called charm, you’d look ridiculous with my style.”

I rub my temple. “Johanna.”

She gasps. “Wait, don’t tell me—you’re finally admitting I’m stronger than you.”

I exhale sharply through my nose, gripping the phone tighter. “If something happens to me—”

“Oh, here we go,” she mutters, but there’s the slightest hesitation in her voice.

“Johanna,” I press, my voice firmer now. “If I don’t make it back, I need you to look out for Annie.”

There’s a beat of silence. Just long enough that I know she heard me. Just long enough that I think, for a second, she might drop the act.

And then—

“Oh, great. Now you’re making me your last-minute babysitter. Should I start knitting her a security blanket while I’m at it?”

I close my eyes. “I’m serious.”

“And I’m seriously considering hanging up.”

“Johanna.”

She exhales, long and exaggerated. “Annie’s tougher than you think.”

“I know she is.” My voice drops, and I hate how raw it sounds. “But she’s still going to need someone.”

Silence.

Then she scoffs. “Finnick, you’re forgetting one crucial detail.”

“What?”

She sighs dramatically, and I can practically hear the smirk in her voice. “I know you District Four people are probably too busy drinking out of coconuts and swimming like fish in that salty ocean of yours to pay attention to the rest of us, but let me remind you of something about poor, weak, desolate, little District Seven—my home, by the way, in case you forgot—”

I blink. “Johanna, that’s not—”

But she raises her voice to bulldoze over me. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you some time to do the calculations—” she pauses, just long enough for me to think she might actually let me think before steamrolling right over me again, “—I’m the only living District Seven female victor, meaning I’m going back into the arena no matter what, seabrain.”

The weight of her words slams into me like a tidal wave, knocking the air from my lungs. She says it so casually, like it’s just another fact, like it doesn’t send a sickening dread curling in my stomach. It completely slipped my mind. Guilt hits me.

I grip the phone tighter. “Johanna—”

“No, no, don’t try to argue,” she interrupts, her voice sharp. “This isn’t some big revelation, Finnick. It’s just math. One girl, one boy. They’re dragging me back whether I like it or not.”

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until my chest starts to ache. She’s right. Of course, she’s right. The Quarter Quell reaps from the existing pool of victors. And in District Seven, that means her. No matter what.

She exhales, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of something else in her tone—something quieter. “So, you see, Odair, as much as I’d love to be your backup babysitter for Annie, I’ll be a little busy trying not to die.”

I press my fingers against my forehead, my pulse pounding beneath them. “I didn’t… I wasn’t thinking about—”

“Yeah,” she cuts in, her voice a little softer now. “I know. Katniss gets the spotlight it seems.”

She sighs after a while. “You’re so foreboding and this is coming from me of all people.”

“I was being serious, Johanna.” My voice is quieter now, but no less firm. “Promise me.”

She exhales sharply. “You’re Finnick fucking Odair. You’ll make it back.”

“That’s not a promise.”

She clicks her tongue against her teeth, irritated. “You’re really doing this, huh?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

Johanna is quiet for a long moment before she finally sighs. “In the arena?”

I hesitate, thinking of Mag’s plan. I can't reveal that over the phone. Not with Snow possibly hearing us right now. “In and out of the arena.”

She lets that sit for a moment, then exhales sharply. “Dammit, Finnick.”

“Promise me,” I repeat, because I need to hear it. I need to know she’ll do what I can’t if the worst happens.

There’s another long pause, but then—“Fine. If you die a tragic, heroic death, I’ll make sure Annie doesn’t drown in her own grief if I win. Happy?”

I close my eyes. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters. “But don’t die, Odair. Because I swear, if you make me do emotional support, I will personally kill you again in whatever afterlife exists.”

I smile faintly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Johanna is quiet for a moment, and for once, it’s not because she’s trying to come up with another sarcastic remark.

“I mean it,” she finally says, voice lower, rougher. “Don’t die.”

I swallow, my throat tightening. “I’ll do my best.”

“Your best better be good enough.”

It’s easier to let her joke about it, to let her act like this is something I have control over. But we both know that in the arena, survival isn’t about skill—it’s about luck, about Snow’s whims, about the story he wants to tell.

Still, I force some lightness into my voice. “You’re starting to sound like you care, Jo.”

“Please,” she snorts. “I just don’t want to deal with your grieving widow of a girlfriend.”

There’s a long pause. Not the kind that lingers comfortably, but the kind that stretches and tightens, winding like a taut rope between us. I can hear her breathing on the other end of the line—steady, controlled—but I know her well enough to recognize the storm brewing beneath it.

“Jo, I’m sorry,” I say, my voice low. The words feel inadequate, flimsy against the weight of what we both know is coming.

Johanna doesn’t answer right away. I wait, my fingers curling into a fist at my side, the silence pressing down on me. I know I’m most likely ending up in the arena again too. I’d be stupid to believe otherwise. But at least there’s a sliver of uncertainty—some twisted, razor-thin thread of maybe. Johanna doesn’t even get that.

She lets out a dry laugh, brittle and sharp. “Sorry? For what, exactly?” Her voice is light, mocking, but there’s an edge beneath it. “For reminding me? For pointing out the obvious?”

I open my mouth, but she barrels on before I can speak. “Because trust me, Odair, I don’t need a reminder. I’ve done the math, I’ve looked at the board, and guess what? The numbers don’t lie. One female Victor from Seven. Just one. That means there’s no twist, no chance, no miracle.”

Her voice wavers for the briefest second, but then she recovers, snapping back into something harder. “But hey, at least you get to sit there and wonder. Real fun game of ‘will they, won’t they’ for you, huh?”

I shake my head, even though she can’t see me. “Johanna—”

“No, really,” she cuts me off. “Must be nice, getting to hold onto that tiny little scrap of hope. Meanwhile, I’ve already had my death sentence stamped, sealed, and delivered.”

Her words hit like a punch to the gut, and I can’t argue with them. She’s right. I don’t know what to say that won’t sound hollow, useless.

“I wish it wasn’t like this,” I say instead, my voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, I think she might soften, but then she exhales sharply, the sound laced with exhaustion. “Yeah, well. Wish in one hand, spit in the other. See which fills up faster.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my fingers against my temple as if that will somehow steady the whirlwind of emotions threatening to pull me under. “Johanna…” I say her name softly, almost hesitantly, like I’m afraid of how she’ll respond.

Her voice shifts—gone is the sharp edge, the relentless sarcasm she wields like a weapon. What’s left is something quieter, stripped down, something raw. “Don’t apologize, Finnick.”

I swallow hard. “But it seems selfish for me to be asking you to save Annie when you're already trying to focus on not dying.” The words taste bitter in my mouth, because it’s the truth. I’m asking for a miracle from someone who barely has a chance to save herself.

“If it was anyone else asking me, sure, I’d be pissed. Like if it was Haymitch asking me to throw my life away for Katniss, I would be laughing in his face,” Johanna says, her voice carrying that familiar bluntness. But there’s no venom behind it. No real anger. Just certainty. “But it's you, and I know you’re just coming from a sense of urgency and care.”

I blink. I’ve never heard such words come out of Johanna Mason’s mouth before—honest, vulnerable, without a hint of a joke to hide behind.

“I trust you,” I say, my voice quieter now. “That’s why.”

She chuffs out something like a laugh, though it lacks any real amusement. “That was mistake number one, Finnick.”

I shake my head even though she can’t see it, gripping the phone tighter. “No, Jo. I know you don’t really believe in that kind of stuff, but seriously, you really matter to me.”

There’s a pause, one that stretches just long enough to make me wonder if I’ve said too much. If I’ve crossed some invisible line with her.

Then Johanna snorts, the sound abrupt, almost forced. “Damn, Odair, you trying to make me cry? Because I hate to break it to you, but that’s not happening.”

I exhale a weak laugh, but there’s no real humor in it. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She shifts on the other end, and I hear the faintest creak—maybe a chair, maybe the floorboards beneath her feet. “Listen,” she says, her voice quieter now, more grounded, “I give you a lot of shit, and I know I’m not exactly the comforting type, but I get it. I do.”

I swallow hard. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” There’s no hesitation. “You and Annie—you’re different. She’s different. And if there’s one person I wouldn’t mind risking my neck for, it’s her.” She pauses. “And maybe you, if I’m feeling generous.”

A lump lodges itself in my throat, but I force out, “That’s big of you.”

Johanna clicks her tongue. “I know. Try not to make a big deal out of it.”

I can’t help but let out a shaky laugh, the sound almost foreign to me. It’s a small relief in the midst of everything, but I cling to it. The world feels a little less suffocating with her words.

“I won’t,” I say, though the smile that tugs at my lips is half-hearted, worn thin from the heaviness hanging over us both.

She lets out a sharp breath, almost like a sigh, but it’s not quite. “Good. Because I’ve got enough on my plate without dealing with your emotional baggage.”

I chuckle, but there’s a bitterness to it, an edge of guilt I can’t quite shake. “Yeah. I get it.”

For a moment, neither of us says anything. The silence is comfortable, not strained, but still filled with the weight of everything we’ve been talking around.

“Finnick,” Johanna’s voice cuts through, quieter now, almost careful. “You’ll get her out. I know you will.”

I swallow, my chest tight. “I hope so.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment. “You better,” she finally mutters, sounding almost like she’s teasing—but there’s something more there, something serious hidden in her words.

“I will,” I whisper back. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe it.

There’s a long pause on the other end, and I almost wonder if she’s going to say something else, but Johanna’s the type of person who doesn’t waste words unless she’s sure they matter.

“I mean it, Finnick,” she finally adds, her voice quieter than before, and for the first time, I hear something genuine in it. Not a joke, not a tease, just a raw honesty that cuts through the sharpness of everything else. “You’ve got this.”

I nod to myself, even though I know she can’t see it. Maybe it’s stupid, but hearing her say that—just those simple words—feels like a lifeline I didn’t even know I needed.

“I’ll do everything I can,” I reply, my voice low. “For her. For both of you.”

“I know you will,” Johanna says, almost with a hint of a smile in her voice. “Just don’t go making me regret this, alright?”

I can’t help but smile at that, despite everything. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

There’s another beat of silence, but this time, it doesn’t feel heavy. It’s a shared understanding, an unspoken promise. The weight of what we’re facing hasn’t gone away, but somehow, it feels just a little easier to carry.

“Alright, then.” Johanna’s voice shifts again, and I can almost picture her rolling her eyes, the usual playful edge returning. “I’m gonna go—don’t go getting all mushy on me, Odair. I’m not about to start a whole ‘I love you’ moment here. You’ve got enough of that to deal with already.”

I laugh, the sound quieter this time, but it feels real. “No promises.”

“You’re a pain in the ass,” she mutters, but there’s affection in the words, the kind that only comes from a bond that’s been forged in fire. “I’ll talk to you later. Don’t screw this up, Finnick.”

“I won’t.”

“See you in a couple days, probably,” she says.

Something in my chest twists.

I swallow hard. “Yeah. See you soon.”

The line clicks dead, and I’m left staring at the receiver, gripping it like I could will something more out of the conversation. Like if I hold on long enough, Johanna will still be on the other end, and we can keep pretending we’re just talking like always, that nothing’s wrong. But the silence rushes in fast, filling every space left behind, pressing down on me until I exhale sharply and drag a hand down to my chin.

Less than a week. That’s all I have. Just a handful of days before my life—our lives—are thrown into the current, with no way to fight against the pull. And I know, deep down, that whatever happens next won’t be for the better.

I sigh again, setting the phone down with more care than I should. It’s just an old piece of technology, likely bugged, barely working. And yet, it was a tether to something familiar.

The house is eerily quiet as I move through it, the weight of my own footsteps loud against the stillness. Even the floorboards seem hesitant to creak, as if they, too, don’t want to disturb the uneasy calm settling over everything.

By the time I reach the stairs, exhaustion starts to settle into my bones, dragging at me like heavy chains. Sleep won’t fix anything, but maybe, for a few hours, it’ll muffle my thoughts, let me exist in a space where none of this is real.

I reach Annie’s door and hesitate. A part of me knows she’s fine, that there’s no real reason to check, but still, I push it open just slightly, just enough to see her.

And there she is. Peaceful. Unaware.

Her chest rises and falls in slow, steady rhythms, her face soft in sleep. It’s unfair, how calm she looks, when I know the storm that’s coming for us. But at the same time, seeing her like this—it makes something in me settle.

I step inside, careful, like if I move too suddenly, I might wake her and shatter the moment. Lowering myself onto the edge of her bed, I reach out, letting my fingers gently brush against her hair. It’s the lightest touch, barely there, but it’s enough. Enough to anchor me, even if just for a second.

Her presence alone is enough to make me feel the slightest bit better, like the world isn’t completely falling apart around me.

I exhale slowly, my voice barely above a whisper.

“What am I gonna do with you, Cresta?”

But she doesn’t answer. She just breathes, lost in dreams. And for now, that’s enough.

Annie shifts slightly in her sleep, her brow pinching just the slightest bit before smoothing out again. I hesitate, watching her closely, but she doesn’t wake. Instead, she lets out a quiet breath, curling further into the blankets, her fingers barely twitching as if reaching for something unseen.

I should go. I should let her sleep and not risk waking her. But I don’t move.

Instead, I just sit there, staring at her, my hand still lightly tangled in her hair.

She has no idea.

She has no idea that in less than a week, her life could be ripped apart. That Mags has already decided for her. That I’ve spent the past few hours trying to figure out how to stop something that feels inevitable.

And worse, she has no idea that I might not be there to protect her.

I exhale sharply, tilting my head back slightly as I stare at the ceiling, as if it’ll give me answers I don’t have.

What am I gonna do?

My fingers twitch, and I pull my hand away from her, letting it rest in my lap. I should leave before I get too caught up in my thoughts—before my own worries start bleeding into this moment, ruining it. But I stay. Just for a little longer.

Outside, the ocean crashes softly against the shore, the sound distant but familiar. A reminder of home. A reminder of everything we stand to lose.

Annie stirs again, this time shifting just enough for her face to turn toward me. The faint glow of moonlight slipping through the curtains highlights her features, making her look even softer, more delicate. It’s cruel, really.

I let out a slow sigh, the corner of my lips tugging upward, but it’s faint—barely there. More habit than anything else.

We feel like an expiration date. Like something fragile, slipping through my fingers no matter how tightly I try to hold on. Like a wave pulling back from the shore, already retreating before I can even brace myself for the loss.

So I might as well cherish every moment we have.

Carefully, I ease myself onto the bed beside her, trying not to stir her from the peaceful sleep I already envy. The mattress shifts slightly under my weight, but she doesn’t wake.

I press my face against her chest, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath my cheek. It’s grounding, steady, real. My arms wrap around her waist, pulling her close, as if holding her tightly enough might keep the world from stealing this from us. From her.

Her body is warm, the soft rise and fall of her breathing soothing in a way I don’t quite understand. My grip tightens instinctively, as if some part of me is afraid that if I let go, even for a second, she’ll disappear. That I’ll wake up tomorrow and this—us—will be nothing more than a memory.

I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling the faint scent of saltwater that always lingers on her skin, the scent of the sea, of home.

Of everything I stand to lose.

Annie stirs slightly, shifting against me, but she doesn’t wake. Her fingers brush against my arm, curling loosely, like even in sleep, she knows I’m here. Knows I need this.

I swallow hard, pressing my face deeper against her, like I can hide from everything closing in on me. From the clock ticking down, from the Reaping, from the train ride that will take me away from her. From the arena.

I don’t want to go.

I don’t want to leave her.

But I will. Because I have no choice.

My grip tightens around her waist, and this time, she shifts a little more, murmuring something incoherent under her breath. Her voice is soft, drowsy, but it makes something ache in my chest. I wonder what she’s dreaming about. If she senses, even now, that something is wrong.

I press a kiss to her collarbone, just a small thing, barely there. “I’m sorry,” I whisper against her skin.

She sighs in her sleep, nestling closer to me, and I close my eyes again, pretending for just a little while longer that we exist in a world where nothing is looming over us. Where I’m not slipping away like sand through her fingers. Where we aren’t standing on the edge of something we can’t come back from.

Where I’m not about to break her heart.

The thought creeps in, unwelcome, unwanted. But it’s there.

What if—on the off chance—Annie goes?

I’ve been trying not to think about it. Not really. I tell myself it won’t happen, that it can’t. That Mags won’t let it. That maybe, somehow, we’ll get lucky.

But I know better than to believe in luck.

Plutarch is working on something. A plan. A rebellion. Some way out of this. But if Annie gets reaped, I know how this ends for me. I won’t be playing any long game. I won’t be worrying about whatever symbol the rebels are trying to hold onto.

I’ll be dead.

Because there’s no world in which I make it out of that arena without making sure Annie does first. No scenario where I let her fight for her life while I stand by. I’ll burn through every weapon, every trick, every last ounce of my strength if it means she gets out. And if I die in the process—well, I was never supposed to live long anyway.

But if she dies…

I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath coming out shakier than I want it to.

If she dies, I won’t be able to do it. Any of it. I won’t care about Plutarch’s plan or Snow or the war they want to wage. I won’t care about a future without the Capitol, because my future will already be gone.

I think I’d lose myself entirely. I’ve spent the last few years pretending to be something I’m not, slipping into the Capitol’s version of me like a second skin. If Annie is gone, I think I’d stop pretending altogether. I think I’d let the Capitol finish what they started.

Maybe I’ll run. Maybe I’ll disappear. Maybe I’ll let Snow win, let him drag me back into that sick, twisted life of his, because what difference will it make anymore? At least the life Snow gave me, with all those hands touching me, I can maybe convince myself it’s Annie, even if it’s for a sliver in time.

I tighten my grip around Annie, grounding myself in her warmth, her presence. She’s here. She’s breathing.

But what if she isn’t, soon?

I let out a slow breath, forcing the thought back, locking it away. It won’t happen. I won’t let it.

And if I die instead… well. At least Johanna will be there for her. I made sure of that.

Annie shifts again, and suddenly, her legs tangle with mine, like she’s instinctively pulling me closer in her sleep.

I tense for half a second, but then I melt into it, letting my arms tighten around her waist.

Then, in a quiet, sleepy voice, she mumbles, “Why’d you get up so late?”

I blink, taken aback. How does she even know? She’s been asleep this whole time.

I hesitate for a second before answering. “I was talking to Johanna.” My voice is barely above a whisper.

Annie hums softly, nuzzling her face against my head. “About what?”

I press my lips together, pushing back the truth. I can’t tell her about the promise I made. Can’t tell her that Johanna is my backup plan if I don’t make it.

“Just… how she’s taking the news.” It’s not a lie. Not really.

Annie exhales slowly, her breath warm against my skin. “She okay?”

I let out a quiet chuckle. “As okay as Johanna Mason ever is.”

She hums again, but her grip around me tightens, her body pressing closer like she knows there’s something I’m not saying.

I don’t say anything else. I just hold her. Because for now, this moment is ours.

Annie shifts slightly, her breath warm against my hair as she exhales. Her fingers, still curled into my shirt, flex just a little, like she’s debating whether to say something.

“Are you okay?” she murmurs again, her voice thick with sleep.

I hesitate. She can’t see my face, not with my head resting against her chest, but somehow, I think she knows. Annie always knows.

“Yeah,” I say eventually, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Just thinking.”

She hums softly, her fingers threading through my hair now, slow and soothing. “You think too much.”

A ghost of a smile flickers across my lips. “Someone has to.”

Annie doesn’t answer right away. She shifts a little, her legs still tangled with mine, and I feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing beneath me. For a moment, I think she’s fallen asleep again, but then she speaks, so soft I almost don’t catch it.

“I don’t want to think about it anymore,” she whispers. “Not tonight.”

I press my lips together, my arms tightening around her. “Okay,” I say, voice barely audible against her skin.

She exhales slowly, her fingers still moving through my hair, and I let my eyes slip shut.

I stay very still, listening to her breathe.

A few weeks ago I asked her to be my girlfriend. We were already “us” in all the important ways, but I wanted the word—wanted to press it into her like proof. She blinked, that beautiful smile, and said yes. The memory is small and ridiculous and it keeps warming me like a secret pocket of sunlight.

But the Quell was never a celebration. It’s a purge, and I know that in my bones. Snow doesn’t do randomness; he does theatre with a scalpel. If he wants to teach me a lesson, he’ll pick the thing that hurts most: the person I’d said was mine. That’s the part that sits under everything now—the calculus of cruelty that makes my throat go tight.

I press my cheek into Annie’s shoulder and let the steady rise of her breath try to steady me. I don’t turn this into a plan or a speech. I let the fear sit there, plain and honest—the urn, the officials, the neatness of Snow’s cruelty. I let myself imagine the worst for half a heartbeat and then shove it away, because it doesn’t help.

I did the one petty, defiant thing I could: I named us. She said yes. That little coin of a memory is mine alone. If the draw is rigged, if they pick me and pick her because taking us apart convinces everyone else to bow down—then at least I got that. At least I got to say it out loud, to make it real in the tiny stubborn way people keep things alive.

For now I hold her. For now the tragic story they’ll try to tell hasn’t started. For now there’s only the warmth of her, the rhythm of her heart under my face, and the quiet, dangerous comfort of the word she gave me back.

Chapter Text

In theory, this might look suspicious.

Thirteen Victors—all of us known to have caused trouble in the past, some more openly than others—showing up to the same Capitol party in the same season? The same Quarter Quell season, no less?

Johanna, Haymitch, Beetee, Chaff… hell, even Mags. They’re not exactly the faces the Capitol expects to see sipping glitter-laced champagne or smiling for cameras unless someone dragged us there by force. Normally, these events are quiet, hollow things—just me, and a few desperate social climbers hoping proximity to a Victor will make them interesting. Everyone else has long stopped pretending they enjoy these things.

But this visit is different. It's necessary. A calculated appearance to justify the gathering. A performance. We’ll play our parts—smile, wave, make shallow conversation with shallow people—and all the while, we’ll be watching, listening, planning.

Maybe the Capitolites will see our attendance as a desperate reach for sponsors. Preparing for the inevitable. That’s the story we’re feeding them, anyway. Thirteen former victors lining up to put on a show before one—or more—of us is thrown back into the pit.

I hate how plausible it sounds.

Mags and I had to leave Annie behind to make this trip, and even though she said she understood, it doesn’t sit right. She’s already scared, already tense, and this won’t help. But the less she knows, the better. If she catches even a glimpse of what we’re really planning, it’ll unravel her.

We trickle in one by one—like always. Staggered arrivals, no obvious groupings. We nod politely to the Capitol citizens we pass in the corridor, let them assume whatever they want: that we’re bored, nostalgic, trying to stretch our names a little longer before they’re forgotten. That we’re just like them. That we still play by their rules.

When it’s finally my turn to disappear into the crowd, I do so with practiced ease. Flashing a grin at a stylist I don’t remember the name of. Giving a nod to someone I know hosted a segment on my last Games. All to keep suspicion low. They eat it up, the attention, the performance. They always have.

Then I slip out of the main hallway and down the quieter passage behind the kitchens, where the staff moves too quickly to notice one more figure weaving past them. The meeting room is tucked into a part of the building that used to be used for interviews, back when Victor tours mattered more than peacekeeper crackdowns.

I reach the door and knock—three quick taps, two slow, one more tap. Same rhythm we’ve used for months now.

A pause, then the door creaks open. I cast one last glance over my shoulder—no footsteps, no shadows. Good. Then I step inside.

It’s cooler in here. The walls are thick, soundproofed. The Capitol’s garish light and noise is cut off entirely. Inside the room, a long table stretches from one end to the other, newly installed since the last time I was here. Fifteen chairs. Bright but controlled lighting overhead. A whiteboard. A screen. It looks almost like a real conference room now—official, sterile. Like we're trying to make this feel less like a secret.

Plutarch stands near the far end, flipping through papers that look deliberately blank from where I’m standing. Mags is seated a few chairs down, next to Chaff, who’s already grumbling under his breath. Haymitch has claimed a spot across from them, leaning back with his arms crossed like he’s waiting for someone to give him a reason to leave.

Wiress sits near Beetee, both of them hunched in quiet discussion, their fingers twitching over some kind of wiring diagram. Cecilia is near them, silent but watchful. Gage and Lucia, the morphlings from Six, are tucked into the corner—they rarely speak, but they’re always listening. I’ve learned not to underestimate them.

Only three left to arrive—Johanna, Blight, and Seeder. One of them who likes to take their time. Or maybe they just like making an entrance.

“Take a seat, Finnick. Anywhere,” Plutarch says, his voice calm but clipped, the way it gets when he's calculating.

I nod and move to sit beside Mags, just across from Haymitch. Her hand finds mine briefly under the table, just a squeeze. A pulse of reassurance. We don’t need words.

“Can we get this rolling?” Haymitch mutters, glaring at the door like it personally offended him.

“Not everyone is here yet,” Beetee replies without looking up from his notes.

Haymitch sighs, leaning forward just enough to snag his flask from the inside of his jacket. “Then someone pour me a drink before I say something stupid.”

“Too late,” Chaff mutters.

The quiet snort of laughter that ripples around the room breaks some of the tension, but it’s still there—coiled under the table, behind our eyes. We’re all thinking it.

The Quarter Quell is coming.

And the Capitol doesn’t know that for once, we’re planning something too.

Haymitch takes a swig from his flask, grimacing like he always does, even though we all know by now it’s just for show. He likes people to think he hates it. I’m not sure he ever hated the burn as much as he hated needing it.

Chaff leans back in his chair, legs sprawled in front of him like he owns the place. “Anyone want to place bets on how late Johanna’ll be this time? I say ten minutes”

“She’s probably already in the building,” Cecilia says with a faint smile.

Wiress murmurs something I can’t quite catch, and Beetee gives her a nod like he understands. “She said the odds of her being late are directly proportional to how much attention she got at the party.”

“Sounds about right,” Mags says, her voice dry but amused.

Lucia giggles quietly from the corner, picking at the edge of her sleeve. “She insulted a woman’s scarf.”

“She’s definitely annoyed already,” Haymitch chuffs.

Beetee glances up from his notes, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t draw too much suspicion. Snow’s not stupid. If too many of us start showing up at once and causing scenes…”

“Then we’re already sunk,” Haymitch finishes for him. “Let’s not pretend we’re gonna stay subtle forever.”

“But we’ve bought time,” Plutarch says, looking at his watch. “And every minute counts.”

Silence follows for a beat. The kind that fills a room like fog, heavy and quiet and everywhere at once.

Mags shifts slightly beside me, and I can feel her watching me from the corner of her eye. I know what she’s thinking. About Annie. About the quiet possibility none of us have voiced yet—but we’re all thinking it.

A soft knock breaks the quiet. Three short, two long—the signal we’ve all memorized.

Woof taps the button to open the door, and Seeder steps in with a nod, her hanging her long coat on the hanger.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says, brushing her braids off her shoulder. “Capitol escort wouldn’t stop talking about her vintage eyelashes.”

“You’re fine,” Plutarch says. “Still waiting on two more.”

Seeder gives him a tight smile and settles into the chair beside Cecilia, across from Beetee. She catches my eye for a moment and gives the smallest dip of her chin. It’s not much, but it’s enough. We’re all here for the same reason.

“So,” she says, picking up the thread of conversation as if she never missed a beat, “how many do we think Snow’s actually hoping come out of this alive this time?”

Haymitch snorts. “Just one. He learned his lesson.”

“Not Katniss,” Chaff mutters. “I swear, it’s like he has a personal vendetta against her.”

Plutarch doesn't disagree. “That’s why we have to get her out.”

Another knock. Same rhythm. Beetee’s leans over to tap the button. He opens it for Blight, who ducks inside with an exasperated look.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, dragging a hand through his messy hair. “Got cornered by a stylist. Thought I was about to be force-fed glitter.”

Blight drops into the nearest open chair with a groan, pulling at the stiff Capitol collar strangling his neck.

“Glitter’s the least of it,” Chaff says dryly. “They tried to give me a scented beard oil. Told me it would make me more ‘sponsor friendly.’ Smelled like a fruitcake set on fire. I don’t even have a beard.”

“Maybe you’d get more sponsors if you did smell like dessert,” Haymitch mutters, flask already tilted back to his mouth.

“Please,” Seeder says, wrinkling her nose. “All that fake sugar and perfume? You’d be better off soaking in pig’s blood. At least that’s honest.”

Beetee chuckles softly beside her, eyes still on the papers in front of him. “What’s honest doesn’t sell here. They want symbols, not people. Which is why we have to stay ahead of them. Snow’s only playing the long game if he thinks he’ll win it.”

Mags nods beside me, arms crossed tightly. There’s a tension in her jaw I don’t miss. Annie had looked the same way when I left. I wonder if she’s still pacing, still trying to hide how afraid she is. She doesn’t know what this party really means. She thinks it’s just another Capitol show, not the start of everything that could destroy us—or save us.

A lull settles over the table for a moment. The kind that makes every shuffle of paper sound too loud, every breath a little tighter.

Then—

Another knock. Same rhythm.

Plutarch doesn’t even look up. “That’ll be her.”

The door swings open again, and there’s Johanna, her hair sticking out like she’d purposely avoided every Capitolite that came near her. She tosses an apple core into a decorative bowl near the door like it’s a trash can, then makes her way to the table with a lazy grin.

“Well,” she says, sliding into the last empty chair beside me and propping her feet on the table, “sorry for being late. Had to ditch some bimbos. Figured murder wasn’t a great look in the middle of a ballroom.”

“Let’s begin,” Plutarch says, his voice cutting through whatever else she was about to say. “We all know what’s coming. The twist has been confirmed. The Quarter Quell will be a reaping from the existing pool of victors.”

No one reacts. We’ve all known. We’ve known for days—weeks, some of us. But hearing it aloud in this room makes it real in a different way. Final. Inescapable.

“Snow’s not hiding what this is,” Beetee says. “It’s a purge. He’s thinning the herd before it gets too wild to control.”

“And we’re giving him what he wants if we let it happen,” Haymitch mutters.

“So we won’t,” Plutarch says. “We’re going to use this Quell. Turn his purge into our spark.”

His words hang in the air, thick with tension and resolve. A few heads nod around the table, slowly, like we’re all coming to the same conclusion at once: this isn’t just a game anymore. This is war.

“Although the Reaping hasn’t been officially announced…” Cecelia speaks up, her voice gentle but firm, “I think it’s very plausible that every single person in this room will get reaped. Besides Katniss and Peeta.”

She glances around, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “We’re the ones he’s afraid of. The ones who’ve always had too much fire in us to sit quietly. Johanna. Chaff. Haymitch. Finnick. Even me. This rebellion wasn’t built overnight. It’s been something since before some of you guys were born.”

“There’s no way both of them—Katniss and Peeta—don’t get reaped,” Chaff agrees, leaning forward on his elbows. His one good eye flickers with something hard. “It’s too neat. Snow wants control, and nothing says control like dragging those two lovebirds back into the arena for another show.”

“Well doesn’t Snow hate Haymitch too?” Woof asks, blinking through the rim of his glasses. “I mean, Haymitch pulled off that win when he wasn’t supposed to. Made a fool out of the Capitol.”

“Yeah, and then he made it worse by keeping Katniss and Peeta alive,” Chaff mutters. “I’d say his head’s on the chopping block right next to theirs.”

Plutarch doesn't argue. He just shifts his weight and stares down at the floor like it’s a chessboard. Like he already knows where all the pieces will fall.

“He knows how much Peeta matters to Katniss—” Cecilia starts, but she’s cut off.

“Or not.” Johanna’s voice slices through the low murmur like a knife.

Everyone turns.

She’s lounging in her chair like she hasn’t just thrown a spark on a pile of dry twigs, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in that classic Johanna don’t-give-a-damn way. “What?” she says, with a shrug. “Peeta's head over heels, sure. But Katniss? Not buying it. Sorry.” She gives a lazy shrug, the smirk on her face enough to make the air in the room feel ten degrees colder. “You know, the girl barely knew how to hug anyone until the Games. Now she's kissing on command? You call that love?”

The words hit like stones, each one landing with a quiet thud, before the room falls into silence. For a moment, no one speaks, as if we're all waiting for the storm to pass or for someone else to say something, anything.

Johanna doesn’t give us the time. She leans back further into her chair, her gaze cutting through the room like a blade. “She’s seventeen, getting married? Seventeen?” Her voice hardens. “Stupid. All of it. Love—or whatever she’s trying to fake—is a joke. Makes fools out of everyone.”

A beat. And then, I feel it: the weight of it. The truth that no one wants to admit, the quiet agreement, creeping in under the surface. Johanna has a point.

I clear my throat, my voice quieter than I intended. “There’s no way she actually loves him.”

Katniss Everdeen. The girl who defied the Capitol. The Girl on Fire. And now, she’s being used. A pawn in a game that, at its core, has nothing to do with love at all. Her punishment for defying Snow is to marry someone who loves her while I will never have the luxury of a relationship, a marriage, a future with Annie—not like that. Not publicly. Not without fear.

No one argues, not at first.

Mags glances sideways at me. But she doesn’t contradict me.

Johanna raises a brow at me, smirking faintly like she’s pleased someone else finally called it. “See? Finnick gets it.”

Cecelia frowns, troubled. “They’ve been through a lot. Maybe it’s complicated.”

“Everything with her is complicated,” Johanna mutters. “But if you ask me, she’s not in love. She’s surviving. Not every girl needs to be tied down with someone just to sound interesting.”

A silence settles, heavy and immediate, the kind that crackles with something unspoken. Across the table, a few pairs of eyes flash toward me—not surprised, but wary. Not because of what I said. Because I said it out loud.

Haymitch leans back in his chair with a groan, rubbing a hand over his face like we’re a bunch of unruly kids testing his patience. “Whether she loves him or not doesn’t matter. What matters is that she chose him in that arena. That image stuck. And Snow hates nothing more than a symbol he can’t control.”

Beetee folds his hands together, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers, eyes sharp with thought. “Katniss and Peeta are dangerous together—not because of their feelings, but because of what they represent. He doesn’t need them to be in love. He just needs the country to believe it.”

Wiress hums low under her breath, rocking a little in her chair. “Not love. Just the illusion.”

“If we’re talking about love, we should be talking about another set of people,” Johanna mutters under her breath.

Plutarch doesn’t disagree. In fact, he nods slowly, like this has all been turning over in his head for months. “That’s why—if it comes down to it—we’ll need to protect her. At all costs.”

The room stills.

It’s not a suggestion. It’s a quiet command disguised as logic.

“You mean we?” Johanna asks, eyebrows raised. “As in us? You want us to go in there and die for her?”

“No one’s saying die,” Plutarch begins, but Johanna’s already laughing. Dry. Bitter. Disbelieving.

“Yes, you are. That’s exactly what you’re saying. At all costs.” She leans forward, fury blazing in her eyes. “Let me make something clear: I’m not laying my life down for some teenage girl I don’t even like. Who shoots arrows and gets moody and can’t make up her mind about who she’s pretending to love this week. The only reason I have some respect for her is because of what she did for that little girl. But that only goes so far.”

“She’s more than that,” Lucia says softly.

Johanna rolls her eyes. “Yeah? Tell that to the people who actually have something to lose.”

I shift in my seat, jaw tight. “And what, I’m just supposed to throw myself into the fire while Annie’s back home alone—if she doesn't get reaped? Watching. Waiting. Hoping I don’t get my throat slit for a cause she doesn’t even understand?” I glance at Plutarch. “I’ve already played Snow’s game once. I won. I still continue to pay my price. Now you want me to go back and offer myself up again?”

No one answers.

Across the table, Chaff mutters something under his breath and takes a swig from the flask he’s halfheartedly tried to hide.

Blight snorts, arms crossed. “Maybe we should just send a fruit basket with Katniss into the arena. Save us all the trouble.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Plutarch says, exasperated. “I’m not asking for martyrdom. I’m asking for strategy. If the arena comes down to it—and it will—we have to ensure she survives. The rebellion needs her alive. That’s the bottom line.”

Johanna scoffs. “So the rest of us are what—cannon fodder with nice hair?”

“No,” Beetee says, voice low but clear. “You’re the reason she’ll make it out. You all are. That’s the role we play now. Not victors. Not pieces. But protectors.”

Silence stretches for a beat too long.

I look around the room—at the scars, the stories, the haunted eyes—and wonder how many of us are going to die trying to keep one girl alive.

And how many of us are willing to.

Johanna slams her chair back as she stands, hands on the table, leaning forward like she’s ready for a fight. “I didn’t sign up to die for some girl with a bow just because she got lucky and set a dress on fire. You want her to be your mockingjay? Great. Paint her wings. Give her speeches. But don’t ask me to go back into that nightmare and lay down so she can step over my rotting corpse.”

“I’m with her,” I mutter, arms crossed tight over my chest. “I didn’t survive the Games, sell my soul, live through the Capitol’s parties and parades and—” My voice falters for half a second. “I didn’t do all that just to die while Annie watches them drag my body through the dirt. You want Katniss alive? Find another way.”

Blight leans back, arms behind his head. “Hell, maybe if she was a little nicer I’d consider it. But last I checked, she barely talks to any of us. Looks at us like she’s wondering how many of us she can outrun.”

“Not all of us need a reason,” Cecelia says gently. “Some of us have kids. Families. If this rebellion works, it means they grow up safe. If Katniss is the face of that, then I’ll do what I have to.”

“I second that,” Seeder adds, her tone calm but firm. “This isn’t about liking her. It’s about what she represents. The Games end with her.”

“It better not be a popularity contest,” Chaff mutters, “because I’d rather follow a wet sock than another Capitol plan. But I’ll play the game if it gets me out of this cycle.”

Woof doesn’t say anything, just stares at the table like he’s already back in the arena.

Lucia traces lines on the wood grain with a trembling finger. Gage chews on a nail. Even Haymitch, who usually has something snide to throw, looks like he’s trying to disappear into his chair.

Plutarch’s eyes flick around the room, taking it all in. The tension, the anger, the fear, the fatigue. Then he stands.

“Enough,” he says, and his voice has weight now. Not yelling. Not pleading. Just… steady. Final. “You think I’m asking you to die for her. I’m not. I’m asking you to stay alive for her. There’s a difference.”

Haymitch sighs. “Plutarch is right. Some of you might not like her, but you need to remember who the real enemy is. That enemy is Snow. Always has been.”

No one moves.

Plutarch turns to me first. “Finnick. You love Annie. I’ve seen it. I know what it’s cost you to keep her safe. But if this rebellion fails—if Katniss doesn’t make it out—then Snow wins. And do you think for one second he’ll let you have a quiet life by the sea? With Annie? Raise a family? He’ll kill her just to remind you who’s in charge. He’ll put your face on a coin and take away everything else.”

I clench my jaw, looking down at my hands. I hate that he’s right. I hate that he knows he’s right.

He turns to Blight. “You want to be left alone in the woods again? Then help us win. This is the only path that ends with peace.”

To Chaff: “You’re tired. I get it. But think about all the kids who won’t have to learn how to slit throats if we win.”

Then Johanna. He hesitates. Not because he doubts her strength, but because she’s the hardest to read. The angriest. The most guarded.

“You…” Plutarch starts.

Johanna just stares at him, almost laughing at how he can't come up with a reason for her.

“I don’t know what you want,” he admits, tone softer now. “But you’re here. You came. That means something. Maybe you don’t care about Katniss. Maybe you don’t care about the rebellion. But if there’s even one thing—one person—you care about in that world outside these walls…then help us. Help them.”

She doesn’t answer.

Plutarch exhales, stepping back, letting the silence fill the cracks he just opened. “You don’t have to like her. You don’t have to trust her. You just have to make sure she lives long enough for the world to see her win. And if she does…we all do.”

The quiet after his words is suffocating, but there’s no argument. We all know he’s right. It’s hard to admit it, but we all know the truth. Katniss isn’t just a girl with a bow. She’s the symbol. She’s the spark, and if she dies—if the Mockingjay dies—then everything falls apart.

I glance around the table again, feeling the weight of all those eyes on me. They know what I’m thinking, even if I don’t say it aloud. They know what we’re all thinking.

This isn’t about Katniss. It never really was.

It’s about the fight. It’s about winning. It’s about surviving—no matter the cost.

The room settles into a heavy silence after Plutarch’s words. He’s waiting, as if for someone to break the tension, to offer some kind of promise. But no one speaks. We all know the stakes, even if we don’t want to acknowledge them. Finally, it’s Beetee who stirs, tapping his fingers against the table, his eyes focused on the board that’s been set up in the corner.

“We still don’t know much about the arena,” Beetee says, voice almost gentle, but sharp underneath. “But we’ll have to prepare for anything. If they’re really planning another Quell, something twisted—” He looks around the room. “This could be worse than any of the Games we’ve seen.”

“Great,” Johanna mutters, “so we’re all going in blind. That’s reassuring.”

“I don’t think we’ll ever know what to expect from the Capitol,” Plutarch replies. “But we can start making guesses, based on the kinds of things they’ve done before. The terrain, the dangers. They’ll want something to stir the crowd, just like the last Quell. A spectacle.”

“And we’ll have to play the part of the spectacle,” I add, my voice tight with the weight of the truth. “We’ll be forced to fight, forced to show the world what they want to see. And if they really are going for a public execution…”

“Then it’s not just survival,” Chaff says grimly. “It’s rebellion. It’s about showing them what we’re willing to die for.”

“Exactly,” Plutarch says, nodding. “But we need to make sure that when the time comes, we’re not just reacting. We need to be ready to manipulate the arena, use it to our advantage.”

“And that means no one here can afford to go in half-hearted,” Haymitch cuts in, his tone hard. “If you don’t want to die for Katniss, then damn it, you better be ready to do everything you can to make sure she gets out of there.”

Beetee raises a hand, pausing Haymitch’s tirade. “We have resources,” he says, his voice calm again, almost like he’s presenting a solution. “We can use them. The tech we’ve got—the Capitol’s cameras, the arena’s infrastructure. If we can control the signals, the broadcast, we can manipulate the narrative. If they want a show, we’ll give them one. But on our terms.”

“We can’t rely on that,” Johanna snaps. “What happens if they cut off the signals, or if they change the arena’s layout completely? This whole plan hinges on us having an advantage we don’t know if we can control.”

“And that’s the gamble,” Plutarch says, his eyes sharp now, a glint of determination. “But we won’t have much of a choice. Every part of this will be risky, and if we fail to manipulate the arena in the way we need to… we won’t get a second chance. Not after what Snow’s already put in motion. The Quell is just the start.”

Mags, who has been silent until now, speaks up quietly from her corner. “We’ve always known this wouldn’t be easy. We fight because we don’t have another choice. No one here is going to go down without a fight.”

Cecelia gives her a tight smile, the weight of the situation settling heavily on her. “We’ll need each other more than ever. It won’t just be about keeping Katniss alive. It’ll be about making sure we all make it through this together.”

“Right,” Chaff grunts. “So we work together. No lone wolves. No playing it safe.”

“We have to be smart,” Beetee says. “And flexible. We can’t let the arena control us. We have to take it, twist it to our advantage.”

“And what about the other tributes?” Blight asks, his tone low, almost contemplative. “The ones from One and Two? The closest to the Capitol? Or the other ones that aren’t here, will we work with them? We can’t survive by just trying to kill everyone.”

“That’s the part we’ll have to figure out once we know what the arena looks like,” Plutarch says, his eyes narrowing as if he’s already thinking ten steps ahead. “We’ll need to establish alliances carefully. Make sure we can control the ones who matter.”

A long pause hangs in the air. The words “control the ones who matter” echo in the back of my mind. Who does matter? Who’s worth the alliance? It’s a decision that’s never easy, but it’ll have to be made soon.

“Let’s focus on the basics for now,” Plutarch says, breaking the silence again. “We’ll need a plan for survival. Once we know the arena’s terrain, we’ll adjust. But for now, focus on the essentials. Keep your weapons sharp, your instincts sharper. And above all, stay alive. Whatever happens, stay alive.”

The room quiets again, everyone digesting what’s been said. No one speaks for a long time. I feel the weight of the silence pressing in—like we’re all just waiting for the inevitable.

Plutarch leans forward, his hands clasped together, eyes sharp and calculating as he speaks again. “I’ll do everything I can to make sure the arena reflects your strengths,” he says, voice firm but with a hint of the strategist in him. “We’ll try to position each of you where you can capitalize on what you’re good at. We’ll bring out the best in you. Whether it's combat, survival, manipulation of the environment—we’ll use everything to your advantage. But you’ll need to be ready for anything. The Capitol won’t hesitate to throw new surprises at you.”

There's a brief moment of silence, everyone still mulling over the scope of the task ahead. Then, almost as if they can’t let the weight of this moment hang for too long, Seeder speaks up again, her voice steady and clear.

“But what happens when it comes down to it?” she asks, her eyes scanning the room, locking with each person in turn. “When Snow picks his victor, who’s going to be the one he wants to survive? If there’s a winner in this, who will it be?”

The question lingers in the air for a beat, the room quiet except for the soft hum of the ventilation. Then, without a second of hesitation, Johanna speaks up, her voice cutting through the silence.

“Finnick,” she says flatly, her eyes meeting mine.

The words hang there, surprising everyone. A few eyes turn to Johanna, but it’s clear she doesn’t think twice before she answers. Haymitch quickly chimes in, his voice carrying the weight of experience, of someone who’s seen the Games play out too many times to count.

“Yep. Finnick,” he agrees, tapping his fingers against the table in a rhythm that only he can feel. “He’s already been groomed for this. Snow’s got him exactly where he wants him.”

I sit up a little straighter, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

Johanna leans back in her chair, her arms crossed, as if she’s already heard all of this a thousand times before. “Look, Finnick, you’ve got the looks, the charm. And Snow knows it. You’ve played the Capitol’s game already, and you’ve made him a lot of money.”

My stomach tightens at the words. I don’t want to be the victor he’s hoping for. I don’t want to be his puppet again.

Haymitch adds in a sharp tone, “Snow doesn’t care about Katniss and Peeta as much as he pretends to. The games, the control—they’re a business. A show. Finnick's the one who’s already made him millions.”

I stare at him, trying to process this. “But I—”

“No one else can make him money like you can, Finnick,” Johanna cuts me off, her eyes focused and cold. “They like to play up the ‘star-crossed lovers’ angle, but what they really care about is you. You're already a hero to them. You’re the perfect product to sell. They’ll want you alive for the same reason they wanted you alive in your own Games.”

I swallow hard, unsure how to respond. I want to argue, to deny it, but a sinking feeling starts to form in my chest. I did what I had to do in the past to survive, to protect the people I care about. But now… Now it feels like everything I’ve done is going to be used against me.

“You care too much,” Johanna adds. “That’s why they’re going to keep you alive. You’ll keep fighting for the people you love. You’re the perfect contestant—loyal, willing to sacrifice, and willing to play their game if it means someone else gets out. Snow knows that.”

I don’t know how to respond to any of this. Part of me wants to tell them they’re wrong, but there’s a bitter truth I can’t deny. Johanna’s right—Snow does have a tight grip on me. And it’s not just because of my past Games. It’s because of Annie. Because I’ll do anything to protect her.

Plutarch, sensing the shift in the mood, adds, “That’s the key. You, Finnick, are already in the Capitol’s pocket. They think they own you, but we’re going to use that. It’s part of the plan. You’ll be their puppet. But at the right moment, we’ll cut the strings.”

I don’t know if I’m reassured or more terrified. Either way, I’m trapped in this web of manipulation, and there’s no way out.

As the conversation around the table trudges forward—Plutarch launching into a half-hopeful, half-delusional rundown of potential alliances and positioning strategies—Johanna and I have already checked out.

My chair creaks quietly as I tilt it back slightly, my head leaning over the backrest, eyes fixed on the ornamental molding of the ceiling. The lights above are soft and yellow, some of the bulbs flickering slightly, like they’re just as bored as we are. Beside me, Johanna spins slow, lazy circles in her chair, one heel pushing off the floor with the occasional squeak. Her head dangles off the back like mine, arms limp at her sides.

Chaff leans back too, though not nearly as dramatically—just enough that he can sip whatever drink he’s brought without looking like he’s paying attention. Blight drums his fingers softly along the table edge, thumb tapping a rhythm against his palm. Across the room, Gage stares blankly up at the ceiling, expression vacant like he's somewhere far away, somewhere better.

The older victors are the only ones still trying to hold onto this meeting like it means something. Seeder sits upright, focused, like a schoolteacher trying to keep a classroom of unruly kids from tearing each other apart. Cecilia leans in toward Beetee, nodding along thoughtfully while he makes a precise, quiet point about Capitol infrastructure vulnerabilities. Woof listens with surprising intensity, his fingers steepled under his nose. Even Mags, who hasn’t said much at all, watches Plutarch with tired, knowing eyes.

I glance sideways at Johanna. “This is useless,” I whisper, voice low enough no one else hears. “They’re planning a strategy for a war that’s already gone off-script.”

“Let 'em,” she mutters, twirling again until she’s facing me, upside down. Her voice is hushed and dry. “They love the sound of their own planning. Like if they just think hard enough, we won’t all get murdered.”

I smirk faintly. “Maybe they’ll come up with a plan so perfect, Snow just gives up. Decides it’s not worth it.”

“Oh yeah, I bet he’ll even send us a fruit basket. ‘Thanks for making this easy, love President Psychopath.’”

I snort, quickly muffling it behind my hand. Across the table, Plutarch’s still talking, now gesturing vaguely toward a map that isn’t even there. Something about contingency plans and backup safehouses.

Johanna spins again.

“I swear,” she mutters, “if I have to hear the word ‘contingency’ one more time, I’m going to light this table on fire.”

From a seat or two over, Chaff snickers under his breath, clearly listening in despite pretending not to. He lifts his drink in a silent toast. Blight fidgets harder. Gage finally blinks, slow and dazed, like he just remembered where he is.

“Finnick,” Plutarch’s voice cuts in, trying to reel me back into the room. I slowly tip my head forward, forcing my gaze toward him.

“Yeah?”

“I was just saying… if we manage to get into the arena system, I’ll do what I can to signal safe zones. Places you and the others can regroup.”

“Right,” I say flatly, nodding.

I flop back again, letting my head fall backward until I’m staring at the ceiling with Johanna. Quietly, she mutters, “You think any of us are getting out?”

I don’t answer right away. After a beat, I whisper, “I think we have to pretend like we are.”

She hums, a low, disbelieving sound. “Pretending’s what got us here.”

I look at her upside-down face. “Yeah. But it might be the only thing that gets us out.”

Plutarch is still talking. I’m not sure any of us are listening anymore.

Plutarch keeps rambling. Something about entry points, disguises, backup plans, “trust signals”—like we’re going to Morse code our way through a death trap. His voice has settled into a hum in the background, one long droning thread of logistics and hope and desperation.

I hear Johanna sigh before I see her sit upright. She scrubs a hand through her hair, then slumps forward, arms on the table like she’s trying to hold herself down.

“Okay,” she says, loud enough to break through Plutarch’s monologue. “Serious question.”

Plutarch pauses, blinking like he’s surprised someone other than Beetee or Seeder interrupted him. “Yes?”

“Can we have some fun?”

There’s a beat of silence. A blink. Then Beetee looks up, puzzled. “Fun?”

Johanna shrugs. “Yeah, you know. Fun. That thing people used to have before they were forced into televised slaughter? Maybe a game or something. A little distraction before we’re thrown back into hell?”

Chaff chuckles, low and dry. “You’re thinking drinking game?”

“I was thinking more like a bet,” Johanna says, smirking now. “Something stupid. Pointless. Entertaining.”

Blight raises an eyebrow. “You got something in mind?”

She leans forward conspiratorially. “How uncomfortable do you think we can make Katniss?”

At that, a few of the older victors cough into their hands, pretending not to smile. Woof mutters something disapproving under his breath, but no one hears what.

Chaff laughs fully this time. “Oh, I’m in. That poor girl stiffens up like she’s walking into a Capitol party every time someone talks to her.”

“She’s all awkward silence and murder-eyes,” Johanna says. “Like a baby bird someone lit on fire.”

I chuckle, but I’m already thinking deeper than they are. I know how Katniss flinches when someone gets too close, how she scans every room like there’s a hidden knife. She keeps herself coiled tight, and I’ve seen people like that before—on ships, in the Games, in the mirror. People who are trying not to drown.

“What are the rules?” I ask, mostly to humor them.

Johanna points at me. “Oh, you’re definitely in. You’re the only one she’s more terrified of than me.”

“Great,” I mutter dryly. “I’ve always wanted to be feared by traumatized teenage girls.”

Chaff raises his glass. “Then here’s the deal: first one to make her speechless wins. Like, really speechless. Can’t respond, can’t look away, just totally frozen.”

“And what does the winner get?” I ask, even as I lean forward a little, warming to the idea.

Johanna grins, a bit wicked. “Pride. Glory. The knowledge you made the Mockingjay short-circuit.”

The table groans in mixed amusement and horror. Even Gage blinks down from the ceiling, finally focused again.

I nod slowly, smirking. “Alright. You’re on.”

But even as I say it, something sits different in my chest. Katniss isn’t just another awkward kid. There’s something behind all those walls of hers, something hard and real and quiet. She chose Peeta, even if she didn’t mean to. She played the Capitol’s game, but not the way they wanted. And everyone here is betting on her like she’s already a piece on the board.

Maybe I’ll play the game. Sure. See how red I can make her cheeks go.

But I’ll also be watching. Listening. Learning.

If there’s anything left worth saving, I want to understand her before I’m ordered to protect her with my life.

And if she’s not what they think?

Well, I want to know that too.

“Okay, okay, let’s divert our attention back, shall we?” Plutarch says, trying for lightness but sounding frayed at the edges.

“There’s not much to divert our attention back to,” Johanna retorts, leaning back in her chair with a sharp flick of her wrist. “Make sure Katniss lives. If we have to, we should get ready to jump in front of bullets for her. We get it.”

The air goes taut, Johanna’s sarcasm scraping against the undercurrent of dread already saturating the room.

Plutarch takes a long, steadying breath, his fingers adjusting his glasses like the motion might keep the conversation orderly. But Haymitch cuts in before he can speak.

“You need to make the same deal for Peeta,” Haymitch says firmly, his voice carrying weight that makes a few of the victors glance at him.

Plutarch exhales through his nose, already weary. “President Coin—”

Johanna snorts outright at the name, muttering, “Two sides of the same coin at this point.”

“—said something about that too,” Plutarch continues, ignoring her. “She wants Peeta. Not saying Peeta isn’t good,” he hedges, hands spreading in a helpless gesture, “but they don’t rally behind him like they do with Katniss.”

A quiet thrum of discontent passes through the table. Mags frowns. Beetee pushes his glasses higher, looking like he wants to interject but thinks better of it.

Haymitch shakes his head, cutting through Plutarch’s careful politicking. “I’m not saying to make him the next symbol,” he says. “I’m just saying you also have to protect Peeta. Make sure he also makes it out alive if he gets reaped.”

His tone sharpens, final, like the clang of a closing gate. “If Peeta dies, Katniss won’t cooperate.”

Plutarch starts to protest. “We can’t be so sure—”

“Well, I can,” Haymitch snaps. “I know that girl. She won’t do anything if Peeta is dead.”

Plutarch nods quickly, seizing the lifeline. “Yes, yes.” He turns to us, hands lifting like he’s orchestrating. “We also have to make sure Peeta is alive.”

“Great. Even more babysitting,” Johanna mutters, her voice flat, acidic.

Plutarch presses on, rubbing at his temple. “We’re still coordinating the extraction with District Thirteen, but a few days into the Games—when the timing is right—we’ll send in the hovercraft. We’ll find a way to break into the arena and extract the remaining victors to bring them to District Thirteen.”

“You know, Plutarch,” Johanna cuts in, her mouth twisting, “it’s really uplifting saying ‘remaining’ victors instead of ‘all’ victors. Way to boost morale.”

The bitter note in her voice makes a couple of the older victors shift uncomfortably, but no one contradicts her.

That’s when it hits me.

“What about Annie?”

The words tumble out before I can stop them. Too fast. Too raw. The entire room seems to stiffen at once. Plutarch’s brows lift, caught off guard.

“Sorry,” I add quickly, though my pulse is still hammering. “I know she’s not officially part of this rebellion. I’m not asking you to suddenly fold her into classified meetings. But you said you’d extract the remaining victors. What about Annie?”

A hush follows.

I feel a hand on my arm. I turn, and it’s Mags—her small, steady fingers curled against me. The look in her eyes is gentle, unyielding, and it twists something deep in my chest.

But no one else in this room knows.

They don’t know what Mags has already decided.

So I force myself to add, voice tighter this time, “Or Mags, too. You have to extract them too if they’re not going to be in the arena.”

Johanna’s gaze flicks over, sharp but unreadable. Seeder’s lips thin. Beetee actually stops scribbling, pen frozen midair.

It’s not strategy anymore. It’s Annie’s face in my mind, Mags’s hand steady on my arm. It’s personal. It always has been.

Plutarch exhales through his nose, a long, weary sound that feels like a dismissal before he even speaks. “Finnick… the focus has to remain on the Quarter Quell. The Capitol won’t target whichever of them it is directly.”

“They won’t need to!” My voice cracks sharper than I intend, too loud for the room. A couple heads jerk toward me, startled. “They know how to get to me. They always have. If you leave them in District Four, they might as well put targets on their backs.”

Silence. Plutarch doesn’t have an answer, not one that satisfies. His mouth opens, shuts, opens again. “We… we’ll do what we can.”

“Do what we can?” I echo, a bitter laugh breaking out of me. “That’s your promise?”

Before I can spiral further, Johanna leans forward, her chair legs scraping across the floor. “Here’s the thing, Plutarch,” she says, her voice razor-edged and mocking. “If you want Finnick here to play nice in your rebellion, you don’t get to shrug your shoulders when it comes to the people he loves. Because guess what? If Annie or Mags get so much as a paper cut, you’re going to have a very pretty corpse on your hands—and I don’t mean theirs.”

A few people shift uncomfortably. Woof coughs into his fist. Seeder mutters something under her breath.

Plutarch’s face tightens, but Johanna just smirks, leaning back like she’s daring him to argue.

Haymitch finally breaks the silence, his voice low, steady, cutting through the static. “She’s right. You want Odair focused? Then keep the people he loves breathing. It’s not complicated.”

My throat is tight, my chest burning, but I manage to nod. Every muscle in my body feels tense, like I’m holding myself together with sheer will alone. “If you don’t protect them,” I say quietly, each word deliberate, “don’t expect me to protect anyone else.”

The words hang in the room, heavy and unyielding, like a hammer striking stone. The whole table goes still. Heads tilt, eyes flicking between Plutarch, me, and Johanna, as if afraid someone’s about to snap.

Plutarch shifts, clearing his throat. His fingers drum nervously against the table. “Fine, yes,” he says finally, his voice measured but tinged with the weight of the promise. “We’ll divert some of our personnel to extracting victors that aren’t part of the Quell.”

I stare at him, forcing my chest to unclench. “Do you promise?” My voice is quieter this time, but sharper, carrying the edge of every unspoken consequence.

Plutarch hesitates, eyes flicking to Johanna like he’s hoping for some sort of backup. “I—”

“Do you promise?” I repeat, leaning slightly forward, hands pressed against the table, locking my gaze onto his.

Johanna snorts softly from the side, smirking. “I’ve known Finnick for probably the least amount of time out of everyone here,” she says, voice smooth but sharp, “but if I know one thing about him, it’s that he likes his promises.”

Plutarch swallows hard, the air thick with tension. Finally, he straightens, looking me square in the eye. “I promise, Finnick.”

Relief surges through me in a wave, hot and consuming. My shoulders relax fractionally, and I force my chest to stop feeling like it’s caving in. Johanna gives me a quick, satisfied smirk from the side, clearly enjoying that I’d just wrung a promise out of a man who could have danced around it forever.

I nod once, curtly, letting the weight of it settle. This promise is more than words—it’s a line drawn in the dirt, a lifeline for Annie, and the only thing keeping the fire in my chest from turning to ash.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you’re not too hot in that?” I ask, eyeing Johanna’s thick leather jacket as she drags a duffel bag toward the couch.

The thing looks stiff and unforgiving—cracked at the elbows, the collar frayed, heavy enough to double as armor. She wears it like a second skin, zipped halfway and already scuffed with travel.

Today’s the day we finally head back to our districts after the impromptu rebel meeting. The corridors are full of half-packed bags and muttered checklists, people wandering in and out of rooms, hauling crates and gear like we’re leaving base camp instead of just another safehouse. Mags had said she’d stay behind a little longer to finish packing and speak with Cecilia about something last-minute. Not wanting to hang around alone, I figured I’d head over to find Johanna—partly to help, mostly because I didn’t want to spend the morning staring at empty chairs.

She glances up at me like I’ve said something deeply offensive. “It’s still snow season,” she says flatly, throwing another shirt into her bag without folding it.

“Snow season?” I echo, raising a brow.

She squints at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Ah. Right. District Four. You don’t have snow, do you?”

I shrug. “I mean, it gets frosty. Cold enough you don’t want to be barefoot. But it’s not like… blizzards or anything.”

“Wow,” she says, deadpan. “How do you survive?”

Before I can answer, footsteps echo from the hall, and Blight rounds the corner, carrying a dented metal thermos in hand. “It still snows in Seven this time of year, Finnick,” he says as he enters the common room. “Especially in our area. We get snowfall deep enough to bury your front door.”

Johanna nods pointedly, gesturing at her jacket. “Exactly. Which is why this baby’s coming with me. Again.”

I shake my head, amused. “You make it sound like you were born in a snowbank.”

“She probably was,” Blight says dryly. “Kicked her way out of a snowdrift, swinging a hatchet.”

“And screaming profanities,” Johanna adds cheerfully. “Don’t forget that part.”

I chuckle, letting my hands rest loosely on my knees as I lean forward. “Yeah, but you’ve never had your skin peel because you forgot sunscreen on the open water. Or had to swim through jellyfish stings because someone decided to chase a squid into a reef.”

Johanna’s lip curls. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Probably was,” I admit, grinning. “But still. At least snow doesn’t sting.”

“Tell that to your exposed ears in January,” Blight mutters, shaking his head. “Or your fingers when they go numb from hauling firewood.”

Johanna snaps her fingers. “Exactly why I wear gloves and steal Blight’s scarf when he’s not looking.”

He sighs dramatically. “She thinks I don’t notice.”

“You’re just too old and slow to catch me,” she says sweetly, then zips up the last compartment of her duffel and gives it a satisfied pat.

I glance around the room—half-stripped cots, a few bags tucked against the wall, the tail end of rebellion in packing form. “You got everything?”

Johanna shrugs. “Couple of things left in the bunk, but yeah. Mostly done.”

Blight stretches with a grunt. “We’ll be back in the districts before sundown if the train leaves on time.”

“Where’s Mags?” Johanna asks, slinging her duffel over her shoulder with an effortless motion.

“Talking to Cecilia,” I explain, standing as she adjusts the strap. “She told me to go wait for her at the train station. Said she’d meet us there after.”

Johanna quirks an eyebrow. “Let me guess—told you to stay out of trouble, too?”

I grin. “Something like that.”

“We’ll wait with you then,” Blight offers. He tucks his scarf into the front of his coat and adjusts the sleeves with methodical efficiency. “Better to stay together in the Capitol. Last thing we need is someone going missing on the way to a rebel train.”

Johanna chuffs under her breath as she heads for the door. “If we’d let Finnick alone, some Capitol girl would probably spot him and drag him back.”

“Which is exactly why I’m sticking with you two,” I shoot back with a smirk. “Can’t delay my return to Annie.”

Johanna mock-gags. “Ugh.”

Blight chuckles, already holding the door open. “It’s honestly disturbing how fast you turn domestic.”

“I’ve always been domestic,” I protest. “Just didn’t have the right person to cook for.”

Johanna groans. “Someone muzzle him.”

We step into the corridor, and Blight makes sure the door clicks shut behind us before flipping off the lights with a practiced hand. The hallway is quieter than usual—most of the rebels already gone or packed. Footsteps echo under the cold Capitol marble as the three of us fall into an easy rhythm, duffels slung, boots clicking, the end of the week heavy in our bones and hearts.

The three of us make our way through the dimly lit corridors of the Capitol training center, the overhead lights buzzing faintly. Our boots echo off the smooth marble floor, too loud for how empty the building feels now that most of the rebels have either left or gone quiet. It smells faintly of disinfectant and something artificial—whatever the Capitol uses to keep everything looking pristine on the surface.

Johanna walks a little ahead of us, her heavy leather jacket creaking with each stride. Blight and I fall into step beside her as we pass the check-in stations and press through the main glass doors into the cold Capitol air.

The street hits us like a slap—thin wind threading through our clothes despite how bundled we are. Capitol buildings loom around us in all directions, glittering with frost and strange, swirling light. It’s early, so the streets are mostly empty except for a few early-rising Capitolites lingering near cafes or strolling with their little robotic pets. But Johanna draws attention the moment she steps into view.

A woman in a teal fur coat, standing outside a pastry shop, narrows her eyes at Johanna’s oversized jacket like it’s personally offended her sense of style. A man in holographic boots actually slows his steps, mouth parting slightly as he tries to figure out whether she’s a rebel, a celebrity, or some feral creature from the wilds of Seven.

“Jo, you’re embarrassing us,” I tease.

“Not my fault these people choose eyesores over functionality,” Johanna mutters.

We cross a broad avenue, passing beneath a towering holographic billboard that flashes between an ad for hair dye that glows in the dark and a propaganda poster featuring Snow’s face, serene and all-knowing. The wind picks up again, catching the bottom of Johanna’s jacket like a cape, and more Capitolites turn their heads. Some with curiosity. Others with that tight, pinched judgment only the Capitol can manage.

One man actually recoils as we pass, pulling his child closer like Johanna’s about to throw an axe at them.

“Wow,” I mutter, glancing over my shoulder. “Pretty sure that guy thinks you’ve got explosives under that coat.”

Johanna rolls her eyes. “He’s not wrong.”

“Don’t joke like that,” Blight warns. “Capitol surveillance doesn’t know sarcasm.”

“She joked about ‘pulling a Titus’ last night,” I say.

Blight’s head practically whips towards me. “Pardon?”

“You didn’t hear it wrong,” I say with a small sigh. “I thought they were going to kick us out.”

Blight takes a deep breath. “Lets just hurry up to the train station.”

Johanna smirks, completely unfazed, the collar of her oversized jacket flipping slightly in the breeze as we round another corner. “Relax,” she says, her voice low and dry. “If they were gonna arrest me, they’d have done it by now. And anyway, it’s not like I said I was going to actually do anything. It was just a theoretical Titus moment.”

Blight shoots her a sharp glare. “You can’t just joke about cannibalism in a Capitol restaurant."

Johanna shrugs, completely unapologetic. “I thought I was doing them a favor.”

I snort before I can stop myself, but Blight clearly isn’t amused. His jaw is tight, his eyes darting to the nearest overhead surveillance drone as it hovers silently above the street, red light blinking.

“I swear,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face, “you’re going to get me detained by association.”

“You’ll survive,” Johanna says breezily. “You’ve got one of those non-threatening, ‘dad-of-a-friend’ faces.”

“That doesn’t help when you’re the one baiting the Peacekeepers.” Blight sighs, picking up his pace as we reach the end of the block and step onto the final avenue leading toward the train station.

Ahead, the Capitol skyline begins to thin, replaced by stark, metallic architecture and a dull roar of transport carts and civilians in tailored uniforms bustling toward the station. The air smells faintly of oil and snow, and the sunlight catches on the sleek silver rails that gleam just beyond the gates.

Johanna finally falls quiet, stuffing her gloved hands deeper into her pockets, her jaw tight and eyes flicking over the small clusters of Peacekeepers posted at every street corner.

I glance sideways at her, softer now. “You okay?”

She doesn’t look at me, but she nods once. “Yeah.”

Blight exhales slowly, his voice gentler too. “We’re almost there.”

And we are. The looming arch of the Capitol train station comes into view, all white marble and sharp, unnecessary angles, the front plaza already half-filled with rebels and delegates returning to their districts. Somewhere inside, Mags is probably waiting by our platform. Maybe even already talking her way onto the train early, knowing her.

I feel Johanna shift beside me and glance down to find her watching the station with a strange, far-off look. There’s something tired in her shoulders. Something taut beneath all the bravado.

Before I can say anything, a familiar voice cuts through the quiet.

“I see someone’s prepared to go home.”

We all turn together to see Haymitch and Chaff strolling toward us, their gait slow, unhurried—like they own the place even though none of us really do.

Johanna snorts softly, her voice low and a little rough. “You two have it good this time of year.”

Chaff chuckles, shaking his head as he glances at us. “I feel sorry for you two. Where I live, the children—when they’re not working, that is—still have time for outside activities. Something about fresh air, if you can believe it.”

Haymitch grins wryly, his eyes scanning Johanna’s thick leather jacket like it’s a question waiting to be answered. “I mean, it’s a little chilly where I live, but not chilly enough to need that kind of jacket.” His tone is teasing, but there’s a knowing edge beneath the humor.

“Yeah, yeah, keep up the discrimination against those who live in Seven,” Johanna mutters, her voice dripping with dry sarcasm as she pulls her jacket tighter around her.

Blight chuckles softly, the sound low and easy, like he’s heard this banter before but still finds it amusing. “Is your ride early?” he asks, nodding toward the station platform, where the distant rumble of the approaching train begins to hum through the air.

“Yeah,” Haymitch replies, his gruff voice steady. He glances down at his wrist out of habit, then shrugs when he realizes there’s no watch there. “Should be coming in a couple of minutes.”

“Where’s Mags?” Chaff asks, glancing around the small group with a curious look.

“She’s talking to Cecilia,” I explain, watching the tension ease slightly as familiar faces gather.

Chaff’s eyes dart around, lowering his voice as if fearing unseen ears. “I know some of these circumstances aren’t good—”

“Plutarch is crazy if he thinks I’m killing myself for a seventeen-year-old,” Johanna mutters sharply, folding her arms. The words cut through the quiet, honest and raw, carrying her usual sharp edge mixed with a weary truth.

Chaff doesn’t flinch. “I get it,” he says slowly. “But we need to do our part. Unite the districts.”

I nod firmly, feeling the weight of his words. “I’ll talk to Mags to see what Four could do. If Mags is behind it, others would probably follow.”

Blight shifts beside me, nodding in agreement. “And we’ll figure out what we can do in Seven.”

Haymitch, standing a few steps away, nods as well. He opens his mouth to speak, but the low rumble of the approaching train cuts him off. It rolls in beside us, metal wheels screeching softly on the tracks.

“Normally, I’d say see you in a couple months as mentors,” Haymitch says gruffly, “but we know the truth of it now.”

A heavy silence settles over us, the kind that speaks volumes without words.

We’ve been mentors for a long time—Haymitch and Chaff longer than I’ve been alive—but this time, with everything that’s changed, we’re most likely heading in as tributes.

“Yeah,” Blight says, voice low and somber. “See you two.”

Chaff offers a soft, understanding smile as he and Haymitch step into the train. The doors hiss shut behind them, leaving us standing on the platform with only the distant echoes of their footsteps and the fading hum of the engine.

“If you made us miss the train, I swear—”

“Relax, Cash. It was probably a different one.”

The three of us turn to see Cashmere and Gloss hurrying toward us, the last of their breaths catching up.

“Did we miss the train?” Cashmere asks, scanning the platform anxiously.

Blight shakes his head slowly. “That was the twelve-ten train. You’re good.”

Cashmere lets out a long sigh of relief, wiping a strand of sweat from her forehead. “Thank goodness.”

Gloss, standing beside her, squints at Johanna like she’s a curious alien. “Uh,” he begins hesitantly, eyes flicking to Johanna’s heavy leather jacket, “you’re going to get a heatstroke with that thing.”

Johanna rolls her eyes so hard I half expect them to pop out of her sockets. “It’s still snowing in Seven,” she snaps back, voice edged with stubborn pride.

Gloss just blinks, clearly baffled by the idea of snow when the Capitol sun shines down relentlessly outside.

Cashmere cocks an eyebrow, her gaze sharp and unmistakably curious. “What are you three doing here?”

Oh shit.

The truth settles heavily between us. Earlier, when the Capitol was abuzz with some lavish party, a few of us rebels—from Districts Three, Four, Six, Seven, Eight, Eleven, and Twelve—slipped away for an impromptu meeting. We gathered in this quiet corner to discuss the Quarter Quell, to strategize, to plan.

Cashmere and Gloss—and the others from their districts—weren’t invited. It was too dangerous. Districts One and Two have their claws too deep in the Capitol's machinery. The others never showed much sign of dissent. They came here for the parties, the Capitol’s distractions. We came here to plot its downfall.

Blight shifts uncomfortably, glancing between us before mumbling, “Uh…” His voice trails off, caught between the need to explain and the risk of saying too much.

We exchange quick, panicked looks. The truth is dangerous, but so is lying poorly.

Blight clears his throat, suddenly looking nervous. “We… we came here to party—”

“To visit,” I blurt out at the same time, our voices overlapping awkwardly.

We freeze, exchanging a panicked glance, realizing we’ve already tangled ourselves.

Johanna smirks and shakes her head like she’s dealing with children. “What they meant was—to visit a party,” she says, her voice dripping with mock patience, like she’s translating for toddlers.

Blight chuckles nervously, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, you know, just socializing.”

I jump in too fast. “Casual. No big deal.”

Johanna waves a hand like she’s settling a dispute. “It’s all about, uh, mingling. Networking.”

Blight nods quickly. “Yes, networking. Keeping up appearances.”

I add, “Just… showing solidarity. That sort of thing.”

Gloss arches a brow, folding his arms, clearly unconvinced. “Sounds like a lot of effort just to visit a party.”

Cashmere steps closer, eyes sharp. “You don’t exactly seem like the ‘party types.’ What’s really going on?”

Johanna rolls her eyes. “Look, with the way we’re dressed and lugging these bags? If we wanted to party, we’d do it somewhere less obvious.”

Blight tries again. “It’s more of a, uh, morale-boosting thing. Important for… district relations.”

I nod enthusiastically. “Yeah, morale. Important.”

Gloss narrows his eyes. “You sure you’re not hiding something?”

Johanna smirks and shrugs. “The only thing we’re hiding is our complete lack of rhythm.”

Blight and I exchange a quick look, desperate to keep the story together as Gloss and Cashmere’s suspicious gazes don’t waver.

We all start talking over each other, trying to patch up the cracks.

“Absolutely nothing suspicious here—”

“Totally innocent visit—”

“Just a bunch of social butterflies.”

Gloss and Cashmere just stare, unamused.

We all keep talking at once, voices rising in a chaotic jumble.

Blight blurts, “We’re just here to, uh, catch up on—”

“Some friendly neighborhood visiting,” I cut in, waving my hands like it’ll sell the story.

Gloss makes a face. “I wouldn’t say Four and the Capitol are neighbors—”

“Yeah, just visiting the, uh… motherland,” Johanna says, completing her sentence with an awkward smile.

“You hate being here,” Cashmere points out.

“It’s more of a complex, love-hate relationship, really.” Johanna explains, shrugging.

Cashmere folds her arms tighter. “Are you sure there’s not something bigger?”

Blight swallows hard. “No, no, just… uh… extended social hours.”

I pitch in, voice a bit too eager, “Yeah, social hours! With food. Maybe drinks. Totally casual.”

“And definitely no plotting to overthrow the Capitol,” Johanna adds unhelpfully.

Oh my god.

Blight and I slowly turn to look at her, synchronized in our shared horror. Our mouths are parted slightly, eyes wide, frozen like we’ve just seen her pull a knife in the middle of a Peacekeeper rally. Subtle, she is not.

Gloss laughs—nervously. “What?”

“You heard me,” Johanna says, lifting her chin like she’s just made a toast. “Everything’s perfectly normal. There’s no war in the Capitol or the Districts. No secrets. No rebellion. Just friends. Just parties. Just sunshine and roses and televised trauma.”

“Johanna,” I hiss under my breath, my voice tight. I shoot her a glare, trying to telepathically remind her of the part where we’re supposed to not get executed. Cashmere cocks a brow at me, sharp as a blade, and I flash a toothy smile at her so fast it probably looks like a grimace.

“Listen,” I start, lifting my hands like that’ll help dig me out of this grave. But the words catch in my throat. My eyes flicker between the two of them—Cashmere, suspicious and silent; Gloss, frowning slightly, like he's trying to do the math and doesn’t like the answer.

I want to tell them. I want to grab them, shake them, beg them to understand.

I want to say: We don’t have to live like this.

I want to say: You don’t have to die for a Capitol that never cared if you lived.

I want to say: There’s still time.

Because we’re kids, really. Barely more than that. Gloss, Cashmere, Johanna, and I—we’re the youngest mentors left, outside of Peeta and Katniss. We’ve been in the Games, sure, but we’re still young enough to dream. To change things. To imagine a future that isn’t blood and spectacle.

I want to say: Come with us.

Join the rebellion.

We’re fighting for something real. For peace. For love. For a future where none of us have to kill anymore.

I want that future—with Annie. I want it like I want to breathe. And some part of me, foolish or hopeful or both, wants it for them too.

But District One is too close to the Capitol. Too watched. Too loyal, or too afraid to look like anything less. If I tell them and they don’t believe me—or worse, do—we could all be dead before the train doors shut.

“Listen to what?” Gloss asks, brow furrowing deeper now.

I freeze. I’ve waited too long.

He’s watching me like a hawk. Cashmere doesn’t blink. The silence is stretching thin enough to tear.

“You…” I fumble, words catching like a fishhook in my throat. My mind screams don’t do it even as my heart aches to yank them into the fold. To tell them everything. That we’re not here for a party. That we’re planning to dismantle the Capitol brick by brick, lie by lie.

That they could help. That they could matter in the fight for something better.

But that would get them killed. Or worse—it’d get Johanna killed. Mags. Me. All of us.

I glance between them. Gloss—sharp-eyed, cautious. Cashmere—still looking at me like she’s two breaths away from peeling back my skull to read the thoughts inside. They’re not enemies, not exactly. But they’ve always been Capitol-adjacent, too proud of their district's favor, too protected to see the bars around them.

Still, it burns. The fact that they’ll go home today, oblivious. That they’ll be in the arena. That we’ll all be forced back in.

I force a tight laugh. “You, uh, really should come to the next one. Party. The next party. Wild stuff. Confetti, even.”

Johanna groans beside me. “So much confetti,” she says flatly, eyes narrowed as she tries to cover the mistake with sarcasm. “Exploding cakes. Glitter bombs. One guy had a pet snake in a bowtie.”

Blight, bless him, nods along like we’re all sane. “They wouldn’t stop playing remixes of the anthem. Honestly traumatizing.”

Gloss and Cashmere exchange a glance. Suspicion still lingers behind their perfectly sculpted features.

“Sounds like we missed something… enlightening,” Cashmere says slowly, drawing out each word like she’s weighing it.

“You did,” I say too brightly. “Absolutely life-changing.”

Cashmere tilts her head. “And yet, no photos. No hangover. No stories.”

Gloss crosses his arms, voice casual but pointed. “So, who else was at this… legendary party?”

“Lucia,” Johanna says quickly.

“Chaff,” Blight adds.

“Haymitch,” I say.

We list names like we’re stacking sandbags in a storm.

Gloss raises a brow. “Right. The usual party animals.”

“Exactly,” I grin. “We even had a conga line. Haymitch led it. Swear on my life.”

Cashmere just stares, unconvinced. Gloss exhales slowly, almost disappointed. Not because he doesn’t believe us—because I think, deep down, he does.

He just knows we’re lying.

But thankfully, he doesn’t push it.

“Well,” he finally says, glancing toward the station. “The Nine-Seven Train’s about to board.”

I stiffen.

Nine. Eight. Seven.

Johanna and Blight.

I feel Johanna shift beside me as realization settles like a weight on my chest. Her smirk fades slightly. She looks toward the train but doesn’t move, her jaw tense. Blight straightens beside her, one hand tightening on the strap of his bag.

“Guess that’s us,” he says, voice low.

Johanna looks at me for a long moment. Her expression is unreadable—cool, maybe even annoyed, but beneath it, I can see it. That flicker of unease. Of goodbye.

“I’ll see you on the other side,” she says finally. Almost like a joke. Almost like a promise.

I swallow thickly. “You better.”

Blight offers me a nod and a quiet, “Take care, Odair,” before following Johanna as she turns toward the platform.

I watch them walk—two rebels disappearing into the crowd. Johanna’s bulky jacket stands out in a sea of Capitol fabric, and for once, she doesn’t seem to care.

The train doors hiss open.

She doesn’t look back.

And then she’s gone.

I turn slowly to find Gloss and Cashmere still there beside me.

Watching me.

Gloss’s arms are folded, expression unreadable, but there’s a tension in his shoulders. Cashmere doesn’t speak, but she lifts her chin slightly, like she’s waiting to see what I’ll do next. Like I’m a puzzle she’s still trying to solve.

And now I’m alone.

Just me.

And two people who are still loyal to the Capitol.

I clear my throat. “So… you guys heading out soon?”

Gloss nods once. “We’re on the second train. Three-One.”

“Right,” I say, forcing a smile. “Fun.”

No one speaks.

The silence stretches too long. It isn’t awkward—it’s tense. Tight. Like we all know we’re not saying what we’re really thinking.

I shift on my feet and glance at the floor, then back at them. Gloss’s arms are crossed over his chest, his posture relaxed, but his eyes are too sharp. Cashmere is watching me in that quiet, analytical way of hers, like she’s trying to decide whether I’m hiding something or if she’s imagining it.

I wish Annie were here. She’d know what to say. Or maybe she wouldn’t—but at least I’d have someone on my side.

Instead, it’s just me.

And them.

And even though we’ve sat at the same Capitol parties, shared the same post-Games nightmares, even though I know what it feels like to be sold off the same way they do—Gloss and Cashmere are still loyal to the Capitol. Or at least, they're close enough to it that they can’t afford not to be.

And I hate that.

Because I want them on our side.

I want them to know.

To see it.

To choose it.

We’re young. Close in age. We’ve all played the same bloody game. We’re the ones who have the best shot at building something after all of this, if there’s even an after.

Sometimes, when things are quiet—too quiet—I picture us all somewhere else. Away from the cameras. No velvet suits, no auctions, no Games. Just—normal. I don’t know what that even means anymore, but I want it. I want it for me and Annie. I want it for Johanna, and for Mags. And I want it for Gloss and Cashmere, too.

But the risk… it’s too high.

One wrong word to the wrong person, and the rebellion crumbles before it even starts. They’re from One. They’re trained from birth to keep their loyalty sharp. To keep their teeth polished and their secrets hidden. One wrong step, and they wouldn’t just not join us.

They’d report us.

I clench my jaw and push down the ache in my chest.

“So,” I say finally, breaking the heavy silence. “What do you think about the Quell?”

Cashmere’s expression tightens. Her brows pinch slightly, and she exhales through her nose. “I mean… there’s nothing we can do about it.” Her voice is quiet, almost detached, but not indifferent. Just resigned. Like someone who’s had to swallow too many things too often.

“It’s not ideal,” Gloss adds, more curtly. He doesn’t look at me when he says it, just folds his arms over his chest and stares somewhere past my shoulder, jaw tense. “But it is what it is.”

I nod slowly, staring down at my boots. “Yeah. Yeah, I get that.”

The words taste like ash.

“I mean… just imagining Annie getting reaped is unimaginable.”

It’s all I’ve been imagining. Every night since they announced the Quarter Quell, every time I close my eyes, I see her name on that slip of paper. I see her standing on a stage, trembling. I see her in the arena again. Alone. Terrified.

Or worse—I see her face as she watches me get reaped.

Gloss glances at me then, the edge in his eyes softening. He doesn’t say anything right away, but I catch something shift in his expression—something uncertain. Sympathetic, maybe.

“I mean,” I go on, quieter now, “it’s just… I love her, you know?”

Gloss nods. “Yeah. I know.” His voice isn’t warm, but it isn’t cold either. It’s the kind of steady tone of someone who understands more than he lets on.

“I just want a future with her.” My voice catches slightly. “A real one. One away from danger. One that doesn’t end in fire and cameras. Just… something quiet. Safe. Do you have someone like that?”

For a second, Gloss doesn’t respond. His eyes flick to Cashmere, quick and subtle, like a habit he can’t shake. She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does and pretends not to.

He looks back down at the ground.

“I don’t want Jewel to get reaped,” Gloss mutters, so quietly I almost miss it.

The air between us shifts—like something heavy has been laid between us and no one’s sure whether to step around it or through it. His voice had cracked just slightly on her name, and that alone says more than anything else he could have added.

“Jewel?” I echo, cautious. The name sounds familiar, but distant—like something I might have heard in passing during a recap of Games long past.

Cashmere answers for him, her voice flat but not unkind. “His girlfriend. Won the Sixty-Eight Games. The one before Gage.”

I blink.

Right. Jewel Vandelle. District One. Barely sixteen when she won. Quiet, calculated. A golden girl wrapped in diamonds and steel nerves. She was beautiful in that polished Capitol way, but there’d been something sharp about her too—something lonely. I remember how the Capitol gushed over her smile and barely mentioned the way she slit a boy’s throat in the final minutes like she was buttering toast.

“She keeps to herself,” Cashmere adds, her arms folded tightly. “Doesn’t do parties. Keeps her head down.”

“She hates all of this,” Gloss says, not looking up. “The Games. The press. The attention. Everything. She just wants to be left alone.”

I can hear it in his voice now—how much he loves her. How much he’s fighting the same invisible thing I am. This helplessness that eats at us when the people we love are in danger and we can’t do a damn thing to stop it.

“I know that feeling,” I murmur, and I do. God, do I.

Annie’s face flashes in my mind—her wide green eyes, the way her fingers twitch when she’s overwhelmed, how she still hums to herself when she thinks no one’s listening. She just wants to swim. To read. To live. To love.

Jewel wants peace.

Annie wants peace.

So do I.

So does Gloss, I think.

And maybe, for a second, he’s wondering if I’m someone he can trust with that truth.

Maybe I am.

But not yet.

Not now.

It’s still too dangerous. One wrong word, one wrong glance, and everything we’re building—the rebellion, the alliances, the future—it could all come crashing down.

So I nod, keep my voice steady, and say, “I hope she’s spared. Really.”

Gloss meets my eyes for a flicker of a moment. There’s something raw in his expression. Something stripped back.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

Cashmere doesn’t say anything, but I see the smallest movement—her thumb brushing over the knuckles of her opposite hand. A grounding gesture.

None of us say the obvious:

This Quell could take any of us.

And no one is ready.

The silence hangs, heavier now. Thick with the names we don’t say aloud—Annie. Jewel. Ourselves.

Then, in the distance, a low mechanical hum breaks through the stillness.

The Six-Four train.

Relief hits me like a wave. I turn instinctively, eyes scanning the crowd clustered near the edge of the platform. And then—finally—I see her.

Mags.

She’s walking with that sure, quiet grace that somehow never left her, even after decades of surviving the Games and everything that came after. Her gray braid is tucked neatly under her knit cap, and her coat hangs just a little too big on her narrow frame. But her chin is lifted, her eyes sharp, focused—and when she spots me, they soften.

My heart loosens in my chest.

She made it.

I lift a hand in greeting, and she raises hers in return. She changes direction slightly, angling toward me without breaking stride. Just behind her, I spot Cecilia lingering near the edge of the crowd, her face drawn and pale, but nodding politely to the Capitol Peacekeepers as they pass.

Mags reaches me with a small huff of breath, her cheeks pink from the cold. “Sorry I took so long,” she says simply.

“You’re here,” I reply. “That’s all that matters.”

She nods once, and then her gaze flicks from me to Gloss and Cashmere. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, just… catching up.” Cashmere smiles.

“C’mon,” Mags says to me, placing a hand lightly on my elbow. “Let’s get on. I want to be home before my joints lock up.”

I nod, but glance once more at Gloss and Cashmere. Gloss’s eyes meet mine.

There’s something there. Not quite trust. But maybe… the beginning of it.

“See you around,” I offer.

Gloss nods. “Yeah. You too.”

Cashmere lifts her fingers in a small wave.

But just before I step onto the platform ramp, something tugs at me—guilt, maybe. Hope. The stubborn belief that we don’t have to be enemies. That they don’t have to stay on the side that breaks us.

I pause. Turn.

Cashmere and Gloss are still standing there, their silhouettes carved in Capitol light—polished, beautiful, lethal. Symbols of a system that’s poisoned all of us. And yet… still just people beneath it all. Still young. Still human.

“Think about how this has to end,” I say quietly.

My voice doesn’t carry far, but it doesn’t have to.

Gloss’s jaw tightens, a flicker of something unreadable behind his eyes. Cashmere crosses her arms, not defensive—just thinking. Measuring. Her gaze narrows slightly, brows pulling in like she’s working out a puzzle no one’s given her the full pieces to.

They glance at each other.

Just for a second. A breath. A silent conversation.

When they look back at me, it’s not defiance I see.

It’s fear. Hesitation. And something else, buried deeper—something closer to curiosity.

“We’ll see you around, Odair,” Gloss says finally.

“Maybe,” Cashmere adds, but her voice is softer than before.

They don’t say yes. But they don’t say no.

And as Mags gently urges me forward with a wrinkled hand to my back, I climb onto the train with that small, fragile maybe burning in my chest.

Not a promise.

But a seed.

But even as the doors close behind me, I can’t stop thinking about what it would mean if people like Gloss and Cashmere stood with us. Not because they owe it to anyone,
but because we all deserve a future that isn’t built on blood.

Chapter Text

“Everything is going to be okay, beautiful.” My voice is low, soft enough that it might be mistaken for a whisper, but firm with the conviction I wish I could fully believe. My fingers move slowly through Annie’s tangled hair, tracing gentle circles at the nape of her neck, careful not to disturb the fragile calm settling over her.

Her head rests against my chest, her breath warm and steady against my skin. The way her body drapes across mine feels fragile, like I’m holding something precious and easily broken. Our legs tangle together beneath the thin blanket, limbs naturally seeking each other out for warmth and comfort. Her small hands curl softly against my chest, fingertips brushing over my heartbeat, grounding me as much as I hope I am grounding her.

In this moment, she looks utterly peaceful—untouched by the weight of the world, the impending Reaping, or the fear that clings to her like a shadow these days. The tightness around her eyes has softened, her brow smooth for the first time in days. I want to freeze time right here, to trap this fragile peace and hold onto it forever.

The past few days have been like walking through a storm, each step heavier than the last. Annie’s smiles are fewer, her laughter strained and brief. The closer we get to the Reaping, the more I see her retreat behind that brave front she tries so hard to maintain. The episodes have grown worse—moments where the fear and memories crash over her in waves, stealing her breath, stealing her strength. I can’t blame her for the way she hides sometimes, or for the tears she tries so desperately not to shed.

But here—now—she’s safe, at least for a little while. Safe in the quiet cocoon of my arms. I press a kiss to the top of her head, inhaling the familiar scent of her hair, and silently promise her that I’ll fight with every breath to keep this calm, to keep her safe from the storm outside.

Her breath catches slightly as she shifts in her sleep, her nose brushing against the side of my neck before she exhales again, the air warm and steady against my skin. I hold her tighter without meaning to, like some part of me is terrified she’ll slip away if I don’t.

I wonder what she’s dreaming about. If it’s something soft, or nothing at all. I hope it’s the sea, or our home, or sunlight glinting off the tidepools. Not the arena. Not the screams. Not the Reaping stage.

I close my eyes and picture it too—our little cottage, worn but bright, with weathered wood and open windows and the ocean always close. I picture her there, barefoot, her hair loose down her back, humming as she makes tea or reads on the porch. I picture two children laughing—ours—and I let myself want it. That quiet life. That gentleness.

But the Games are coming again, and no amount of holding her in the dark can stop the clock from ticking toward that day.

My thumb brushes the hollow of her spine, soothing, slow. Her skin is warm beneath my touch—soft, familiar, steadying in a world that never is. I lean in and press a kiss to her temple, letting my lips linger there a little longer this time, as if the weight of the promise I’m about to make could somehow be sealed into her skin.

“I’m going to get you through this,” I whisper, so quiet I don’t even know if I want her to hear it. “I swear it.”

And I do. I swear it with every breath, every heartbeat. Every aching piece of me that’s wrapped itself around her like the tide—relentless, inevitable, all-consuming.

Because there is no world where I live and she doesn’t.

Not for me.

Mags already said it. She already decided—if Annie’s name is called, she’ll volunteer. No hesitation. But that doesn't make it easier. Doesn’t make it right. I still can’t sit with the idea of Annie surviving because someone else was lost in her place. That’s just how Panem works, isn’t it? A life for a life. Pain for pain. Survival as blood payment.

But Annie will live.

I’ll make sure of that.

And if I don’t…

Then I wasn’t strong enough.

And I just hope—god, I hope—she wouldn’t be too broken by that. That she’d remember me the way I am right now. Holding her. Loving her. Trying.

A voice cuts through the stillness.

“Finnick, I need you in the kitchen,” Mags calls from down the hall. Calm, composed as always. She never raises her voice. Never needs to.

I blink, my hand still resting against Annie’s back, and exhale. The moment cracks, like glass hit from the edge. Not shattered—just fractured. Reality slipping in.

Annie stirs against me, her brows knitting softly at the sound. Her fingers twitch slightly against my chest, and I press one last kiss to her hair before I gently shift out from beneath her.

“I’ll be right back,” I whisper.

I mean it. I always do.

But lately, every time I say it, it feels a little more like a prayer.

Annie lets out a soft sigh, curling instinctively into the space I’ve just left, clutching a pillow to her chest like it’s me. I linger for a beat, watching the rise and fall of her shoulders, before Mags’s voice calls again.

“Finnick.”

There’s a tone to her voice I don’t like. Firm. Bracing.

I head into the kitchen, running a hand through my hair—and freeze in the doorway.

Hudson. Nellie. Perrie. Oceanelle. Bailey. Marilyn. They’re all seated around the small kitchen table like it’s some kind of intervention. Like they’ve been waiting for me. Like I’m the last one to show up to a meeting I never agreed to.

I blink. “Uh… did I miss something?”

No one answers right away. A few glances are exchanged. I spot a flash of something unspoken between Nellie and Marilyn.

Hudson leans back slowly in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable but not relaxed. Nellie offers a soft, practiced smile—but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Perrie just gives a pointed nod toward the empty chair at the head of the table, like this is a war council and I’m the last soldier to report for duty.

I glance back toward the living room, suddenly wary. “Is this some kind of… District Four Victor intervention?”

“Something of the sorts,” Hudson says, cool and even.

I furrow my brow, already stepping back toward the hallway. “Okay, well—then I’ll wake Annie. She should be here for this.”

“No.” Mags’s voice stops me again. This time, firmer. Unshakable.

I turn to look at her. “Why not? She’s one of us.”

Mags steps between me and the door, her expression carefully composed. “Let her rest, Finnick.”

Something in my chest twists.

“She’s a victor too,” I say, more sharply than I mean to. “If this is about Four, she should be part of it.”

Still, no one moves. No one looks at me like I’m wrong—but none of them back me up either.

I look at each of them in turn. All seated. All silent. All waiting for me to stop pushing and just sit the hell down.

Maybe they don’t consider her one of us. Maybe they don’t see her as a real victor. She didn’t last weeks in the arena like Marilyn or Perrie. She didn’t kill half her competition. Maybe they think she got lucky. Or worse—maybe they think she’s too fragile to be included.

But then I catch the way Oceanelle’s jaw clenches. The way Bailey won’t meet my eyes.

And I realize that’s not it.

It’s not that they don’t consider Annie one of us.

It’s that whatever this is—whatever they’re about to say—they don’t want her to hear it.

And that scares me more than anything else.

Reluctantly, I move toward the empty chair and sit.

“What is this?” I ask, my voice lower now, tighter. The air feels too thick to breathe.

Mags folds her hands in front of her, elbows resting on the table like she’s bracing herself. “You know when we came back from the Capitol? I told you to go ahead and wait for me at the train station because I had to talk to Cecelia?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah…?” My tone is cautious, uncertain. A knot is already beginning to form in my chest, the kind that always comes right before something big. Something irreversible.

“Well,” Mags continues carefully, “while I was talking to her, Plutarch came up to us.”

My body locks. Just like that. Like someone cut the strings and every muscle inside me froze. My eyes snap to hers.

I stare at her. Really stare. I want to believe I misheard her—but I know I didn’t. Her face is calm, but her eyes—her eyes are sharper than I’ve ever seen them.

Plutarch.

My stomach twists. Every single meeting we’d had in private—every whispered plan, every step toward rebellion—he’d warned us: Tell no one. Don’t talk outside the room. Don’t risk exposure. Not even to people you trust. That’s how we stay alive.

“Mags,” I say, almost in a whisper. “You weren’t supposed to—”

“It’s okay, Finnick,” she interrupts gently, reaching out to touch my arm. “He said that if we truly believed there were others who’d stand with us—really stand with us—then it was time to start trusting.”

I glance around the table again, more carefully now.

Hudson’s jaw is tight, his arms still folded. Nellie looks between me and Mags, like she’s watching the pieces fall into place. Perrie is unreadable. Oceanelle nods once when I meet her eyes, like she’s been waiting for me to understand. Bailey’s foot taps a silent rhythm against the leg of the table, her face as serious as I’ve ever seen it. Marilyn stares at her hands but doesn’t look confused or concerned. Just... ready.

“We’ve been slowly affecting the ports,” Bailey chimes in, voice low but steady. He pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and lays it out on the table like a card in a high-stakes game. His fingers press down on the corners to keep it flat. The paper is worn and creased, but I can already see what’s on it—hand-drawn maps of District Four’s coastal regions, shipping routes, cargo schedules, annotated with sharp, deliberate markings in red ink.

Bailey taps a spot near the western docks. “If we get enough fishermen on our side—ones we trust—we can start slowing shipments. Delay exports. Say boats are broken. Say storms are coming. We don’t even have to stop everything, just enough to cause Capitol headaches.”

“Create shortages,” Hudson adds from his end of the table, his voice almost a growl. “The Capitol’s used to everything from Four arriving on time. You cut that flow even a little, they panic. That’s power.”

My eyes scan the map again, my mind already running through the names of people I know—crews I trained with, captains who used to ruffle my hair when I was a boy. Some of them would help. Some would be too scared. Some might already be quietly fighting back, waiting for permission.

Marilyn leans in next, her tone softer but no less determined. “We’re victors,” she says, like she’s reminding me of something I forgot. “We live in this weird limbo between the Capitol and the Districts. They let us move more freely than others. We get into rooms no one else can. People talk to us because they think we’re safe. Harmless.”

She glances around the table, eyes lingering for a second longer on Perrie, who gives a faint, grim nod.

“We’re not harmless,” Marilyn continues, her voice like iron beneath silk. “We’re seen. Respected. If we start doing something—even small things—people will notice. And if we’re brave enough to stand up, to take the risk? Then the rest of Four might finally believe they can too.”

There’s a quiet swell of agreement in the room. Nothing loud or performative. Just a shared understanding. The kind you only get with people who’ve survived the same hell. It moves through us like a tide—unspoken but present. A nod here, a glance there. They’ve all already made their choice.

I swallow and sit forward, hands braced against my knees. “I totally support this idea, really,” I begin cautiously, measuring each word. “It’s important we stick together. Unite not just the Districts, but the people in them. But then—” my voice tightens despite me—“why can’t I tell Annie?”

The silence that follows is different now. Not hesitant. Not confused. It’s deliberate. Calculated. Like they knew I’d ask.

Perrie doesn’t look up, just traces a line across the map with his knuckle. “Because she’s too close to you.”

Nellie frowns softly. “It’s not about trust, Finnick. We love Annie.”

“Of course we do,” Oceanelle says gently. “She’s one of us.”

“She’s not one of us,” I say, and the words are sharper than I intend. “You kept her out of this meeting. You didn’t even want me to wake her up. She’s a victor. She’s been through everything we have.”

“She’s been through enough,” Mags says, quietly but firmly. “More than enough.”

I turn toward her, my voice a little raw. “And you think I haven’t?”

“You have,” Hudson answers before Mags can. “That’s why we’re telling you. That’s why you get to carry this right now, and not her.”

It feels like a punch in the ribs. I can’t tell if I want to argue or agree. My hands curl slowly into fists against my legs.

“Look,” Bailey says carefully, “if the Capitol finds out about this meeting, or if even a whisper gets out… we can handle the fallout. We’ve done it before. We’re ready for it. But Annie?” He exhales. “They’ll tear her apart.”

“She’s already fragile,” Marilyn adds. “They’ll target her to hurt you. To break you. They know that’s your weak spot.”

“This isn’t fair,” I say, my voice low, rough. “She wants to help. She hates the Capitol just as much as we do.”

My hands are clenched, knuckles white. Every instinct in me is screaming to stand up, to go to Annie, to pull her into this room and prove she belongs here as much as any of us. That she’s not weak. That she’s stronger than all of us combined when it comes to surviving what they did to us.

Hudson leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on mine. “Finnick, listen,” he says, steady, like he’s had this speech rehearsed. “Whether you like it or not, you’re the spotlight of Four. You’re involved. You go to the Capitol every year. For the Games. For galas. For dinners. For whatever sick thing Snow dreams up.”

I don’t say anything. I can’t. He’s right.

“If something goes wrong—if this meeting is discovered, if the ports start pushing back, if any piece of this rebellion falls apart—Snow will trace it back to you. He won’t waste time investigating every dockhand or fisherman. He’ll go for the face he knows. You.”

My jaw tightens.

Hudson doesn’t stop. “And because he knows you… he knows what hurts you. He’s had years to figure that out. To catalog it. To test it.”

His voice drops just slightly.

“He’ll hurt Annie.”

It lands like a stone in my stomach.

The silence after is brutal. No one breathes.

“He already has hurt Annie,” I whisper.

“I know,” Mags says softly beside me.

I close my eyes. I think of her scream in the Capitol hospital after her Games. The way she flinches in her sleep. The way she spirals when a door slams too loud.

“But she’s still healing,” Marilyn adds. “And if she knows about the rebellion, even just a piece of it, and the Capitol suspects her? They’ll rip her apart just for what she might know. You want to protect her? Then don’t let her get implicated. Don’t let her be used to get to you.”

I stare down at the floor.

I can still feel the shape of her curled against me from just minutes ago, the sound of her slow breathing, the way she relaxed when I whispered everything was going to be okay.

I want that to be true.

I want it more than anything.

But it won’t be—unless I keep this secret.

Even from her.

Even when it kills me.

“I hate this,” I say.

“I know,” Hudson replies. “But if you want her to live, this is the only way.”

And that’s what it always comes down to in Panem, doesn’t it?

What you’re willing to give up to make sure someone else survives.

Before I can say anything more, the sharp, unexpected ring of the phone cuts through the heavy silence like a whipcrack. Everyone in the kitchen stiffens, eyes flicking toward the wall-mounted landline near the pantry. For a second, no one moves.

Then Mags steps forward, her movements brisk and unbothered, though I know her too well not to catch the subtle tightness in her shoulders. She lifts the receiver, tucks it between her ear and shoulder, and pulls the cord taut as she listens.

“That’s good. Yes. Yes. Blight—” Her voice catches slightly at the name.

Blight?

I glance at the others around the table—Hudson, Nellie, Perrie, Marilyn—before moving closer. “Are they having a meeting too?” I ask, my voice low.

Mags doesn’t answer right away, but gives a short nod, her hand cupped lightly over the mouthpiece. The phone cord jiggles every time she nods again, listening. Blight must be talking fast—her eyes are focused, mouth set in a thin line.

“Is Johanna there?” I press.

Without missing a beat, Mags echoes the question into the phone. “Is Johanna there?”

A brief silence follows. The kind that feels longer than it is. I hold my breath.

Then, wordlessly, Mags extends the phone toward me.

I snatch it from her hand, pressing it to my ear like the air around me has thinned and she’s the only way to breathe again. “Johanna?” I ask, too desperate to hide it.

There’s a pause—static crackling faintly, distant murmurs on the other end—and then her voice cuts through, low and tired, but unmistakably her.

“Did they drag you into a… situation too?”

Her sarcasm is softer than usual. Worn down. It’s the kind of dry humor that tries to cover the fact that she’s probably pacing around some dim Capitol apartment right now, wrapped in that awful Seven jacket, arms crossed tight.

“Yeah,” I murmur, turning slightly away from the table. “They’ve got the whole population here.”

There’s so much I want to say—so much I want to ask her—but we can’t fully trust these lines. The Capitol could be listening. Probably is. Every syllable might be recorded, dissected, weaponized. So I let it hang there, unsaid. The worry. The fear. The need to know if she’s really okay.

“I came home from a stupid walk,” Johanna huffs, her voice low, tired, and irritated in that uniquely Johanna way. “And I was immediately rushed over to Blight’s like it was some kind of emergency meeting. No warning.”

I smile, just faintly, leaning my head against the wall. “You okay?”

“My feet hurt,” she complains. “My boots are still on. They didn’t even let me take off my damn boots. I think I’ve got a blister forming.”

“That’s war, Mason,” I tease softly.

“That’s poor hospitality,” she shoots back.

I let myself breathe for a moment, grounding myself in the sound of her voice. She’s okay. Grouchy, complaining, probably chewing her thumbnail down to nothing—but okay. That’s all I need. Just a sliver of normal from someone who knows how deep the storm runs.

“They always change their minds,” Johanna huffs, her tone edged with something colder now.

I nod slowly, even though she can’t see me. Plutarch. Always three steps ahead—or behind, depending on the day. “Yeah,” I mutter. “For some reason, they won’t let me tell—”

“What’s going on?”

My heart drops.

I turn instinctively, hand still loosely holding the phone. And there she is—Annie.

She’s standing at the entry of the kitchen, hair loose and slightly mussed from sleep, the blanket from the couch still wrapped around her shoulders like a shield. But her eyes are wide. Sharp. Alert. Flicking between me, Mags, Hudson, Perrie, Nellie, Marilyn—everyone seated around the table like a panel of quiet judges.

She doesn’t look confused.

She looks betrayed.

“Finnick?” Johanna calls faintly over the line. “Was that—?”

I can’t let her finish. Not now.

I set the phone down in the receiver, the click echoing like a slap in the silence.

I force a smile—too wide, too strained—and step toward Annie. “Did you sleep well?”

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Just stares at the group like she’s trying to piece together a puzzle she didn’t know existed.

“What’s going on?” she asks again, more firmly this time. Her voice wavers just slightly, but she squares her shoulders.

Her eyes meet mine. Not scared. Not even angry. Just... hurt. Like she can already feel the space between us widening.

“Why is everyone here?” she asks, voice quieter now.

No one answers.

Bailey, who had been resting a map across the table with detailed marks over the southern coastline, subtly shifts his elbow. In one motion, he angles his body so that the paper is hidden from view. His movement is quick, but not quick enough. Annie’s eyes narrow, tracking it.

Hudson, who had been sitting with all the calm and command of a commander, suddenly becomes fascinated by the salt and pepper shakers in front of him. He picks one up, taps the bottom like he’s checking for cracks, then sets it down with exaggerated care—like the ceramic deserves his full attention.

Nellie casts a fleeting look in my direction, silently begging me to say something, anything, before this spirals. Perrie simply folds his arms and leans back in his chair like he's removed himself from the situation entirely, refusing to look at Annie. Marilyn’s shoulders tense. She stares down at her hands, fingers knitting themselves together in a way that says she doesn’t want to be the one to lie to her.

It’s Mags who breaks the silence.

But not with words. She only gives me a gentle nod. Go to her, it says. You handle this.

I take a breath that doesn't really reach my lungs and step closer.

“Annie…” I start, carefully. “It’s not—”

“No,” she says, her voice stronger now. “Don’t do that. Don’t give me the Capitol line—it’s not what it looks like. Just tell me the truth.”

And she’s right. Because everything about this does look like a secret meeting. Everything about this is something that should’ve included her.

Everything about this is betrayal.

I open my mouth again. Then close it.

“I woke up,” she says slowly, voice growing tight like she’s holding back tears—or holding herself back from something worse, “and you weren’t there. You didn’t say anything. I walked into the kitchen and saw every single District Four victor—everyone—at the table.”

Her eyes sweep the room again. Hudson. Marilyn. Perrie. Bailey. Nellie. Mags. Me.

“I’m not upset that you didn’t wake me,” she goes on, quieter now, but more focused. “I’m upset that none of you are telling me what this is about.”

Her voice trembles slightly at the end. Not weak—never weak. But fragile in the way a wave is before it crashes.

The silence that follows is long and stifling.

Hudson clears his throat, sitting up straighter like maybe good posture will make his excuse sound better. “It’s just a… uh, a little get-together.”

The words land like a brick thrown through glass.

“A get-together,” Annie repeats, flatly.

Marilyn nods too quickly, clasping her hands in front of her on the table like she’s praying Annie will buy it. “We hardly ever see each other. We thought we’d use the little time we have to… catch up. Share stories.”

Annie doesn’t move. She just stands there, her fingers still curled in the blanket around her shoulders, her breath slow but steady like she’s bracing herself.

Then she turns to me.

Her eyes meet mine—sea-green and bright and honest—and it feels like someone’s just punched the air out of my lungs.

“Finnick,” she says softly. “What’s going on?”

My mouth opens before I can stop it, but nothing solid comes out. “Nothing,” I say. Too fast. Too brittle. “It’s just—”

“Are you lying to me?”

That question.

Those four words.

They don’t sound angry. They sound broken. Like she’s afraid of the answer even as she asks it. Like some part of her already knows.

And me?

I can’t breathe.

Because I can lie to a Capitol camera. I can lie to Snow. I can lie to Peacekeepers, Gamemakers, reporters, strangers on trains. I’ve lied with charm. With a smile. With an entire persona I’ve built to keep myself—and her—alive.

But I can’t lie to Annie.

Not because she’s too sharp, not because she’d see through it in an instant. But because I love her too much to even try.

The moment the question leaves her mouth, I feel like I’m unraveling. Like my heart is collapsing under the weight of everything I’ve kept buried.

I swallow hard, trying to look away. But I can’t. She’s looking at me like I’m the only thing holding her together, and all I’ve done is make her question me.

My voice, when it finally comes, is hoarse. “Annie…”

Her eyes are still locked on mine. “Finnick.”

And I can’t do it. I can’t lie.

The silence that stretches between us says more than words ever could.

Annie blinks, just once, and I see it—feel it—the way her heart cracks a little. The way her shoulders slowly fold in on themselves like she’s trying not to break all at once.

“Okay,” she whispers. “That’s… okay.”

It’s not.

She turns again, and this time she walks faster, heading for the front door. A second later, the door opens and closes. I take a step to follow her, but my legs won’t move.

My chest burns.

Because I didn’t even say anything.

And somehow, that was worse.

The moment she leaves, it’s like the entire room exhales—soft, awkward rustles of clothes and uneasy shifting in chairs, but no one says anything.

Because they all felt it too.

That moment. That break.

My hands are shaking. I press them to the edge of the table, trying to ground myself, but it doesn’t help. I don’t even realize I’m still standing until I hear Hudson’s low voice behind me.

“Finnick—”

“I can’t—she thinks I’m lying to her.”

“Finnick, you’re not—” Nellie starts, her voice gentle.

“But I am,” I snap, turning to them, voice cracking. “By not telling her, I’m lying. She’s not stupid. She sees it. She sees all of it.”

I glance at the front door like maybe she’ll come back. Like maybe I’ll get one more chance to fix the look on her face.

“She asked me straight to my face and I—” My voice catches. I run a hand through my hair. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t lie to her. But I couldn’t tell her the truth either.”

Mags rises slowly, stepping beside me with quiet footsteps, her hand brushing my arm. “You did what you had to, Finn.”

I turn to her, helpless. “But why her? Why does she have to be the one left out? Just because Snow knows how to hurt me best?”

No one answers.

Because the truth is, they agree.

They’re trying to protect her. Just like I am. Just like I always am.

But that doesn’t make it any easier.

It doesn’t make it feel less like betrayal.

“She’s going to hate me for this,” I murmur. “And she’ll be right.”

“No, she won’t,” Hudson says finally, his tone quieter now. “She’ll be hurt. She’ll feel left out. But she won’t hate you, Finnick.”

I shake my head, throat tight. “You didn’t see her face.”

“I did,” Perrie says, speaking for the first time in a while. “And it didn’t look like hate. It looked like someone who just lost their anchor.”

Hudson swats his arm. “That isn’t helping.”

The words hit harder than I expect. Because that’s what this is. Annie—she’s always been the one to hold me steady when everything else falls apart. And now I’ve made her feel like she’s the one left adrift.

“I need to talk to her,” I say hoarsely, stepping away from the table.

“Finnick—”

“I won’t tell her about the ports or Plutarch or the rebellion,” I say without turning around. “I’ll just tell her what’s true. That I didn’t want to hurt her. That I didn’t know how to protect her and keep her at the same time.”

No one stops me.

Because they know, if the roles were reversed, they’d do the same.

The door swings open with more force than I mean to give it. I stumble down the porch steps like I’ve forgotten how to walk. The second the cold air hits me, I realize just how badly my chest hurts. Like something’s caving in.

I scan the street. Empty. Too empty.

“Annie!” I call, but my voice barely carries. I jog down the path, past the front gardens of Victor’s Village, turning my head in every direction, searching for any sign of her—bare feet, wind-tossed hair, the blanket she’d wrapped around her shoulders.

Nothing.

I don’t even remember closing the door behind me.

I rush toward the main road, heart racing faster with every second that passes. She’s not at the fountain. Not at the corner store. Not under the willow by the edge of the street, where she sometimes walks when she needs quiet.

“Annie!”

Still nothing.

A few people glance at me from a distance, but no one speaks. I keep moving. Past the bakery. Past the empty market stalls. Around the bend where the harbor fence starts, even though I know—she wouldn’t go that far. She wouldn’t leave the district.

But she left me.

She turned, and I just stood there. Like a coward. I didn’t call her name. I didn’t say wait. I didn’t say I love you. I didn’t say anything.

Now it feels like I might never get the chance again.

And I can’t live with that.

I break into a jog.

The wind off the harbor stings my face, salt and cold biting at my skin, but I don’t care. My boots thud against the dirt path as I veer off toward the far end of the district—near the cliffs. Annie loves the cliffs. The wind, the sound of the waves crashing below. It steadies her sometimes.

But she’s not there.

“Annie!”

My voice echoes out and vanishes, swallowed by the vast emptiness.

Still no answer.

I double back, heart thundering in my chest. I check behind the cannery. The old market steps. The narrow alley behind the bakery where she used to leave me chalk drawings when we were younger.

Nothing.

She’s gone.

But not gone gone—I know that. She wouldn’t run. She wouldn’t leave me, not really.

Unless I already gave her reason to.

Unless she needed space from the one person she trusted most and I let her down anyway.

My breath hitches as I round the next corner, boots scuffing against the gravel. My lungs are burning now, but I don’t stop. I can’t. She couldn’t have gone far—I keep telling myself that—but every minute that ticks by feels like another inch of her slipping away.

“Annie!” I call again, voice cracking. Still nothing. Just the rustle of wind through the nets hanging to dry and the distant caw of gulls.

And then—movement.

A man, maybe mid-thirties, is jogging along the outer path by the fishery. I run toward him, waving an arm.

“Excuse me! Excuse me—sir!”

He slows, startled. “Something I can help you with?”

“Yes,” I gasp, trying to catch my breath. “Yes. I—have you seen a girl? Really pretty. Beautiful, really. Sea-green eyes and dark brown hair? Freckles scattered across her skin like—like little constellations?”

His brows pinch slightly. “Sorry,” he says, glancing around. “Can’t say that I have…”

I nod quickly, swallowing the panic rising in my throat. “Thanks. Sorry. Sorry to bother you.” I start to turn away, but I hear him say:

“You okay, man?”

I give him a hollow nod and keep walking. Jogging. Running.

Through the nets drying in the salt breeze. Past the tangled lobster traps and stacks of rusted fish bins. I check the boardwalk, the rockier tidepools, even the old boathouse where we used to sneak off when we were younger. Nothing. Nothing but the echo of my own breath and the soft slap of the waves.

I wipe at my face with the back of my hand. I don’t even realize I’m crying until I taste salt that isn’t just from the air.

Where would she go?

Where do you go when you feel like you’ve been cut open by the one person you trusted most?

She’s not at the docks.

She’s not at the markets.

She’s not by the northern cliffs.

She’s not anywhere.

But she has to be.

She wouldn’t just leave.

She wouldn't—

My pace falters as I come up over the dunes near the quieter side of the beach, the one that faces away from town. The stretch where the sand grows coarse and the sky seems to fold in a little tighter. The place people go when they want to be alone.

Please. Please, please, please.

And then I see it—a flash of dark brown. A figure, curled tight. Still. Facing the sea.

My feet move before I can think.

“Annie,” I breathe.

I don’t even know if she hears me yet. I don’t know what I’ll say.

But I know one thing:

I’m not leaving without her.

The wind whips at my clothes as I make my way across the uneven sand, my breath hitching with every step. She’s hunched over, arms around her knees, hair tugging loose by the breeze, strands curling against her cheeks. She doesn’t move when I approach.

I slow as I reach her. “Annie,” I say again, softer this time, like a prayer.

Still no response.

My heart twists.

“I didn’t want to lie,” I say, quietly. “I swear I didn’t.”

Her jaw tightens.

“I didn’t even know how to start,” I go on. “Because the second I do… it makes it real. It makes you part of it. And I know you’re already hurting, Annie. I know the closer we get to the Reaping, the worse it gets for you, and—”

“I’m not glass, Finnick,” she says, suddenly.

Her voice isn’t loud. It’s low and even. But it slices through me like a knife all the same.

I turn toward her fully. “I know that.”

“Then why are you treating me like I’ll shatter the second you tell me something hard?” She finally lifts her head, eyes meeting mine. They’re red around the edges, shining with restrained hurt. But steady. Fiercely steady. “I’ve been through the Games. I’ve survived things I can’t even say out loud. I don’t need you to protect me from the truth. I need you to trust me with it.”

I exhale shakily. “I do. I do trust you. That’s why this kills me.”

She blinks, startled by the honesty in that. Her mouth parts slightly, but she says nothing, waiting.

I lean forward, my elbows on my knees, hands loosely clasped like I’m praying. Or maybe just trying to hold myself together.

“I don’t know how to live in a world where I’m safe and you’re not,” I say, voice low, rough. “I don’t know how to plan revolutions and sabotage and strategy when the one person I care about more than anything isn’t even allowed to know. Because if anything ever happened to you, Annie—if Snow used you to get to me—”

I swallow hard. The words don’t want to come out. But I owe her the truth now, in the pieces I can give.

“I don’t think I’d survive it.”

Her breath hitches, the sound so small I almost miss it.

“I understand, Finn.”

I turn to face her. “What?”

“I understand why you did what you did,” Annie clarifies.

“But… but I lied to you—”

“You didn’t lie to me,” Annie says, shaking her head.

Her voice is soft, but steady. Like the calm eye of a storm that’s finally passed. She’s not angry—not the way I feared. There’s still pain there, yes, still a shadow behind her eyes, but she meets my gaze without flinching.

“You didn’t lie,” Annie repeats, a little firmer now. “You were trying to protect me. And maybe… maybe I wish you hadn’t. Maybe it hurt. But I know the difference between someone keeping something from me out of fear, and someone keeping something from me to keep control.”

I blink, trying to process what she’s saying. My heart is pounding. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Because I think—I think she’s trying to forgive me. And I’m not sure I deserve it.

“You didn’t shut me out to punish me,” she continues, her voice quieter now. “You were scared. And I get that, Finnick. I really do.”

I stare at her, swallowing the lump in my throat. “You shouldn’t have to get it. You shouldn’t have to be the one understanding. I should’ve been brave enough to tell you from the start.”

Annie smiles, but it’s not a happy one—it’s the kind of smile people wear when they’re trying not to cry. “Bravery doesn’t always look like telling the truth right away,” she murmurs. “Sometimes… sometimes it looks like this. Sitting in the wreckage of it all. Owning it.”

I reach out with both hands, cupping one of hers in mine, then bringing the other over it like I’m trying to shield something fragile from the world. My thumb brushes over her knuckles. “I’m sorry, Ann,” I say, and this time it comes out broken. “Really. Truly. I—I didn’t want to hurt you. I just didn’t know how to—how to keep you safe and still be honest.”

She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look away. Instead, she shifts just slightly toward me, and then, slowly—deliberately—threads our fingers together, one by one, like she’s piecing something broken back into place.

“I love you,” she says softly, as if that explains everything.

And maybe it does.

Because my chest caves in at those three words, and something in me finally—finally—lets go. The fear, the guilt, the frantic sense of helplessness. It doesn’t vanish. But it eases. Because she still loves me.

I close my eyes and press her knuckles to my lips. “I love you,” I whisper. “More than life. More than anything.”

She leans into me then, gently resting her forehead against mine, and for a long, quiet moment, we just breathe—together. In sync again. Not whole, not perfect—but together.

Chapter Text

In just a couple more minutes, the life I once knew will be over.

The air hanging over the Victors' Village feels thick, like it’s been soaked in seawater and left to rot under the sun. It doesn’t move. It doesn’t breathe. It waits—taut and looming, heavy with a truth we haven’t spoken aloud but all know in our bones.

Maybe, in some twisted stroke of mercy, there’s a version of today where none of us are chosen. Maybe we slip through the cracks—Mags, Annie, and me—and the Capitol forgets our names just this once. Maybe. But the ocean doesn’t give back what it takes, and neither does Snow. Hoping feels foolish. Dangerous.

Annie’s hand is warm in mine, but her grip is trembling. We walk slowly toward the Justice Building, our fingers tangled together like we’re trying to fuse into one person. Like maybe if we’re close enough, they won’t be able to take us apart.

The Reaping doesn’t start for a few more minutes. Odessa is probably stumbling out of her hovercraft right now in some gaudy attempt to honor our district, wrapped in fishnet or sequins or shells—pearls, maybe, because she thinks that’s clever.

“I don’t want to be here,” Annie mumbles, her voice barely a whisper over the crunch of gravel beneath our feet. She presses herself closer, like if she could just crawl under my skin, she might be safe.

I stop walking, turn slightly toward her. Her hair is pulled back, but pieces have started to fall free from the sea breeze—if you can even call it that. It doesn’t cool; it doesn’t soothe. It just reminds me we’re close to the shore, and still so far from safety.

“I don’t either,” I say, brushing her knuckles with my thumb. “When it’s time, I want you to stand with Mags, okay?”

She shakes her head instantly, like a child refusing medicine. “I want to stand with you.”

“You can’t, love,” I say, my voice breaking despite my best effort to keep it steady. “You can stand with me after it’s over.”

If I make it out. If either of us do.

Mags appears behind her like a ghost—quiet, steady. She rests a soft hand on Annie’s shoulder. “It’s going to be okay, hun,” she says, voice raspy but kind.

Annie just shakes her head again. “It’s not. Everything is going to change.”

She’s right. She’s always been good at seeing the shape of things before they happen.

Before I can even try to spin a lie that might make her feel better, a Peacekeeper barks behind us, sharp and mechanical: “Victors, get in formation!”

I squeeze Annie’s hand like it’s the last thing anchoring me to the earth. “I’ll find you after, okay?”

She doesn’t answer, just nods once, blinking fast. Mags gives me a look—part warning, part promise—and gently guides her away. I watch them walk until I can’t anymore.

The other victors are already gathering, and I didn’t even notice. I fall into line beside Hudson, the eldest of the more recent batch. His face is unreadable.

“Nervous?” he asks, eyes fixed forward.

I have every reason to be. I’m the Capitol’s favorite toy. The golden boy of District Four. The trident-wielding heartthrob who’s useful alive and even more useful if I die dramatically on live television. My name is probably the only one in the bowl. “Very,” I say.

Then, with a voice full of sugar and rot: “District Four, how great it is to be back!”

I clench my jaw so hard it aches.

Odessa floats toward the stage in a gown so white it nearly blinds me, shimmered with layers of pearl-like scales that ripple with each exaggerated step. Her hat is shaped like an oyster, the Capitol’s latest interpretation of fashion. Her smile is too wide, like she doesn’t know what we’re here for. Like this is a party.

And just like that, the air shifts. The crowd quiets. The Reaping has begun.

I force my eyes forward, past the cameras, past the thousands gathered. I don’t let myself look at Annie. Not because I don’t want to—but because I do. And if I see her face right now, I’ll unravel. And if I unravel, they’ll feast on it.

Because the Capitol loves nothing more than a beautiful tragedy.

Odessa launches into her usual song and dance the moment she reaches the podium, her voice high and gleaming like a blade polished too many times. She talks about the “betterment of the Districts,” the “honor of sacrifice,” and the “power of the Capitol.” All those empty words dressed up like pearls, meant to dazzle the cameras while glossing over the blood that makes them shine.

I tune most of it out, watching her instead. The way she gestures dramatically with each syllable like this is a performance—like we’re characters in her favorite play, and she’s thrilled we’ve reached the climax. Her dress glints beneath the rising sun, refracting light off each shell-sewn seam. It's grotesque, really, how easily she blends beauty with death.

“Gentleman first!” she squeals, like we’ve won a raffle.

Odessa flutters over to the glass bowl as though it’s some treasure chest waiting to be unlocked. She dips her hand in with theatrical flair, fingers wiggling before they clutch a slip of paper like it’s a love letter.

Why am I nervous?

It’s almost definitely my name. I know how this works. I’ve always known. I’m the Capitol’s prize catch—hooked and kept in their gilded tank. I should be resigned by now, should feel that dull sort of bitterness that comes when a trap finally springs shut.

But there’s still a part of me that hopes.

A small, stupid, stubborn part that wonders if maybe—just maybe—someone else will take the fall this time.

“Finnick Odair.”

I almost laugh. Of course. Of course he wouldn’t let me go. Snow’s grip reaches far deeper than any sea monster I’ve ever swum with. There was never any other option.

I smile like I mean it, that charming grin they all know, and start walking toward the stage with a confidence I no longer feel. I look right into the camera, straight into the eyes of every Capitol citizen watching. My fate was sealed before my name ever touched that bowl.

Now comes the worst part.

“And now, the ladies!” Odessa beams, her voice saccharine, as she spins toward the second bowl. “A moment of history!”

She swirls her hand through the names like she’s stirring soup, then plucks one like it’s candy. The crowd holds its breath. I already know what’s coming.

She returns to the microphone, fluttering her eyelashes. “Annie Cresta.”

My heart doesn’t stop, it drops.

There’s a difference.

I try not to flinch. Try not to move. But I can’t stop my eyes from flicking to her. She’s already crying. Her hand covers her mouth and her whole frame folds in on itself like she’s trying to disappear.

I would give anything—anything—to be able to go to her, pull her close, whisper that it’s going to be okay. But we’re on stage. Watched. Owned.

Before I can move, a voice rings out beside her.

“I volunteer as tribute.”

It’s Mags.

Of course it’s Mags.

She told me this would happen. Pulled me aside just a few nights ago, but that same part of me that hoped my name wouldn’t be called had hoped she wouldn’t follow through. Hoped someone else would step up. Hoped fate might just… bend.

Annie looks stunned, frozen, her face crumpling in heartbreak. So many emotions flicker across it that I can’t name them fast enough—guilt, sorrow, relief, confusion.

I move toward Mags as she walks towards the center stage. I can’t not. I know what she’d say about keeping up appearances, but I also know if I don’t hug her right now, I’ll come undone in front of the entire nation.

The moment my arms wrap around her, it feels final. Like the tide has pulled us under and there's no swimming back.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I whisper, my voice rough in her hair.

She only nods and then, ever the mentor, ever the fighter, she grabs my hand and subtly points toward the camera, reminding me who’s watching. Reminding me not to let them see.

I force myself to straighten. To pull back. I lift our joined hands and raise them together, presenting us like some twisted tribute to unity. I glance sideways at her—she’s calm, but there’s fear in her eyes. Pride too, bright and burning.

She’s going in to save Annie. And she knows she’s not coming back.

“Happy Seventy-Fifth Hunger Games!” Odessa cheers, oblivious to the weight around her. “May the odds be ever in your favor!”

The crowd claps. The cameras flash.

And just like that, it begins again.

I turn to go to her—I need to. Annie’s still crying, and I can’t leave her like this. But a Peacekeeper steps in my path like a wall, shoving me toward the Justice Building with a barked command.

“Stop!” I shout, twisting around. “I need to—”

“Get inside.” His tone is final.

“Okay,” I snap, holding my ground. “But I get to say goodbye!”

He doesn’t answer—just keeps pushing, guiding me through the marble halls until we reach a side room. It smells like fresh polish and cold stone, and everything echoes too much.

“You get three minutes,” he grunts, then steps aside.

I rise onto my toes, stretching my neck toward the doorway. My heart’s pounding, the seconds dragging like fishing nets snagged on coral.

And then she’s there.

Annie rushes into the room, her face crumpled, and throws herself into my chest like the tide slamming against a jetty. Her hands fist in my sweater, knuckles white, clutching as if she could anchor herself to me and keep from drowning.

I wrap my arms around her and hold her tight. “I’ll be okay,” I murmur, voice low against her temple.

But she just shakes her head, crying harder. “You both can’t leave me,” she chokes out, pulling away enough to look past me at Mags. “Why did you do that, Mags?”

Mags smiles gently, her expression calm but sad. “Because you deserve a life ahead of you, my dear,” she says. “I’ve lived mine.”

“But—” Annie’s voice cracks.

Mags lifts a hand and shakes her head softly. “You deserve it,” she repeats.

Annie wrenches away from me to hug Mags, clutching her like she might break if she lets go. Her sobs echo off the walls, raw and aching.

Mags rubs her back in small circles, steady and warm, like she’s done since we were all moved in to her house. She holds Annie just long enough to quiet her trembling, then gently pulls away. She glances at me, giving the faintest nod of encouragement, and steps back.

Annie returns to me without hesitation, pressing into my chest again. I hold her tighter than I probably should. I don’t know how to do any of this. I don’t know how to say goodbye.

“I love you, Annie,” I whisper.

Her breath catches, and then she exhales a trembling, “Me too, Finnick.”

There’s a beat of silence before a soft voice calls, “Finnick?”

I glance up and see Trent lingering in the doorway. His eyes are wide, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to come in, or if seeing me like this will shatter him.

Annie steps back, slowly, letting me go with a hesitation that makes my throat tighten. Trent walks forward in a few quick strides and pulls me into a hug. No words. Just arms around each other, like we’re still kids sitting on the dock after school, talking about how we’d both be fishermen one day, rich and free.

We stand like that for a while, just existing in the same grief.

We’ve known each other forever. I know all his tells—the quirk of his jaw when he’s annoyed, the way he scratches his eyebrow when he’s nervous. Right now, he won’t meet my eyes.

“Don’t die, Finn,” Trent says, voice strained. “Promise me.”

“Trent—”

“Promise me, dude.” He pulls back to look at me, and now I see it—his eyes are glassy. Afraid.

I look down.

“I can’t.” My voice is barely a whisper. “I want to, but I can’t.”

Because there’s a part of me—a dark, quiet part in the back of my mind—that doesn’t believe I’m making it out this time. Maybe I never did.

Trent exhales shakily. “Then lie to me.”

“Okay,” I whisper. “I promise.”

“One minute left!” the Peacekeeper calls from the hall.

Annie surges forward again, tears streaming fast now. She clutches my hands, holding on like I’m the last thing keeping her upright.

“Please, Finnick,” she whispers, frantic. “Please find a way to come back. You and Mags. Please. Please.”

Her whole body is trembling. I want to promise her something. Anything. But my throat feels like it’s closing in on itself.

“Annie—”

“Please, Finnick,” she begs, and it’s a plea so full of love and fear that I can’t breathe.

I have no answer that will make this better. No words that will fix it.

So I don’t speak.

Instead, I reach out, cup her face in both hands, and lean in.

For once, I don’t care about the cameras.

For once, I just want to feel something true.

Her breath hitches as I lean in, and for a second, we just look at each other. Her eyes—wide, wet, shimmering with panic and pain—lock onto mine like she’s memorizing every part of me.

And then our lips meet.

It’s desperate. Tender. Soft. Passionate. All of it at once.

Like we’re pouring every word we don’t have time to say into this kiss.

She clings to me, fingers twisted in the collar of my sweater like letting go would mean losing me forever. Her mouth moves against mine shakily, like she’s crying through every second of it—and she is. I feel the salt of her tears on my tongue, taste it between kisses. I don’t know if they’re hers or mine anymore.

My hands are in her hair, on her face, her shoulders—anywhere I can touch her. Anywhere I can convince myself she’s still here, still real, still mine for just a little longer.

I don’t care that we’re being watched. I don’t care about the Capitol, about the Peacekeepers, or about the Games. This kiss—it’s the only thing that matters.

But time never stops. Not even for love.

The door bangs open behind us.

“Enough!” a Peacekeeper barks, charging in.

I feel them grab my arm, wrenching me back, but I fight it. I hold Annie tighter, kissing her again, more urgently, until they tear us apart like waves dragging a sailor under.

“No!” Annie screams, reaching for me.

“Don’t touch her!” I yell, twisting in their grip, thrashing against the hands dragging me away. “Just one more second—Annie—Annie!”

But they’re stronger. Rougher. I’m being pulled toward the door, boots scraping against the floor, arms straining toward her like I could bridge the distance if I just reached far enough.

“Trent!” I yell over the sound of Annie sobbing. “Please take care of her!”

Trent’s already there, his arms wrapping around Annie, holding her steady as she breaks in his grip. His face is pale, jaw clenched, but he nods—quick, firm.

“I will,” he says, voice low but certain. “I swear it.”

Annie tries to push forward again, but Trent keeps her anchored, whispering something to her that I can’t hear. “Wait, Finnick!”

She manages to escape Trent’s grasp. She reaches around her neck, taking off a necklace I didn’t even notice she had. She places it in my palms. “I made this for you.”

I almost start crying again as I hold it in my hand. “Thank you, Ann.”

I go to kiss her again, but the Peacekeeper blocks my way. “Enough, get to the train.”

I’m almost to the hallway now. Almost gone.

“Annie!” I shout, twisting in one last surge of resistance. “I love you!”

And through her tears, her voice shatters the air like a wave crashing on stone.

“I love you too, Finnick!”

Then the doors slam shut between us.

And the world goes quiet.

The doors shut like a death sentence.

And I don’t hold it together after that.

I try. I swear I try. I clench my jaw, bite the inside of my cheek, blink fast enough to blur the tears away—but it’s no use. The moment I’m dragged through the Justice Building and shoved onto the train platform, it all starts to fall apart. My chest caves in, the sobs breaking through in silent, shaking gasps.

Mags is right beside me. She doesn’t say anything. She just reaches for my arm, steady and sure, her hand warm and grounding as the world spins too fast. She never lets go, even when the train’s doors hiss open and Odessa starts running her mouth with some fake-cheer greeting, her Capitol gloss already painting this nightmare like a celebration.

We don’t stop. We don’t even look at her.

Mags keeps me moving, one step at a time, until we reach the very last car of the train—the one with the wide, wall-length windows that look out across the sea.

The same car she brought me to when I was first reaped.

The same glass I stared through when I thought I was going to die.

She doesn’t need to say anything. She just eases me down onto the bench seat tucked beneath the windows, and I fold. My elbows hit my knees and my face buries into my hands as the sobs finally tear through my throat, loud and aching and ugly.

Mags pulls me in without a word.

She wraps her arms around me and cradles the back of my head like I’m a boy again, like none of this ever had to happen. I lean into her, letting the grief crash through me, every breath a struggle. I can still feel Annie’s lips, still hear her voice echoing and it rips something open in my chest all over again.

“I didn’t want her to see me like this,” I choke out, my voice cracked and shaking. “I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want you to go.”

“I know,” Mags whispers, her voice steady and low. “I know, sweetheart.”

Outside, the ocean flashes past in streaks of deep blue and white foam. But it’s all just a blur now.

And all I can do is cry in Mags’ arms and pray that somehow, by some miracle, Annie Cresta survives this world without me.

Eventually, the sobs run out.

It’s not relief that follows. Not peace. Just… nothing. Like the tide pulling back after a storm, leaving only sea glass and splinters behind.

I don’t know how long I sit there in Mags’ arms before I pull away, scrubbing at my eyes with the heel of my empty hand. My breathing evens out, but there’s a strange stillness in my chest now. No weight. No fire. Just… emptiness.

I settle into the bench again, my knees drawn up, looking at her necklace. She made this for me. At least if I die, I might have a part of her with me. With shaky hands, I clasp the necklace around my neck, holding the pendant. The train hums beneath me. Outside, the coastline winds past in jagged edges and crashing surf, but I don’t really see it. I just stare.

Stare the same way Annie does sometimes, when she’s too far away in her mind to speak.

I wonder if that’s me now. If something just broke and stopped working and I’ll never get it back.

I picture her standing on the dock after the train left, the wind tangling her hair, her face wet and ruined with tears. I picture her curling into Trent, shaking in the way she did when she ran into my arms back at the Justice Building. That image sits heavy in my chest.

She might have to watch us both die.

Mags and me.

Both of us.

And what then?

Will it be Trent who catches her when she falls? Will he stay? Will he pull her back when she drifts too far into herself, when the sea in her mind gets too deep? Does he know how to?

Please take care of her, I’d told him. But it didn’t feel like enough. Nothing ever could be.

I lean my head against the glass. It’s cold, grounding.

If I die in that arena, I hope it’s fast. I hope I don’t scream. I hope they don’t send my body back in pieces. I hope she doesn't have to watch it happen on screen, hope she turns away before the cannon sounds.

I hope she forgets me eventually, if that’s easier. Finds someone who never had to carry a blade.

I blink slowly, watching a gull dip into the surf far below. The glass fogs slightly where my breath hits it.

Beside me, Mags squeezes my hand gently. She doesn’t say a word.

She doesn’t have to.

We just sit there at the end of the train, the sea flashing by, the Capitol getting closer with every mile.

The minutes blur.

I don’t even notice when the coastline gives way to hills, when the sand fades into stone. The sea disappears behind us, and still, I don’t look away from the window. I keep staring like I’ll find Annie’s face there, pressed into the reflection, like she might somehow be running alongside the train if I just look hard enough.

But all I see is my own expression.

Empty. Tired. Fourteen-year-old me would barely recognize this face.

Mags doesn’t move. Her hand stays in mine—weathered, warm, steady. It’s the only thing anchoring me to this moment. Everything else drifts. The train hums. The walls breathe with it. Odessa’s voice drifts in from another car, too high and chirpy for what’s just happened, but it barely reaches us here.

I wonder if this is what Annie felt, watching me go into the arena the first time.

Did she sit in that empty house with the salt drying on her cheeks, waiting for the cannon with my name?

Did she pray to a sea god who never answered?

Now she has to do it again.

And this time, it’s worse. She knew what it meant when my name was called. She knew Snow would never let me go. And Mags… Mags made sure Annie didn't have to go with me.

Annie has to live with that.

I close my eyes. The burn is there again, but the tears don’t fall this time. I’m dry. Hollowed.

Annie is everything good I’ve ever known. And now she’s stuck watching me and Mags march back into hell. Alone.

I can still hear her voice—“You can’t both leave me.”

We might.

God, we might.

“Trent will take care of her,” I say out loud, as if saying it makes it more true, rubbing the pendant of her necklace. “He’ll stay with her. He won’t let her fall apart.”

Mags nods once, solemnly. She believes it.

I try to believe it too.

The Capitol skyline begins to peek over the horizon, all gleaming marble and glittering nightmares. My pulse doesn’t even rise. I just stare.

It feels like my life ended hours ago, back on that stage. Everything since has just been echoes.

And somehow, I know this is only the beginning.

The train begins to slow.

I feel it before I see it—the change in pace, the way the vibrations beneath us settle into something smoother, more deliberate. Then the Capitol skyline explodes fully into view: glass towers catching sunlight like spears, banners billowing with gold and red, flashes of cameras already going off from the platforms.

We’ve arrived.

I shift in my seat, wipe under my eyes, and take a deep breath. The moment the train doors open, I’ll have to become someone else. Not the boy who cried in Mags’ arms. Not the boy who kissed Annie like it was the last breath in his lungs. No. I have to be Finnick Odair now. Victor. Heartthrob. The Capitol’s favorite trident-wielding puppet.

Mags doesn’t say anything—she just gently fixes my hair, brushes something off my shirt, and gives me one last nod. Steady as the tide. I nod back, square my shoulders, and slip the mask on.

The doors slide open with a hiss.

Instantly, cheers erupt. Flashbulbs pop like cannon fire. Reporters lean over the rails, shrieking my name. Signs wave in the crowd—“Finnick Forever!” “We Love You Finnick!”

I flash a smile. Bright. Effortless. As if my heart isn’t a cracked shell inside my chest.

The second Odessa steps out and soaks up the applause like sunlight, Mags and I take the opening.

We walk quickly, ducking through the polished halls of the Tribute Center. I can still hear the muffled roar of the crowd behind us, but it gets quieter with every step. The cameras can’t follow us here. Not yet.

We reach the elevator. Mags punches the button for the District Four floor without hesitation. I exhale as the doors close, as if only now I can let a bit of the mask slide off. Not all the way. Not yet.

The elevator dings.

We just head straight for the far end of the room where the floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city.

That’s when I finally let go of the last fake smile. My jaw relaxes. My shoulders sag.

The silence up here is thick.

I drop onto the couch and stare out at the lights below, glittering like stars fallen to earth. But they don’t impress me. Not this time.

Mags lowers herself beside me. She doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t need to.

For now, we just sit together in the quiet, far above the noise, above the flashing cameras and the glass walls. Just a boy and the woman who saved him.

Just two people waiting to be thrown to the sharks again.

A knock interrupts the silence.

Sharp and sudden.

I flinch.

Mags looks toward the door, then at me. I shake my head and stand. My first thought is that it’s Odessa, come to drag us to some mandatory wardrobe fitting or Capitol interview rehearsal. Or maybe it’s an Avox, sent to deliver food or fetch us for prep.

I’m already building a polite excuse in my head as I walk to the door. Something quick to send them away. Something that doesn’t require a fake smile.

I open it.

And freeze.

It’s not Odessa.

It’s not an Avox.

It’s Johanna.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there in the doorway, her dark eyes scanning my face like she’s looking for bruises that aren’t there.

She doesn’t crack a joke. Doesn’t smirk.

We just look at each other. Two victors. Two pawns.

Then suddenly—she hugs me.

Not rough, not half-hearted like she usually would. It’s tight. Real. Her arms wrap around me like she’s holding up the parts of me that don’t want to stand anymore.

My breath catches. I don’t hug her back right away. I don’t even know if I can move.

Then I do.

I close my eyes and press my forehead to her shoulder. She smells like pine and sawdust. Familiar and foreign.

“I’m sorry it had to happen like that,” she whispers, her voice low and broken against my ear.

And for the first time since Annie screamed my name as I was dragged away—I feel something real pierce through the numbness.

Grief. Gratitude. All of it.

“I know,” I whisper back.

Johanna hasn’t moved from the doorway, and I don’t know what it is—maybe the heaviness of the room, maybe just the fact that there’s no one else around—but I find myself speaking before I can stop.

“If I die out there,” I say quietly, “I want you to win.”

Her expression shifts. She furrows her brow, taking a step back, like she didn’t hear me right. “What?”

“If it comes down to it,” I say again, slower now, more certain, “I want you to win.”

She closes the door behind her, lets out a short, humorless breath. “What if we’re the last ones?”

I look away. My jaw tightens. “Then it won’t be me.”

There’s a long silence. I don’t look at her, can’t. The thought of killing Johanna makes my stomach turn, but the thought of her killing me and surviving to help Annie—somehow, that sits easier. Cleaner. I could live with that. Or… I guess I couldn’t. But Annie could.

“You’re serious?” she asks.

I nod.

She takes a step closer, voice lower now, almost raw. “You want me to kill you?”

I finally look up. “I want you to be there for Annie. I want her to have someone left. If I die, I need to know she’s not alone.”

Something flickers in her expression—rage, pain, guilt. It’s hard to say.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Johanna says, her voice sharp with sudden heat. “You hear me? I’d rather live in Snow’s damn mansion than do that. I’d rather scrub his floors. I’d rather—” her voice breaks, just for a second, “—I’d rather take an axe to my own throat.”

“Johanna—”

“No,” she cuts me off. “You don’t get to decide that. You don’t get to put that on me. Not after what they did. Not after what they’re making us do again.”

I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. She’s right. But so am I.

She presses her hand to her forehead, pacing a little now, her breath jagged. “God, Finnick. Don’t you dare make me care more than I already do. Don’t you—” she bites off the rest, swallowing hard. “Don’t you die in there.”

I stare at her. “I’m not planning to.”

“But you think you might.”

I say nothing.

She exhales sharply, the sound cutting through the quiet like the crack of a whip. “You’re already thinking about how it ends. That’s the problem. You’ve got one foot in the grave before the damn Games have even started.”

Her words land heavier than I want them to. I look away, back toward the window, where the city sprawls out in a thousand glittering lies. “I’m being realistic.”

“No,” she says, moving closer until she’s standing right in front of me. “You’re giving up, and you’re dressing it up as realism so you can pretend it’s noble.”

I almost laugh, but it’s too bitter to make it out of my chest. “You think I’m noble?”

“I think you’re an idiot,” she snaps, though there’s no real venom in it. “An idiot who’s too damn in love with a girl back home to see straight. And yeah, that’s fine—love’s a good thing. But don’t you dare use it as an excuse to roll over.”

I meet her eyes again, and for a second, I see the Johanna nobody in the Capitol ever gets to see. No armor, no barbed-wire grin. Just a girl who’s lost too much already.

“I’m not trying to roll over,” I tell her. “I’m trying to make sure Annie survives this. That’s it.”

Her jaw works, like she’s chewing over something she doesn’t want to say. Finally, she mutters, “And you think she’d want that? You think she’d want to live knowing you died for her?”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Because the truth is, I don’t know. Annie’s love is gentle, but it’s also fierce, and maybe she would hate me for even thinking it.

Johanna shakes her head. “If you want her to survive, you come back. That’s it. No martyr crap. No speeches. You fight your way through, and you come back with blood under your nails if you have to. And if you can’t—” she swallows hard, “—then you make damn sure you’re the last one to go.”

Her voice has gone quieter now, almost hoarse. She steps back, her gaze flicking to the floor before meeting mine again. “Because I am not standing over your body in that arena. I’m not doing it.”

The silence that follows is different than before—thicker, heavier, but less empty.

Johanna’s eyes narrow, like the silence itself is a betrayal. She looks at me—really looks—and her expression softens. Not gentle, not quite. Just… less guarded. That rare version of her that slips through when she forgets to be sharp all the time.

“You know what I hate about you?” she mutters.

I raise an eyebrow, managing the ghost of a smile. “Only one thing?”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t smile back. “You say things like that. You try to make jokes when you're dying inside. You think if you flash a grin, no one will see you falling apart.”

I glance toward the window. The glass reflects me in fragments. She's not wrong.

She steps closer again. "You think you're doing Annie a favor by dying for her, but you’re not. She doesn’t need a martyr, Finnick. She needs you. Alive.”

“And if I can’t be?”

“Then I’ll be there. For her. But not because you asked me to. Because she’s my friend too.”

I blink. “She is?”

Johanna shrugs. “Sort of. I don’t know. Not really. But she’s yours. And I care about you, so that makes her mine too, I guess.”

Mags hasn’t said much—just stands beside me with one hand on my back, steady and warm. She knows. There’s nothing left to say that hasn’t already been said a hundred times over, in different words and silent looks. We’re heading straight toward something we can’t come back from. No one says it aloud, but it’s there in the way we all breathe. In the way we don’t.

Johanna finally drops into the seat across from us where Mags and I go to sit, the Capitol skyline still glittering behind her through the window. She’s picking at a hangnail, her eyes hard, jaw tighter than usual.

Johanna sits back, arms crossed. “I just don’t get it. They want us to protect Katniss like she’s the second coming of whatever the hell they think matters—but no one’s protecting us. No one’s looking out for the people we’ve been in this with from the beginning. You. Me. Mags. Chaff.”

Her voice gets rougher as she talks. Angrier. “We’re not chess pieces. We’re not symbols. We’re not just tools in Plutarch’s rebellion. And I’m sick of pretending like that girl matters more than the ones I actually care about.”

I nod slowly. “Then we look out for each other.”

“Damn right we do.” She glances between me and Mags. “The three of us. And Chaff, if he doesn’t drink himself into a coma before the arena.”

A tiny breath of laughter escapes me, dry and bitter.

It’s not enough. Nothing will be. But it’s something. And in this world, where even something is rare, I’ll take it.

Chapter Text

“Are they serious?” I snap as I shove open the dressing room door, heat prickling under my skin. My voice echoes down the marble hallway, too loud, too angry. “I mean—are they actually serious?”

The only thing I have on is a net. A fishing net. Thin, sun-bleached rope draped over one shoulder like a sash and wrapped—strategically but barely—around my crotch. Every other inch of me is bare as if that somehow makes it fashion. My fists clench at my sides. My chest feels too exposed, like I’ve been flayed open. I know I’m not entirely naked, that no one can see anything, but it feels like I’m the closest I can get to naked without getting an indecent exposure charge.

The only thing that is stopping me from completely breaking is the fact that Annie’s necklace hangs off my neck. It’s the only part I want.

Mags stands a few feet away, arms folded, already in her own outfit—sea-glass blue fabric wrapped like ocean waves, elegant in its simplicity. She frowns when she sees me.

“They saw an opportunity,” she says softly.

“An opportunity to what? Turn me into bait?” I run a hand through my hair, already perfectly tousled by the prep team. “I don’t want to worry about flashing the entire nation, Mags. This is actually humiliating.”

She walks to me without rushing, without pity. Just her quiet presence that always feels like a tide I can lean against. Her hand comes to rest on my bare shoulder, warm and grounding.

“Don’t pay attention to them, Finn,” she murmurs. “Don’t even play into it.”

I let out a breath, still not meeting her eyes.

“They don’t get to control you now,” she continues, voice low, steady. “Not unless you let them.”

I nod, just barely. But the truth is, they already have. They’ve taken my body, my dignity, and shaped it into whatever will get the biggest gasp from the crowd. I’m not a person to them. I’m a spectacle. A trophy. A weapon disguised as charm. A boy wrapped in netting, like a catch of the day.

“I hate this,” I whisper.

“I know,” she says. “But we survive it.”

Her words settle into me like an anchor, heavy and real.

I look down at myself again, then glance at the towering mirrors on the far wall—my reflection barely looks like me anymore. Just some Capitol version of what a District Four tribute should be. All shine and smiles and skin.

“How am I supposed to walk in front of them like this?”

I shift uncomfortably under Mags’ hand, hyperaware of how every movement makes the net shift, how there’s nothing between me and exposure but a few fragile knots. My skin burns—not from the oil, but from shame. Like my body isn’t mine anymore, just something painted and packaged for everyone else to gawk at.

“I look ridiculous,” I mutter. “Like some Capitol fantasy.”

“You look like someone they’ll remember,” Mags says, though there’s something tight in her tone. Even she hates this. I can tell.

I don’t get a chance to respond—there’s a loud whistle from down the hall, followed by the sound of slow, dramatic claps.

Great.

“Oh, no way,” Johanna says as she reaches us, already grinning. “They actually did it.”

Chaff’s right behind her. “Well, damn. Way to go out with a bang, Odair.”

I cross my arms instinctively, which only makes the net bunch tighter across my stomach. “Fantastic,” I mutter under my breath. “Exactly what I needed.”

Johanna stops a few feet away, eyes wide like she’s trying to decide whether to laugh or pity me. “So the rumors were true,” she says, gesturing vaguely to my hips. I resist the urge to smack her arm.

“Yeah, guess I should’ve charged admission,” I snap, but there’s no real bite. Just humiliation.

Chaff chuckles. “You know, back when I thought I was shameless, I never imagined walking out half-naked with a fishing net. You’ve raised the bar, kid.”

“I didn’t pick this,” I say, sharp now, defensive. “They did.”

Johanna raises her brows, still fighting a smile. “You think I picked getting my entire ass waxed and shoved into bark corsetry this year? Welcome to the club. I’d rather be dressed in a floor-length dress of those squirrel pelts you always talk about. This is such a joke.”

I glance down again, cheeks hot. It doesn’t feel like a joke. It feels like being hunted. Like they’ve peeled away every last layer of armor and told me to smile while they drag me through the streets.

But Mags is still beside me. Steady. Real.

And despite her smirk, Johanna’s eyes flick to Mags, then back to me—something softer flickering beneath the teasing.

“Hey,” she says after a moment, quieter now. “You survive this part, Odair. Then you make them regret thinking they ever owned you.”

Chaff nods, lifting his flask in mock salute. “And hey—at least if you die, everyone will remember what you looked like before.”

“Great,” I mutter. “That’s exactly what I was hoping for.”

Johanna snorts. “You’ll be fine, Fishboy. Just try not to trip on your own net.”

“This is a form of public humiliation,” I mutter, my voice low and bitter as I tug lightly at one of the cords strung across my hip. It doesn’t give. Of course it doesn’t. It’s been tied and fastened in place by three stylists with trembling hands and starstruck eyes. “They might as well have paraded me in chains.”

“Too heavy-handed,” Johanna says breezily, leaning against the wall like this is all a Capitol farce she’s somehow exempt from. “They prefer their objects gift-wrapped.”

I shoot her a glare, but she doesn’t flinch. Her bark corset creaks faintly as she shifts her weight, and for a second, I see it—beneath the smirk and sarcastic quips, she’s just as pissed off as I am. Just hiding it better.

Chaff chuckles from somewhere behind her. “You should’ve seen what they wanted to put me in back in Forty-Five. Let’s just say it involved body paint and antlers. But, albeit, this is probably worse.”

“Great. I’ll keep that in mind when I’m vomiting into a hedge later,” I snap.

“You know what this is, Finnick.” Mags’ voice cuts through the static building in my chest. “It’s theater. The Capitol version of a sacrificial parade. They want blood, but first—they want a show.”

“Yeah, well they’re getting a hell of a one,” I mutter, staring at my reflection in the polished wall panel. The ropes glint faintly with oil, snug and glistening like seaweed wrapped around driftwood. My heart beats harder the longer I look. I can’t tell if it’s rage or shame.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Mags says softly.

I force myself to inhale through my nose.

“It’s even worse that Annie’s going to have to see me like this,” I mutter, the words slipping out before I can stop them. They taste sour in my mouth.

Johanna chuffs, folding her arms, bark corset creaking again as she leans into one hip. “Finnick, sweetheart, I’m sure she won’t mind.”

Chaff fails to suppress a snort behind her. “Hell, she might even frame it.”

My glare swings to Johanna, sharp and instinctive. “I don’t care if she sees me—”

“Barf,” Johanna says immediately, wrinkling her nose in mock disgust.

“—But it’s just the fact that she’ll know that they put me in this,” I finish, quieter now, jaw tightening. “That they chose this. That they looked at me and saw a body to market.”

The humor fades a little from Johanna’s face. Not all of it—she’s never one to let solemnity win—but enough that her eyes soften, just a bit. She doesn’t joke again.

“It’s not about Annie seeing skin,” I add. “She’s seen worse. We’ve both seen worse. It’s about her seeing me stripped down like this, not because I chose it—but because they did. Because they could.”

There’s a silence after that. Just the faint hum of fluorescent lights and distant murmurs from other districts down the corridor. My words sit in the space like something too honest.

I look down at the net again. Rope, oil, gleam. Nothing rea.

Mags’ hand returns to my shoulder, steady as ever.

“She’ll know the difference,” she says. “She knows you.”

And I want to believe her. I really do.

“Then don’t think about it like that,” Johanna says, folding her arms and leaning casually against the wall like we’re just chatting on a street corner and I’m not seconds from being paraded half-naked in front of Panem. “Think that you dug through some District Four crates and made the outfit yourself.”

“Yeah,” Chaff chimes in, slurring a little through a crooked grin, “like, forget the whole Quell nightmare. Pretend you’re just some dumb lovesick fisherman trying to impress your girl.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure this is exactly what Annie fantasizes about—me showing up wrapped in rope like some deranged Capitol stripper.”

Johanna grins. “Deranged, yes. Stripper, debatable.”

“She’ll scream,” Chaff says. “In delight or horror? Who knows! That’s the fun part.”

“She might faint,” Johanna adds thoughtfully, tapping her chin. “You know, from sheer emotional overwhelm. ‘Oh, Finnick, I didn’t know you were hiding that under all those sweaters!’” Her voice goes high and fluttery on purpose, mocking, but there’s warmth underneath it.

I give her a sharp look. “She’s not like that.”

“Of course not,” Johanna says breezily. “But she’s also not blind, Finny. And let’s not pretend she doesn’t already know what you look like with your shirt off.”

Chaff snorts. “Hell, after this, everybody’s gonna know.”

I groan, rubbing my face with both hands, careful not to smear the oil they slathered me in. “This is not helping.”

Johanna grins wider, all teeth and trouble. “We’re just saying, Finnick—if you’re gonna be humiliated, at least let it be for the name of love. Like, just imagine how she’ll react when she sees your absence of clothes.”

She draws out the last words dramatically, hands fluttering like she’s announcing some grand theatrical event.

I glare at her. “Johanna—”

But she’s already shifting her stance, planting her hands firmly on her hips like a district schoolteacher about to deliver a lecture. “Are you seriously gonna stand here, Finnick Odair, and tell me she hasn’t already seen—” she gestures with both hands to the entirety of my body, “—this and more?”

My eyes narrow. “Jo—”

“Come on,” she cuts in, rolling her eyes. “Don’t play modest now. We all know you two are attached at the soul and the pants. If not now, then eventually. You think we don’t see the way you look at her like she’s your sun and your anchor?”

Chaff wheezes a laugh from behind her, nearly dropping his flask. “Damn, ‘attached at the soul and the pants’—write that one down, Odair. That’s poetry.”

I groan and rub at my face, which only makes my cheeks hotter. “This is not a conversation I want to be having half-naked.”

Johanna snorts. “It’s the perfect time, actually. Stripped down—emotionally, physically—vulnerable. Raw. Real.”

I bury my face in one hand. “Johanna, please just—”

“Admit it, Finny” she interrupts, crossing her arms with a smirk. “You don’t hate the idea of Annie seeing you like this. Not really.”

I roll my eyes, exasperated. “Okay, maybe she’s already seen me like this, but—”

“There we have it, ladies and gentlemen!” Johanna throws her hands up like a ringmaster. “Confession achieved. Round of applause!”

“Johanna, lower your voice—” I hiss, casting a quick glance down the hallway like I expect cameras to burst through at any second.

But she just smirks and keeps going. “Come on. You know what I’m picturing? Annie curled up on a couch back in Four, hair in one of those messy braids, blanket over her lap, probably chewing her thumbnail without realizing it. And then—bam. You show up on screen, oiled up and half-naked like a Capitol centerfold. Net barely holding on. Her mouth drops open. Eyes go wide. And she makes that sound—what is it you said she does when she laughs too hard? That little hiccup?”

I press my lips together, jaw tight.

“Yeah,” Johanna says, nodding like she’s proud of herself. “That’s what she’s gonna do.”

Chaff chokes on a laugh. “Maybe not the best time to bring that up while he’s only got a net between him and a scandal.”

I shoot him a look. “Do you have no shame?”

“Absolutely none,” he says, grinning without an ounce of regret.

Johanna leans forward slightly, her teasing still sharp, but something softer beneath it. “You walk out there like it’s for her, Finnick. Like this whole flaming circus doesn’t touch you. Like you’re not wearing a Capitol costume—you’re just showing off for Annie Cresta. And she’s gonna see through all the lights and the net and the show and think, that’s mine.”

The words hit somewhere under my ribs. I swallow hard again.

“Yeah,” I murmur, almost to myself. “She’ll see through it.”

Johanna shrugs. “Of course she will. You’re just gonna have to survive the rest of us in the meantime.”

“Great,” I mutter, tugging at the stupid net across my chest. “Can’t wait.”

“To the death of your dignity,” Chaff quips.

“May it rest in pieces,” Johanna adds, mock-solemn, then grins at me. “But hey—at least your girlfriend’s gonna enjoy the view.”

I barely have time to gather myself before Johanna speaks again.

“So, remind me again,” Johanna says, cocking her head with mock innocence, “do we still have that bet going about who can make Katniss squirm first?”

Chaff rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Oh, it’s still on. But at this rate, Finnick might win by just existing.”

Johanna snorts and gestures at me with a lazy wave of her hand. “Please. He’ll probably make her uncomfortable just by walking within ten feet in that outfit. No offense.”

“None taken,” I mutter, crossing my arms tighter. “I feel like a gutted fish with a bow on it.”

“A half-naked, Capitol-approved gutted fish,” Johanna says with a wicked grin. “They really went for subtlety this year.”

I shoot her a flat look, but she just shrugs. “Hey, you want people to look at your eyes, maybe don’t have them staring directly at—”

“Johanna,” Mags says in warning, her tone sharp but fond.

Johanna throws up her hands. “What? I’m just saying, the Capitol’s gonna combust when they see him. Poor girl won’t know where to look.”

“Hopefully not directly at me,” I mutter. “Or anywhere below the netting.”

Chaff laughs, that deep rumble of amusement that always comes with just enough whiskey and too little filter. “Oh, she’ll look. And she’ll blush. And then Johanna’ll say something wildly inappropriate, and that’ll be that.”

“I am a master of timing,” Johanna says with mock pride.

Then, without warning, she grabs my shoulders so hard I can feel the rough scrape of the net against my skin, and I freeze, worried the whole thing might unravel. Her eyes gleam with mischief as she leans in, too happy for my liking.

“Oh my god! What if—what if Peeta is there? And Katniss, she’s freaking out, right? Not knowing where to look, eyes darting everywhere. Then Peeta—because he’s the only one who actually has feelings in that whole mess—gets all riled up. You know, protective, maybe even jealous. And boom! Fight breaks out.”

I blink, trying to steady my breath. “I’m not fighting two seventeen-year-olds,” I say, half amused, half incredulous.

Johanna just grins wider, eyes sparkling with a vision only she seems to see. “I can see it already. Katniss is looking at you, mentally screaming ‘not there!’ and ‘not there either!’ while Peeta’s ready to throw down.”

Chaff and I exchange a glance and speak at the same time, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’re ridiculous.” Mags doesn’t say anything, but I know she’s thinking the same thing.

Johanna shrugs, smirking like she’s just dropped a mic. “Ridiculous? No. Creatively gifted? Absofuckinglutly.” Her eyes gleam with that wicked kind of fun—the kind that means she’s already enjoying every second of the chaos she’s imagining.

I glance toward the hallway again, wondering how in the hell I’m supposed to play this right. The Games haven’t even started, and I already feel like I’m being picked clean.

“There she is!” Johanna suddenly chirps, standing on her toes and craning her neck like she’s spotted prey. Her eyes gleam. “District Twelve, ten o’clock.”

I follow her gaze just long enough to spot the unmistakable braid and sour expression before immediately looking away. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on,” Chaff says with a grin, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. “No time like the present, pretty boy.”

I turn to both of them, deadpan. “I am not going to go harass a seventeen-year-old girl while looking like I lost a fight with a fishnet factory.”

Johanna folds her arms, entirely unbothered. “Which is exactly why you should go now. If anything’ll make her squirm, it’s you showing up like that. You’re practically a walking Capitol scandal.”

“Or a walking cautionary tale,” I mutter.

“You lose the bet if you don’t act first,” Chaff reminds me, utterly amused. “And Johanna’ll never let you live it down.”

“She already doesn’t,” I mutter.

“Exactly,” Johanna says. “So you might as well go down swinging. Flash that smile. Give her the full Finnick Odair special.”

I shake my head, feeling the edges of a headache start to pulse. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Most good ones are,” Johanna smirks.

They’re both watching me now with matching grins, the kind that make you feel like you’re already halfway committed just by standing there. I sigh, long and slow, before dragging a hand through my hair.

“Fine,” I mutter. “But if she screams, I’m blaming both of you.”

“Oh, she won’t scream,” Johanna says, already too delighted. “She’ll just wither a little inside. Like the rest of us.”

Chaff chuckles. “Go on, pretty boy. Give the Capitol what they want.”

I groan under my breath, turn on my heel, and start toward the District Twelve pair, muttering as I go, “This is how I die. Embarrassed. Mostly naked. Bullied into a bet by drunks and lunatics.”

Behind me, I can hear Johanna already laughing.

“Katniss!” I call, trying to sound effortless. Charming. Like this is just another Capitol stunt I’m in on, instead of the humiliation it actually is. There’s a nearby ball of sugarcubes that are meant for the horses that are waiting, but I take one just to keep myself grounded.

She turns, wary. Of course she is. I’m practically naked, barely covered in silk and netting, a walking provocation. My skin prickles under the Capitol’s gaze, and hers too, sharp as any blade. But I flash her a grin anyway.

“Do you want a sugar cube?” I ask, holding one up between my fingers like a peace offering. “They’re for the horses, but who cares about them, right? They’ve got years to eat sugar, but you and I? We’re not so lucky. If we see something sweet, we better grab it while we can.”

She doesn’t take it. Of course she doesn’t.

“No thanks,” she says coolly, but there’s a glint in her eye. “I wouldn’t mind borrowing that outfit, though.”

I laugh, more surprised than anything. “You look pretty terrifying in that getup, you know,” I say. “What happened to the pretty little girl dresses?”

“I outgrew them,” she fires back, like it’s a challenge.

I step a little closer, just enough for her to feel it. “You certainly did.” My voice drops, flirting by habit, not intention. I pull back and gesture vaguely at the Capitol behind us. “Shame about this whole Quell business. You could’ve made out like a bandit with all the Capitol’s jewels. Money, anything you wanted.”

“I don’t want jewels,” she snaps. “And I’ve got more money than I know what to do with. What did you do with your wealth anyway?”

It’s a trap of a question. I could lie. Most people do. But I’ve been in the Capitol’s spotlight too long to pretend.

“I haven’t dealt with anything as common as money in years,” I say smoothly.

She doesn’t let it go. “Well then, how do people pay for the pleasure of your company?”

That’s when I lean in again, lower my voice until only she can hear. “With secrets,” I murmur. Then I look her right in the eyes. “What about you, Girl on Fire? Any secrets worth my time?”

She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look away. “I’m an open book. Everyone seems to know my secrets before I even do.”

That stings more than it should. I see the truth in it, and something about her—about us—clicks in that moment. We’re both wearing masks we didn’t choose, paraded for an audience that’ll never stop watching.

“I’m afraid that’s true,” I say quietly, more honest than I meant to be.

Movement over her shoulder draws my eyes. Peeta Mellark and Cinna, approaching. And just like that, the mask slips back into place. My voice turns colder. Bitter.

“I’m sorry you had to cancel your wedding,” I say, almost too casually.

They get to pretend to love each other. To walk hand in hand, playact at forever. The Capitol eats it up—this fairytale, this tragedy. But it’s all a lie. Katniss doesn’t love him. Everyone knows it.

But they get a wedding.

And I get nothing.

Annie and I didn’t even get a choice. Just secrets. Just silence. Just fear.

“That must’ve been devastating for you,” I add, voice cutting sharper now.

Her face tightens in confusion—or maybe offense—but I don’t wait for her to answer. I pop the sugar cube into my mouth and chew slowly, deliberately. It's bitter beneath the sweetness.

“Have a good day,” I say.

I don’t look back.

Not until I’m a few paces away, around the corner, out of sight. Then I let out a slow breath and roll my eyes toward the ceiling, like maybe there’s something up there that’ll make any of this make sense. There isn’t.

Johanna’s leaning against the wall when I return, arms crossed, grin already plastered across her face. “Well?” she says, expectant. “Did she melt into a puddle of awkwardness?”

Chaff gives me a mock round of applause. “You looked like a tribute to lingerie and poor decision-making.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “You two are the worst.”

“Bet’s half-won already,” Johanna smirks. “All you had to do was exist in that outfit and speak a sentence.”

“She didn’t even blush,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck.

Johanna raises an eyebrow. “What, disappointed?”

“No,” I say too quickly. Then, quieter, “Just… tired.”

She watches me for a beat. And for once, she doesn’t say anything sharp. Just nudges my arm with hers, like she’s trying to remind me I’m not alone in the mess.

“Hey,” Chaff says, voice gentler now. “You okay, Finnick?”

“Peeta and Katniss get a wedding,” I say before I can stop myself. The words taste like salt. “Even if it’s fake. Even if it’s all for show. The Capitol rolls out the red carpet, throws roses at their feet. And Annie and I—” I cut myself off, jaw tightening. “We don’t even get a goodbye.”

The silence stretches just long enough to make me regret saying anything at all.

Then Johanna—of all people—shrugs and says, “Snow doesn’t let people like us have nice things.”

There’s nothing kind in the way she says it, but there’s truth. And in some twisted way, that’s comforting.

“Are we done here?” I ask.

Johanna smirks again, the moment over. “Yeah. Let’s get you out of that rope thong before it starts dissolving.”

“It’s not a thong,” I mutter.

“It’s emotionally scarring,” Chaff counters. “Same difference.”

They laugh. I let them. Because if I don’t, I’ll think too long about how Katniss didn’t even flinch when I asked her if she had any secrets. About how I wanted to hate her for having a spotlight and a story and a fake fiancé. About how none of this matters, not really—not when Annie’s still out there, and I can’t reach her.

And all I am right now is a man in a net, playing bait.

The three of them are still talking when I catch up, but their voices sound far away—muted, like I’m underwater. I stand there, dripping in glitter and netting and shame, feeling less like a person and more like a parody. And I’m trying—I am—to focus on their laughter, the familiar way Johanna swats Chaff’s arm or how Mags’ eyes narrow fondly when Chaff makes some joke that probably hasn’t been funny since before I was born.

But it’s hard to care about any of it when I know I’ll never get to put a ring on Annie’s finger. Never get to see her walk toward me with sand in her hair and flowers in her hands. There won’t be vows or seashells or a net of seagrass, or a shared name. Just memories, sharp and salt-soaked. Just knowing I love her more than I’ve ever loved anything, and it won’t be enough to keep her safe.

She’s mine—but not in any way that matters to Snow.

“…I’m telling you, whatever you’ve got planned can’t beat that net disaster,” Chaff is saying, elbowing Johanna. “I mean, that’s gonna live in Capitol legend.”

Johanna grins, sharp and smug. “Oh, please. What I’ve got planned? It’s going to destroy you both.”

“Oh yeah?” I manage, dragging my voice into something resembling life. “What are you doing, then?”

She shrugs like it’s no big deal, but there’s that fire in her eyes. The one she gets when she knows she’s going to set the world on fire just to watch how the Capitol scrambles to clean it up.

“I’m not telling you,” she says, tapping her temple, “what I’ve got planned? It’s gonna be so good, you won’t even know what hit you.”

“Right,” Chaff says, leaning back with his arms crossed, clearly entertained. “Like your plan’s ever not good. But I’m not sure how you’re going to top this net fiasco, Johanna.”

She gives him a lazy smirk, the kind that says she’s already a few steps ahead. “Oh, believe me. You’re going to forget all about this net thing. What I’ve got coming? It’ll go down in Capitol legend. They’ll be talking about it for years.”

Mags chuckles under her breath, and I manage to look away from Johanna’s triumphant face for just a moment, meeting Mags’ eyes. There’s that familiar warmth in her gaze, as if she knows I’m miles away in my own thoughts.

“Don’t tease,” Chaff adds, clearly enjoying the drama of it. “Come on, Johanna, spill it. Is it illegal? I’m betting it’s illegal.”

“That’s subjective,” she says casually, her grin widening. “By Capitol standards? Not even close. By regular standards? Well, that’s a different story.” She leans forward, eyes sparkling. “But it’s gonna be so good, it’s gonna make this whole—” she gestures to me and the ridiculous net hanging from my body “—look like a school lesson.”

I can’t help but let out a dry laugh, still feeling the weight of my humiliation, but there’s no denying Johanna’s energy is infectious. She’s already so sure of herself, so confident in whatever chaos she’s about to stir up. The confidence of someone who knows how to turn the world upside down and doesn’t care what it costs.

“You’ve definitely got a knack for creating chaos,” I say, glancing back at Chaff and Mags as they exchange knowing looks. “But I’m not so sure this one’s gonna be as legendary as you think.”

“Oh, it will,” Johanna says, her voice light but brimming with an edge that makes it clear she’s not bluffing. “You’ll see. People won’t know what hit ‘em. You two won’t even know how to recover from this one.”

“Is it at least… clever?” Chaff asks, an amused eyebrow raised as if he’s trying to gauge if she’s serious.

“Oh, it’s clever,” Johanna says with a smirk, her eyes narrowing. “And it’s going to be fun. They’re not going to know whether to laugh, scream, or run for cover.”

Mags, who’s been mostly quiet, leans in just slightly, her voice warm but knowing. “I’m sure it’ll be worth the wait, Johanna. You always know how to make an impression.”

“Impression, yeah,” Johanna grins wickedly, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “More like a lasting memory. I’ll make sure of it.”

===

The chariot ride was draining. Between the eyes of the Capitol citizens practically eating me alive and the absurdity of the outfit, I felt more exposed than a fish caught on a line. The only peace of mind it gave me was that Annie saw me, even if it was just for a second and even though it was in that ridiculous net.

I collapse onto the couch, the plush fabric almost swallowing me whole as I let out a huge sigh, feeling like the weight of the whole day is finally pressing down. My chest tightens, but I try to push the panic and frustration aside. I just want to be left alone for a second.

The quiet click of Mags settling beside me breaks the silence. She’s always been a calming presence, her words carrying the weight of experience. A slight smile tugs at her lips as she glances at me. “At least the hard part’s over.”

I let out a bitter chuckle, wiping a hand over my face. “At this point, they’ll probably send me out naked for the one-on-one interview with Caesar.”

Mags’ gaze softens, and she runs her fingers through her hair in that familiar, calming way she does. “I’ll fight them.”

Her words catch me off guard, and I can’t help but smile a little. It’s the most comforting thing anyone has said to me today. “Thank you.”

She smiles back, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re welcome. You’ve got to focus on the good things. Annie’s going to be okay. Trent will take good care of her.”

That part—the idea of Trent taking care of Annie—hits me harder than I want to admit. I know Trent, and I know he’s a good guy. I love him like a brother. He’ll look out for her, no doubt. But it stings like salt in a wound, knowing that someone else is holding Annie now. Someone else gets to comfort her, keep her safe. It should be me, damn it.

I swallow hard and look away, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my shirt, trying to push the images from my mind. If I let myself think too much about her in the Capitol, I’ll drown. “Yeah,” I say, the words coming out sharper than I intend. “I just wish I could be there with her.”

Mags’ hand rests on my shoulder, warm and reassuring. She doesn’t need to say anything more. We both know the truth. She’s in the Capitol, and I’m here—powerless, just like the rest of us.

Annie is waiting for me.

And I’m going to get back to her.

Chapter Text

I wake up and immediately sigh.

The sheets are too smooth. The air is too still. There’s no ocean breeze seeping through half-cracked windows, no cry of gulls in the distance, no Annie curled into the curve of my chest with her fingers knotted in my shirt like she’s anchoring herself to me.

Just silence. Capitol silence. Cold, sterile, suffocating.

For a few seconds, I don’t move. I just lie there, eyes tracing the gold-trimmed ceiling above me. It doesn’t feel real. It never does. I keep waiting for the illusion to crack—for the room to dissolve into the sound of waves and her laughter, soft and unguarded. For salt to sting my nose instead of that sharp, perfumed chemical haze the Capitol loves so much. For warmth to flood back into my chest where it's been hollow for months.

But nothing happens.

I blink once. Twice.

Still here.

Still empty.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and groan, low and quiet, like the weight of everything might split me in two if I let it. The bed is too big without her. Too still. I miss the way her legs used to tangle with mine. The way she'd murmur nonsense in her sleep and then, later, whisper the most devastating truths without realizing it.

God, I’d give anything just to wake up to her heartbeat under my ears again.

Instead, I wake up to nothing. Just the Capitol’s idea of comfort. Just another day pretending I’m fine, pretending I’m the Capitol’s golden boy when all I really want is to go home.

And Annie… Annie’s hundreds of miles away, in a place I can't reach. I don't even know if she's had breakfast. If she slept. If she smiled.

I close my eyes again and try to pretend I never woke up at all.

The knock on the door is soft—polite, almost—but it yanks me out of the half-dream I’d started slipping into. I don’t answer right away. Just breathe slowly, staring at the carved molding of the ceiling like it might offer something better than this moment.

Another knock. Louder this time.

“Finnick?” Mags’s voice. Gentle. Familiar. The only thing in this entire building that doesn’t make my skin crawl.

“I’m up,” I say, though my voice cracks halfway through. I sit up slowly, the silk sheets sliding off me like waves retreating from shore. My limbs feel heavy, like I spent the night swimming through grief.

The door creaks open. Mags doesn’t step inside, just peers through the crack with a look that tells me she knows. Maybe she always knows.

“I brought coffee,” she says.

I nod, forcing my legs to move. “Give me a second.”

She disappears, and I drag myself out of bed. The Capitol’s stylists gave me a closet bigger than my entire childhood home, filled with clothes that don’t feel like mine. Still, I grab something simple—a loose shirt, drawstring pants. Something soft. I can’t bear the Capitol’s fabrics this morning. I don’t want to sparkle or shine. I want to feel like myself again, even if it’s just for a second.

When I make it into the sitting room, Mags is there on the couch, holding two mugs, her own perched carefully in her lap. She hands me one without a word.

I sink into the seat beside her, the cushion swallowing me whole.

“Rough night?” she asks softly.

I stare into the dark swirl of my coffee, nodding once. “I dreamed I was home.”

Mags doesn’t press. She just sips her coffee.

After a while, I say, “Do you think she’s okay?”

She doesn’t ask who I mean. “I think she’s scared. But strong.”

“She hates the thought of the Capitol.”

Mags gives me a sideways glance. “So do you.”

I give a hollow laugh. “Difference is, I have to smile at them.”

She reaches over and squeezes my wrist. Her touch is warm, grounding. “You do what you have to.”

“I hate that doing what I have to means leaving her behind,” I murmur, absentmindedly touching her necklace. “I wake up every morning in this place and it’s like—I don’t know who I am without her.”

“You’re Finnick,” Mags says firmly. “You’re her Finnick. Even if you can’t be there now, you still are.”

The words don’t fix anything. But they settle in my chest like a tide pulling back. Not peace—but something close to it.

I take another sip of coffee and close my eyes, just for a moment, imagining Annie’s fingers in mine.

It’s not enough. But it’s all I have.

She hums softly beside me, rocking slightly in her chair like she’s on a dock somewhere, not in a Capitol penthouse. I think it’s the lullaby she used to sing to her daughter, long before the Games took her too.

Outside the window, the Capitol skyline gleams with its usual smug brilliance—glass and steel and ivory towers, a city built on spectacle and blood. I stare at it, wondering how anything so beautiful could feel so wrong.

“How do you do it?” I ask after a long silence. “How do you sit in all this and not lose your mind?”

Mags doesn’t answer right away. She sips her coffee, lets the quiet stretch like a fishing line over deep water.

Then she says, “I don’t let them have the best parts of me. They can dress me up, put me on trains, parade me in front of cameras—but they don’t get my heart. That still belongs to home.”

Home. That word hits me hard.

Because home isn’t District Four. Not really. Not anymore. It’s Annie. Wherever she is.

“I think I already gave them too much,” I whisper.

“Then stop giving,” Mags says simply. “Start stealing pieces back.”

I look over at her, startled. Her eyes sparkle—not the Capitol kind, but the kind that’s lived through storms and still burns like a lantern at sea.

I nod slowly, chewing on her words. Stealing pieces back. Maybe I can’t have everything. But I can hold onto the parts that matter. The way Annie used to fall asleep mid-sentence. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear with the back of her hand. The way she said my name like it meant something.

I take another sip of coffee.

“Thanks, Mags.”

She pats my knee. “Don’t thank me. Just stay afloat, sweetheart.”

I close my eyes again. Just for a breath. Just long enough to picture her—Annie, my Annie—laughing barefoot on the rocks. Not peace. But close enough to keep me breathing.

I sit with Mags in the quiet for another minute, her hand still resting lightly on my knee. The silence isn’t heavy. It just… holds things. The kind of silence that’s used to grief and doesn’t mind carrying a little more.

Then I hear myself ask it, barely louder than the hum of the city outside. “Do you think I could call her?”

Mags doesn’t say anything at first. Just studies me like she knows exactly where my mind’s gone.

“I know I shouldn’t,” I add. “Snow’s probably got every line bugged. He’d twist anything I say. Use it against me—or against her.”

Normally that would be enough. It has been enough. I’ve never called her. Not once. Not after I won. Not after I was handed over to the Capitol like a pretty trinket to be passed around.

But now I’m days away from going back into the arena, and I might not come back. And suddenly, I don’t care about Snow, or bugs, or consequences.

All I care about is hearing her voice.

Mags watches me for a long second, then gives the smallest nod. “Don’t take too long,” she says gently. “We’ve got training this morning.”

I don’t need to be told twice.

I get up and cross the room quickly, heart thudding as I reach for the phone. My hand hovers over the keys, suddenly unsure. The last time I heard her voice, she was crying, begging me not to leave.

I dial the number. My fingers remember it even though I’ve never used it.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

And then—

“Hello?”

Her voice crackles softly through the line, uncertain. She doesn’t know it’s me. Why would she? I’ve never called. Never given her that hope.

But the second I hear her, my knees nearly give out.

I press the phone tighter to my ear like that might somehow bring her closer.
I don’t even speak yet. I just breathe. And for the first time in days, I feel lighter. Like maybe the weight of everything hasn’t crushed me completely. Like maybe—just maybe—I’m still hers.

Her voice hangs in the air—soft, cautious, familiar. It feels like waves brushing against my ribs from the inside, trying to remind me what it means to be whole.

“…Annie,” I say finally, barely more than a whisper. “It’s me.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Not long. Just enough for my heart to twist up in a hundred knots.

“Finnick?” she breathes, barely audible.

I close my eyes. Her saying my name—it cracks something open in me. Something I didn’t even realize I’d been holding shut since the moment they called my name at the reaping. Since I was dragged from the sand and the sea and everything good in my life. Since I last held her hand.

“Hi, love,” I whisper, my voice threatening to crack. “I—I didn’t think I’d get to hear your voice again.”

There’s another breath on the line. Then, shakier, “Hi, Finn.”

I can picture her, even though I can’t see her. Bare feet on the wood floors. The wind tugging at the curtains behind her. Maybe she’s in that old gray sweater she always steals from me. I hope she is. I hope it still smells like salt and sun and something like home.

“I miss you,” I say, each word heavy and aching.

“Me too.” Her voice breaks, and I swear it feels like someone’s driving a spear through my ribs. “I didn’t know if you’d be able to call.”

“I shouldn’t be,” I admit, glancing over my shoulder like Snow might come slithering through the wall. “But I needed to. I needed to hear you. Even just once.”

A beat. Then Annie whispers, “I’m glad you did.”

She’s quiet for a moment. I hear a faint shudder of breath—hers, I think—and the creak of wood, like maybe she’s sat down. Or maybe curled in on herself the way she does when she’s trying not to fall apart.

“I didn’t sleep last night,” she says. “I kept looking at the door like maybe… maybe they’d bring you back. Say it was a mistake. Say it wasn’t your name they called.”

I press my hand to my face, dragging it down slowly, trying to breathe. “It wasn’t a mistake.”

“I know,” she whispers. “I just—pretended.”

I swallow hard. “Pretend a little longer. Just until I get through this.”

Another silence. This one heavier. Not hopeless—but close.

“Can you?” she asks, soft as seafoam. “Get through this?”

I should lie. Say yes. Say something brave or charming or hopeful. But I can’t lie to Annie. Not about this.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I’m going to try. I’m going to fight like hell. For you.”

I hear her sniffle. Then, “Finn…”

“I wish I could see you,” I say, voice cracking around the edges. “I wish I could hold your hand. Braid flowers into your hair like you hate. Tell you it’ll be okay, even if we both know it might not be.”

“You don’t have to braid them,” she says, the faintest smile in her voice. “Just hold my hand.”

“I will,” I promise. “When I come home. I’ll never let go again.”

Her breath hitches. “You better.”

I speak again—quiet, hesitant. “How’s… how’s Trent been? Has he been helping like I asked?”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “He’s been staying over most nights. Sleeping in the chair like an idiot. Keeps burning soup and trying to fix things that don’t need fixing.”

That gets the faintest ghost of a laugh out of me. “That sounds like him.”

“He made me pancakes yesterday. Burned four before he got one right.”

I smile, eyes still closed. “Tell him he’s a disgrace to the ocean.”

“I did. He told me he was going to beat you with a spatula when you got back.”

A small silence passes—gentler this time, less heavy. Like the water between us has calmed a little.

“I’m glad he’s there,” I murmur. “Even if I wish it was me.”

“I wish it was you, too,” Annie says. “Every second.”

“I hate being this far from you.”

“I know. Me too.”

We stay quiet for a moment, breathing together, like we’re trying to sync our heartbeats across the miles.

“What’s it like there?” she asks quietly. “The Capitol.”

“Loud,” I say. “Fake. Everything’s sugar-coated and hollow. Even the kindness feels like a trick. But Mags is with me, and Chaff, and Johanna… they help.”

“Five minutes, sweetheart. We need to go,” Mags calls gently from a few feet away, her voice warm but firm. I glance over my shoulder. She’s standing by the door, patient as ever, but the look in her eyes says she knows exactly what kind of conversation I’m having.

Annie’s voice crackles through the receiver, soft but clear. “Where do you have to go?”

I hesitate. “Training,” I say finally, dragging a hand down my face. “But I don’t really need it. Not like the others do. I’d rather stay and talk with you.”

There’s a beat of quiet on the other end. Then Annie speaks, her voice laced with the calm kind of sadness that always undoes me. “No. You should go.”

“But—” I start, shifting forward on the couch, gripping the edge like I could somehow hold onto her if I just tried hard enough.

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I penalized your chances at living,” she says, firmer this time. “You need to train, Finnick. You need to fight. I want you home.”

Her words hit me like a wave I don’t brace for. My throat tightens. “You think training’s going to save me from what they’ve already planned?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “But I have to believe something will. And you don’t get to give up, Finn. Not on me.”

The room feels smaller somehow, like the walls are listening, like the Capitol is listening. But her voice—the way it trembles, the way it steels—it cuts through everything.

“I miss you so much, Annie,” I say. “Every part of me feels wrong without you.”

“I know,” she murmurs. “Me too. But we don’t get to stop just because it hurts. You’re still my Finnick. You still have to try.”

“Even if it means hanging up?” I ask.

She goes quiet again. Then, finally, “Especially if it means hanging up.”

Another pause. Another knock on the door from Mags, gentler this time. I meet her eyes and nod, then lift the phone back to my ear.

“I love you,” I say, heart in my throat.

“I love you more,” Annie says, the words soft, fragile—but sure.

I hang up slowly. The silence afterward is unbearable.

But I stand. Because I promised her I’d try.

Mags doesn’t say anything right away.

She just walks over, quiet as the tide, and reaches up with one calloused hand to gently brush her thumb beneath my eye. I blink, startled. Her hand lingers for only a second before falling away.

Only then do I realize a tear had slipped down my cheek. I hadn’t felt it. I was too focused on the echo of Annie’s voice still hanging in the air, in my head, in my chest.

I look at Mags and smile—just a small one, the best I can manage.

She doesn’t smile back, not exactly. Her expression softens instead. Knowing. Steady. Fierce in that quiet way only she can be.

“Come on, sweetheart,” she says, giving my arm a light squeeze. “Let’s go make them remember who you are.”

I nod and rise to my feet, my body heavy but my steps a little surer. Not because I believe in the Capitol’s training program. Not because I think it’s going to make a difference in the arena.

But because Annie told me to go. Because she wants me to come back.

Mags and I walk side by side down the long, polished hall toward the elevators, toward the training center, toward whatever twisted test Snow has planned for me next.

And as the doors slide shut behind us, I picture Annie’s hand in mine.

I’m still hers.

Even here.

We make our way into the training center, the air thick with that sterile Capitol scent—like metal, polish, and faintly artificial citrus. The room is already alive with motion, the clang of weapons and soft hum of conversation echoing off the sleek white walls. Stations line the perimeter, everything from edible plant identification to combat dummies that bleed fake red when you strike them right.

Lucia and Gage are near the painting station, both crouched over bowls of paint, Gage gesturing animatedly while Lucia watches with that distant, foggy sort of focus she always has. Wiress is at the knot-tying table with Beetee, their hands moving fast and methodically, lips barely moving as they speak in that shorthand only they seem to understand.

Cashmere and Gloss are sparring in the center mat, golden hair flashing as they circle each other like predators. Brutus and Enobaria are off to the side, watching the siblings with arms crossed—judging, measuring, maybe just waiting for an excuse to jump in.

“Hey, you two!”

I turn to find Chaff grinning as he makes his way over from the wildlife station, wiping his hands on his pants like he’s just skinned something. His grin widens when he sees Mags.

“Well look who finally rolled out of bed,” he teases. “I thought you’d gotten lost under all that Capitol glitter.”

I manage a weak chuckle. “I think there’s still some stuck behind my ear.”

Chaff stops in front of us, still grinning, and gives Mags a friendly nod. “You two look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Something like that,” I murmur, rubbing the back of my neck.

Mags raises an eyebrow at Chaff. “How’d the wildlife station treat you?”

He scoffs. “Nearly lost another arm trying to figure out which mushrooms don’t kill you. Beetee thought it was hilarious. Sadistic bastard.”

Mags chuckles. “Well, maybe we’ll get lucky and be assigned a nice, poison-free arena.”

Chaff lets out a sharp laugh. “In this Quarter Quell? I’d be more likely to find a bottle of whiskey growing on a tree.”

He turns to me. “You okay, Finnick? You look like you’ve been crying or kissed someone. Maybe both.”

I glance down at the floor. “Talked to Annie.”

Chaff whistles low. “Well, damn. That’ll do it. She doing alright?”

“She’s trying,” I say. “Trent’s with her. He’s… keeping her steady.”

Chaff gives a thoughtful nod. “Good. Girl like that deserves someone solid. Still—must’ve been hard hearing her voice.”

“It was,” I admit. “But it helped, too.”

“‘Course it did,” Mags says gently. “You’re still hers, even from all the way out here.”

Chaff nudges me with an elbow. “And you’re still ours, too. So keep that chin up, lover boy. It’s a war zone in here, but we’ve got your back.”

For the first time this morning, I let out a real laugh. Small, but real. “Thanks. Both of you.”

Chaff watches me a second longer, his grin faltering just enough for concern to slip through. “You’ve still got that kicked-puppy look, Finnick.”

I shrug, trying to play it off, but I’m not fast enough.

So Chaff bumps my shoulder with his. “Shit, say the word and I’ll pull up to your next call with Annie in a wig and a seashell bra. Tell her I’m your body double. Dead ringer.”

That startles a laugh out of me. “That might traumatize her more than the Games.”

He gasps, hand on his heart. “Rude. I’ll have you know I make a gorgeous mermaid.”

Mags snorts beside me. “You’d sink faster than a rock with those hips.”

“Oh, come on!” Chaff tosses his arms up. “The Capitol would love it. I bet Gloss wouldn’t even flinch. That man’s got more highlighter on his cheekbones than a sunrise.”

I shake my head, laughing now. “You two are the worst.”

“You love us,” Chaff says smugly.

“Unfortunately,” I mutter, still smiling.

Mags grins. “Better us than Gloss in a seashell bra.”

That gets a full, unexpected bark of laughter out of me.

Chaff claps a hand on my shoulder. “There we go. That’s the face I want to see. No more sulking. Annie’s back home, rooting for you. So are we. You’ve got this, Finn.”

I nod. And maybe it still hurts. But it’s lighter, somehow. Easier to carry.

Suddenly Chaff looks over my shoulders and smirks. “Johanna!” he calls out, and I turn to see her sauntering through the doors with that infuriating, impossible-to-ignore swagger. She moves like she owns the place, even though we all know none of us own anything here—not even our own faces.

Johanna smirks, adjusting the hem of her tunic as she makes her way over. “Hey.”

Chaff leans off the painting station with a grin that’s half thrill, half dread. “Did you do it?”

She raises her eyebrows like it’s obvious. “Oh, I did it alright. Even Haymitch can vouch for me.”

I tilt my head, narrowing my eyes. “What did you do to make her uncomfortable?”

Johanna looks right at me, slow and deliberate, her smirk curling like smoke.

“I stripped in the elevator.”

For a second, no one says anything. Just silence. Pure, stunned silence.

Nothing.

“You… you what?” I ask, not because I didn’t hear her, but because my brain refuses to process it.

“Well, technically,” she says, as casually as if she’s describing breakfast, “I made Peeta unzip my dress first, and then I took everything off. It was an extra step, but well worth it.”

I blink at her. “Like… everything?”

“That’s kind of what stripping means, idiot,” she deadpans, crossing her arms with a cocky little nod. “You’d know.”

Chaff doesn’t even try to hide it—he practically doubles over, wheezing so hard he has to clutch the table for support. “Oh my god,” he manages between bursts of laughter, “I hope to hell there’s a recording.”

Mags stands still beside me, lips pursed, eyes gleaming with that quiet amusement of hers. She doesn’t laugh, but there’s something like pride in the way she watches Johanna, like she’s witnessing a very specific kind of chaos she admires.

“You…” I stammer, pointing at Johanna like that’ll somehow make sense of it, “Are you pulling my leg?”

Johanna rolls her eyes. “There’s nothing to lie about. I told you I was going to go all out. Haymitch can back me up. He was there.”

Chaff freezes mid-laugh, gasping for breath. “He was in the elevator?”

Johanna’s grin turns vicious. “Front row seat.”

Chaff howls with laughter again, practically sliding down the wall.

I run a hand down my face. “Oh my god—”

“Relax,” she says. “Peeta kept his eyes forward. Katniss, though? Looked like someone slapped her with an axe.”

Mags lets out a soft chuckle.

“Why?” I ask, genuinely baffled. “Why would you do that?”

Johanna shrugs like it’s the easiest answer in the world. “Because they don’t know what to do with someone who doesn’t play by their rules. It throws them off. And I like that.” She taps a finger against her temple. “I wanted to know their dynamic—see what I was getting myself into. Consider it reconnaissance.”

Chaff wheezes. “Reconnaissance? You got naked in an elevator!”

“Exactly.” She’s unbothered, arms crossed over her chest like she’s already bored with how slowly we’re catching up. “Peeta looked like he was trying to count the ceiling tiles. Poor guy nearly fainted when I made him unzip me.”

I blink. “And Katniss?”

Johanna lets out a sharp little laugh. “Katniss looked at me like she wanted to put an arrow through my neck. No words, just pure murderous rage. It was kind of beautiful. Inspiring, even.”

Chaff slaps the wall with an open palm. “Done. I declare her the victor of the dare. You hear that, Finnick? She wins. Hands down.”

I lift my hands in surrender, still trying to wrap my head around the visual. “Oh, I’m not arguing. That’s… unprecedented.”

“Legendary,” Chaff corrects, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “That’s Capitol history right there. They’ll be talking about that elevator ride long after we’re dust.”

Johanna just smirks and saunters toward the center of the room, that familiar storm in her step. She moves like she owns every inch of the floor, like the world should be grateful just to witness the show. “Damn right they will.”

Mags pats my arm gently, still chuckling under her breath. “And you thought you caused a scandal.”

“Poor Katniss,” I mutter, still stunned, shaking my head as I picture that elevator ride again—Peeta frozen like a statue, Johanna shrugging out of her clothes, and Katniss, fiery and fake and furious, about one second from spontaneous combustion. “First the fire dress, now a naked Johanna. The Capitol must think she’s the luckiest girl alive.”

Johanna doesn’t miss a beat. She turns her head slightly, flashing me a knowing look over her shoulder. “Don’t act like you haven’t pulled that trick before, Finnick.”

“Yeah, but they were paying me,” I shoot back, deadpan.

That earns a bark of laughter from Chaff, who clutches his ribs like he’s physically in pain. “Bet Peeta’s never unzipped anything that terrifying in his life,” he wheezes. “Boy probably thought he was opening the gates of hell.”

Johanna snorts and tosses her hair back. “Please. I gave him a free anatomy lesson. That’s generosity, that is.”

Mags clicks her tongue, eyes twinkling. “Only you would call flashing a tribute ‘philanthropy.’”

“Oh, I’m very charitable,” Johanna says, stepping onto one of the weapon mats and casually picking up a throwing axe. She spins it once in her palm like it’s no heavier than a dinner fork.

Mags blinks slowly, impressed despite herself. “You’re braver than the rest of us.”

“Brave? Please.” Johanna gives a dry laugh. “I’m just not playing their game. You want me to wear feathers and pretend I’m a Capitol plaything? I’ll give you a show, alright—but it’s gonna be mine.”

I glance around the room. Gloss has paused mid-spar to watch her, eyes narrowed. Enobaria’s lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile. Even Brutus looks vaguely entertained.

“I think you broke the room,” I murmur.

“Good,” Johanna says, hurling the axe with a clean, vicious spin. It thunks deep into a target dummy’s chest with a heavy whump, dead-center. “Let them wonder what I’ll do next.”

She stalks off to retrieve it, leaving a trail of silence in her wake like the eye of a storm.

Chaff exhales hard. “I’m both terrified and wildly impressed.”

“Story of knowing her,” I say under my breath.

Mags hums beside me. “If the Capitol wasn’t afraid of her before, they should be now.”

Johanna yanks the axe free, shoulders rolled back, head high. A woman unchained. A threat dressed in skin and sarcasm.

And watching her walk back across the training floor like she hasn’t just upended the entire Capitol narrative, I can’t help but think she’s exactly what we need.

Chaos, weaponized.

Strategic.

Unpredictable.

Deadly.

Johanna Mason.

And somehow—thank god—on our side.

When she reaches us, she plants the weapon into the floorboards beside Chaff’s boot, just for the fun of watching him flinch.

“I miss anything while I was gone?” she asks, brushing invisible dust off her shoulder.

“Only my will to live,” Chaff mutters, leaning away from the axe.

“I think I saw Gloss praying,” I add.

Johanna flashes me a toothy grin, all wolf and no apology. “Good.”

She’s barely settled beside us again when Mags, still seated, taps my hand with two fingers—her signal. I follow her gaze and spot them.

Chaff squints across the training center like he’s got a telescope tucked somewhere in his pocket. “Star-crossed lovers, twelve o’clock, south wing. Longitude one hundred fifty-six. Latitude two hundred twenty-four,” he says in a mock-serious tone, arms folded like he’s reporting to Command.

Johanna tilts her head at Chaff, expression blank. “What are you even saying?”

“Coordinates,” Chaff replies with a proud little sniff. “Top secret. Precision matters in these high-level observations.”

Johanna raises an eyebrow. “You’re saying a whole lot of nothing.”

Chaff smiles. “Exactly. That’s how classified it is.”

I snort, and Mags just shakes her head, her mouth twitching like she’s seen this act before.

They’ve just stepped into the training center, side by side but not quite together, the space between them thick with tension. Katniss looks like she’s been chewing nails for breakfast. Peeta’s jaw is tight, and his hands are clenched at his sides. Neither one is saying a word.

Johanna sees them and curses under her breath. “Show’s over,” she mutters.

In one fluid motion, she scoops the axe from the floor and disappears toward the weapons racks, expression already neutralizing into that practiced Capitol indifference. Chaff stretches like he’s just remembered he has muscles and starts limping toward the weight stations. Even Mags straightens up a little, her earlier laughter softening into a quiet calm. The room shifts, masks returning to faces. Everyone remembers they’re being watched.

I don’t move.

I stay close to Mags, folding my arms and pretending I’m interested in the blade Johanna left behind. It’s easier than watching Peeta glance toward us with that blank look—like he’s still somewhere in that elevator, trying to catch up with his own thoughts.

Katniss doesn’t look at anyone. Her eyes are fixed ahead, sharp and focused, but I can feel the static rolling off her. She’s like a fuse already lit.

Mags gently taps her fingers against my wrist. Her signal again. Calm. Present. Watchful.

I nod, just slightly.

Katniss and Peeta move past, and though neither of them says a word, the entire room seems to hold its breath.

I stay by Mags as the room settles into its rhythm again, but I’m not really listening to Chaff grumble about his bad shoulder or pretending to care about the weight of Johanna’s axe anymore. My eyes drift, cataloguing, watching.

Gloss and Cashmere are at the knife station, mirroring each other in that creepy way they do. Every throw lands with a thud in the exact same spot. Bullseye. Again and again. They barely speak, but their eyes meet with every throw, a silent conversation I can’t hear. Efficient. Practiced. Cold.

Enobaria’s gone back to sparring. Her opponent—a broad-shouldered tribute from Two I don’t know—lasts maybe thirty seconds before he’s panting and backing off, red blooming along his collar where she faked a bite. She laughs, loud and sharp, then starts pacing like a lioness in a cage, bloodlust humming under her skin.

Across the room, Johanna hefts her axe again and goes to town on a set of practice dummies. It’s not training. It’s a warning. Wood chips fly. The air fills with the thump of impact and splinters. She doesn’t break a sweat. She doesn’t need to.

Lucia and Gage, the quiet pair from District Eight, are painting near the camouflage station. Gage is crouched beside a dummy, blending vines and moss into its arm, while Lucia kneels next to him, brushing precise leaf patterns across the chest. It’s beautiful work. Almost too peaceful for this place. Like they’re pretending they’re not going to die.

Then I notice Katniss and Peeta.

They’ve split up. Peeta heads toward the obstacle course, jaw still tight, moving with a grace he doesn’t always get credit for. But Katniss—she’s veered off.

She walks straight toward Beetee and Wiress, who are crouched over some tangled mess of wires and circuits. They don’t notice her until she’s standing beside them, and even then, Wiress only hums and mutters something too fast to catch. Beetee offers her a nod and slides over to make room. Katniss kneels beside them, her face unreadable.

I blink.

Across the room, Johanna catches my eye. She lifts her brows and mouths across the floor:

“Nuts and Volts?”

I shrug, but she’s already snorting quietly, turning back to her axe with a grin tugging at her mouth.

Mags elbows me lightly, following my gaze to Katniss.

“Smart,” I murmur. “She’s not just a hunter.”

Mags doesn’t answer, but I can tell she agrees. The fire girl is making moves. Calculated ones.

Katniss stays with Beetee and Wiress for a little while longer, listening, nodding—though half the time Wiress is talking to herself. Then she pushes to her feet, dusts off her knees, and walks away without saying a word.

I watch her thread through the room, her braid swinging gently down her back, the bow still slung over her shoulder even though she’s not heading for the archery station. She walks with that quiet, grounded intent—like she’s already planning something the rest of us haven’t caught on to yet.

She stops at the knot-tying station. I tilt my head.

I glance down at Mags, who’s now watching Katniss too. She gives me a single, almost imperceptible nod.

Right.

It doesn’t matter whether I like Katniss or not. Doesn’t matter that I think she’s reckless or that Peeta probably deserves better or that she’s caused a mess none of us asked for. If we’re getting out of this—and especially if Mags is—Katniss has to trust me.

I square my shoulders and head over.

She’s facing the rope station, her back to the rest of the room, tugging at a long coil with a furrowed brow. Her fingers move stiffly, wrapping, re-wrapping, trying to mimic the demonstration guide etched on the side. She’s good with a bow, not knots.

As I reach her, I see she’s holding the loose end against her hip. I reach out—instinct more than anything—and slide my hand past her, fingers brushing the wrap just behind her waist.

She jerks.

“Whoa,” I say, pulling back with a short laugh. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

Her eyes snap to mine, sharp and assessing. No humor there. Just the weight of someone who’s had to react like that too many times to unlearn it.

I glance down, fidgeting with the rope between us. “You’re holding it too tight. Makes the wrap slide off.”

She doesn’t say anything. Just watches me.

I force myself not to fidget under the stare.

“Here,” I say, gently taking the rope from her hands. I guide it slowly, my fingers sure and practiced as I show her the first loop. “Let me show you the best knot to know in the arena.”

She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t walk away either. That’s something.

I turn my attention fully to the rope, letting my hands work from memory—muscle memory etched in years of nets, riggings, anchor lines and sail ties. I make sure to keep my body angled just enough to be nonthreatening, not too close, not too fast. She’s like a wild animal right now—spook her, and she’ll bolt.

I notice her watching me.

“Don’t look at me,” I say, glancing at her sideways with a grin. “Look at the knot.”

A short laugh slips out of me before I can help it. She gives me a look but shifts her gaze to my hands.

“Good,” I say. “This part’s the base. You get this wrong, the whole thing falls apart. Like alliances.”

Katniss frowns, probably reading into that more than I meant her to. But she doesn’t interrupt. I finish the loop, cinch the tension with a practiced pull, and move on.

“It gets a little complicated here,” I say as I finish the last twist. I hold the loop up, then, with exaggerated drama, slide it over my head and tug it until it tightens around my neck. I stick out my tongue and let my eyes roll back. “Just in case you need to fake your own hanging. Happens more often than you'd think.”

“Funny,” Katniss mutters, flat as ever—but I catch the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth. She’s trying hard not to smile. That’s a victory.

I grin as I gather the leftover rope and offer it out to her, raising an eyebrow.

“What do you say, Katniss Everdeen? Want to take me for a walk?”

She stares at me for a beat, like she’s trying to decide whether I’m insane or just an idiot. But there’s something else there too—a flicker of understanding. Maybe amusement.

I chuckle, still holding the rope out like it’s a peace offering. “Seriously, what’s the worst that could happen? I drown dramatically in the middle of the training center?”

Katniss glares at me with that sharp, unreadable expression of hers. But she doesn’t walk away. Her fingers twitch at her sides. I jingle the rope a little.

She rolls her eyes—deep, theatrical, exactly the kind of eye-roll I’d expect from Johanna—but she steps forward and takes the rope. Loosely. Like it might burn her.

I beam. “There we go. Trust. Or a very slow hostage situation.”

Katniss gives me a dry, warning look, but I just grin wider.

“C’mon,” I say, turning and gently walking forward, giving the rope the faintest tug as I do. “I have someone for you to meet.”

Behind us, I hear a soft snort. I glance over my shoulder and catch Johanna doubled over laughing near the weapons wall, one hand pressed to her stomach like she can’t believe what she’s seeing.

She mouths something—“You’re unbelievable.” I shrug and wink, and she flips me off.

Katniss drags her feet a little, but she follows. People glance our way. Gloss misses a knife. Enobaria stops mid-spar. Even Beetee lifts his head for a second. But I don’t care.

Mags is crouched at the snare station, her fingers dancing through the wire like she’s braiding silk. Her tongue pokes out in concentration, and she doesn’t look up until I stop beside her.

“Mags,” I say warmly, pulling the rope from around my neck at last and coiling it neatly. “This is Katniss Everdeen.”

Mags glances up, sharp-eyed, then lets out a low chuckle. “So this is the girl on fire,” she says. Her voice is papery but clear, like dried sea grass in the wind. “You look taller on television.”

Katniss blinks again, clearly not expecting that.

“She doesn’t bite,” I add with a grin. “Unless you mess with her tools.”

Mags snorts, handing Katniss one of her snares to look at. “Don’t mind him.”

Katniss hands the hook back to Mags, careful not to prick her fingers. “Thank you,” she says.

Mags beams.

Katniss turns to me, still a little guarded, but the suspicion’s not as sharp now. “Why are you doing this?”

I shrug. “Because if we’re going to die in front of an audience, we might as well know each other’s names.”

She narrows her eyes.

I hold up my hands. “That, and Mags likes you. Which is rare. So don’t make me look bad.”

Her lips twitch. Just a little.

Another step.

Mags’ hand stays light on Katniss’s elbow as she steers her gently toward the archery station across the training floor.

I don’t follow.

Instead, I hang back, waiting until I feel that familiar shift in the air behind me.

“You’re playing nice,” Johanna says, sidling up, a faint smirk curling her mouth.

“Trying,” I say, brushing my fingers through my hair and glancing at her. “She’s stiff as driftwood, but Mags likes her.”

“Mm,” Johanna hums, crossing her arms. “She’s not bad. Quiet. Hard to swallow. But I don’t hate her that much right now.”

“That’s practically a marriage proposal coming from you.”

She snorts. “I save the romance for my axe.”

I glance over to where Mags and Katniss are already drawing attention. A few tributes have subtly started drifting toward the archery lane. Word spreads fast when someone does something interesting in here.

“Come on,” I say, nodding my head toward the forming crowd. “Let’s see what she can really do.”

Johanna stretches lazily, but falls into step beside me. “Bet she’s been holding back all day.”

“She’s smart,” I murmur. “Wouldn’t want to show her hand too early.”

We weave through the other tributes—passing by Gage with paint smudges on his sleeves, Brutus sharpening something way too big, Enobaria cracking her knuckles with the grin of someone looking for a fight.

The group is already three or four rows deep when we get to the edge of the archery station. Katniss is just now stepping onto the lane. Mags has taken a seat on a nearby bench, her hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes bright and alert.

“Here we go,” Johanna mutters, cocking her head. “Let’s see if the Mockingjay sings.”

The holograms surge forward, a flood of motion hurtling straight for Katniss. I can’t look away. She doesn’t flinch. Arrows sail from her bow, cutting through the first few figures, and I feel my chest tighten with every strike.

There’s a guy, then a girl tossing knives with unnerving precision—Cashmere and Gloss. My stomach twists. Too familiar. Too practiced.

A man with a sword barrels toward her. Brutus. The stance, the way he shifts his weight—I know that motion. My hands twitch, but I force them to stay at my sides.

And then…a girl with the axe. Johanna. Every flick of her wrist, the swing of the blade, the charge toward Katniss—it’s her, frozen in glowing lines, an exact replica of her deadly instincts. My stomach lurches as Katniss fires another arrow and the hologram shatters.

Finally, a man with a trident rushes at her. Me. Another arrow, and the hologram dissolves too.

I can’t hide the mix of awe and disbelief. She’s tearing through holograms of us—of my fellow victors, of me, of Johanna—and she’s doing it like it’s nothing. I’ve seen her fight before, sure, but seeing it distilled like this… it’s… astonishing. Terrifying. And a little thrilling.

I lean toward Johanna, trying to keep my voice light, almost teasing. “You do realize who the holograms were, right?”

She groans, dragging a hand down her face, though I can see that tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Is this your way of saying I actually have to be nice to her?”

I grin, barely hiding it. “Maybe.”

I can tell Johanna is not fond of the idea of actually having to ally with Katniss Everdeen of all people.

I shrug, trying to ease the tension. “The plan only works if she trusts us.”

She snorts, sharp and incredulous. “Trust her? You have to be kidding me. The only thing I trust about her is that she’ll shoot me if I step wrong.”

I can’t help smiling wider. “Yeah, but if we don’t play nice, the plan falls apart.”

She plants her hands on her hips, glaring at me—not really at me, more at the absurdity of it all. “Nice? You really think I can be nice to that firebrand? No. I’ll be polite when it’s convenient. I’ll tolerate her when I have to. But nice? Forget it.”

Johanna turns back to the archery lane, huffing, as she watches Mags and Wiress congratulate Katniss.

I may not care for Katniss, but I care about Johanna living. So, if we have to partner up with the Girl on Fire, so be it.

Chapter Text

Another day in the Capitol before the Games. Another day of the Games looming closer. Another day of not seeing Annie.

Mags and I sit at the kitchen table, the morning light filtering through the thin curtains, dust motes catching it like tiny stars. Coffee mugs warm our hands, the steam curling upward in lazy spirals. We’ve always been early risers, back when we were mentors, not tributes. Tradition sticks to you, even when the world has flipped upside down.

Mags leans across the table and presses her hand over mine. Her fingers are steady, warm. “She’s going to be okay, Finn,” she says softly. “I promise.”

I swallow, nodding, though the pit in my stomach doesn’t ease.

There’s a knock at the door.

Mags pushes back from the table, her chair scraping lightly against the tile. She rises and walks to the door, moving with that quiet, deliberate ease that makes her seem unshakable, even when none of us are.

When she opens the door, Blight and Johanna are there. Blight’s hands are shoved casually in his pockets, one leg bent as he leans slightly, eyes darting like he’s sizing up the room. Johanna shifts, impatient, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

“Hope we’re not interrupting breakfast,” Blight says, voice smooth, a teasing note hidden beneath it.

“Nonsense, hun,” Mags replies, stepping aside to let them in. She shuts the door behind Johanna, the click echoing softly. “I was just about to make some pancakes.”

“Can we stay?” Johanna asks, tilting her head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Blight’s cooking is terrible.”

Blight groans, mock-offended. “Terrible? Absolutely terrible. I’m insulted, Mason.”

Mags laughs, shaking her head, a warm, easy sound. “Of course, dear. I’ll make a bigger batch.”

Johanna plops down in the chair next to mine, legs swinging slightly, posture casual but alert. “You look ecstatic to be here,” she says, voice dry, teasing.

“Yup,” I reply, forcing a smile. “I love waking up and remembering Annie isn’t here.”

I slide my coffee mug toward her. She takes it, sniffs suspiciously, and takes a tentative sip. Her face contorts instantly. She slides it back across the table.

“Ew. You always have bad taste in drinks,” she declares, smacking her lips.

“What? It’s good,” I say, taking a swig myself, stubborn.

“It’s sugary,” Johanna snaps, wrinkling her nose. “Awful. How much sugar do you put in that thing?”

I lift my mug, counting on my fingers. “Three sugar cubes. Only three.”

Johanna throws her head back and laughs, a short, sharp burst. “You and your sugar cubes, my goodness. That’s disgusting.”

Johanna snatches a fork from the counter and waves it like a tiny weapon. “So, Finnick, you really think you can just sit here drinking your sweet swamp water and look heroic? You’ve got to actually train if you want to survive.”

“I am training,” I say, a little defensively. “This,” I lift my mug, “is hand-to-mouth endurance. Caffeine keeps you alert. Sugar keeps you alive.”

She leans closer, smirk curling. “Caffeine and sugar. That’s your grand survival strategy? You’ll be dead before lunch.”

I mock a dramatic gasp. “Johanna Mason! Betraying me before breakfast?”

Mags clears her throat, shaking her head. “You two sound like squabbling children,” she mutters, though the corners of her mouth twitch upward. She’s trying to look stern, but she’s never been good at hiding affection from any of us.

Blight leans back in his chair, arms crossed and a lazy grin on his face. The morning light from the Capitol windows hits his profile—he looks tired, like the rest of us, but still manages to feign ease. “I wouldn’t have guessed it was you, Johanna, who suggested we eat breakfast here.”

Johanna shoots him a sideways look. “You act like I’m incapable of socializing.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You are.”

I turn to her, grinning. “Aww, did you miss my company?”

She groans, dragging a hand down her face. “You wish.”

Then she cuts her eyes toward Blight, that sharp grin sliding across her mouth like a blade. “I’m calling Hickory on you.”

Blight’s smug expression falters immediately. “Not Hickory,” he says, deadpan, but there’s real dread underneath.

The name hangs between us, stirring faint, knowing amusement. Even Mags lets out a soft laugh as she flips another pancake. “How is Hickory these days?” she asks, setting the plate down in the center of the table, steam curling upward. “Still keeping you all on your toes, I imagine.”

“Still crazy as ever,” Johanna says, spearing a pancake with her fork before Mags even sits down. She glances at Blight, then at me. “While you guys were talking about… fishing parties…” She pauses, deliberately lightening her tone at the edges. We all know better than to name anything else out loud here. Snow could have a mic hidden in the walls for all we know. “He was saying how for fun we should drown ourselves in the river as solidarity.”

I stop halfway to taking a bite. “What?”

Johanna points her fork at me, grinning. “See? This man has no idea the absolute nutjob Hickory is.”

Blight chuckles, shaking his head. “He’s not wrong, though. Hickory’s got that look—like he’s always two thoughts away from lighting something on fire.”

“Or someone,” Johanna adds.

Mags hums softly, pouring syrup over her stack. “You’re all so dramatic,” she says with a small smile. “No wonder Snow likes keeping you in the spotlight.”

The room stills for half a second at his name, that unspoken reminder slicing through the humor. The Capitol’s silence beyond the walls feels heavier now, like it’s listening.

Then Johanna breaks it with a scoff. “Yeah, well, if I’m going to be famous, I’d rather it be for my winning personality.”

Blight snorts. “That’s one way to describe it.”

I glance at her, catching the faintest glimmer of real fatigue beneath her grin. Her hair’s messy, eyes underscored with shadows that haven’t faded since her last train ride here. She still plays the part, though—loud, biting, unshakable. Maybe because if she ever stops, the silence will crush her too.

“Remind me to never get on Hickory’s bad side,” I mutter, forcing a small laugh to cut the tension.

Johanna leans back in her chair, arms crossed, smirk returning. “Oh, don’t worry. You’re already there and you haven’t even met the guy.”

I chuckle, shaking my head, and Mags slides a plate my way. For a few seconds, the smell of pancakes and coffee fills the air—warm, comforting, almost enough to trick me into thinking this is just breakfast among friends.

Then there’s a knock at the door.

It’s soft, polite—too polite—and it slices straight through the warm bubble of chatter around the table. All of us freeze. The clatter of forks stops. Even Mags’ gentle humming dies away.

We all look at each other. It’s too early for avoxes. Too early for anyone.

“Maybe it’s Chaff?” Blight says after a beat, but his tone wavers, more hope than certainty.

Johanna snorts. “Chaff’s probably passed out somewhere. From sleep or booze, take your pick.”

No one laughs.

Mags slowly rises, pushing her chair back with a soft scrape. Her joints pop as she straightens, and she gives me a small, cautious look before heading toward the door. The knock comes again—two short taps this time, rhythmic and exact, like whoever’s behind it knows they don’t need to knock twice.

Mags opens it only a sliver. None of us can see who’s there, but I catch a glimpse of white—pressed uniform, gloved hand. Capitol.

Her expression tightens, polite but wary. A brief exchange. No words loud enough for us to hear. Then she reaches out, takes something, and shuts the door softly behind her.

The silence that follows feels heavier than before.

She turns back toward us, face unreadable, and in her hand—an envelope. White. Unmarked. Heavy.

Mags lays it on the table in front of me. The soft thud it makes is deafening.

No one speaks.

My pulse spikes. My stomach turns cold.

An envelope. Here. Now.

“Is that—?” Johanna starts, but doesn’t finish.

I don’t answer. I already know.

I’m about to get thrown into an arena, and Snow still wants me to preform my duties?

I stare at it for too long, like if I just keep looking maybe it’ll disappear. But it doesn’t. It just sits there—innocent, ordinary, and absolutely suffocating.

Finally, I drag a hand through my hair and reach for it. My fingers tremble slightly as I tear it open.

The letter slides out smooth and crisp, written in perfect, formal print.

My name stares back at me like a threat:

Dear Finnick Odair,

President Snow has requested your presence at his manor at 12:30 sharp for a mandatory luncheon. Your presence will be excused from tribute activities (physical training, camera training, etc.) that take place during that time. Wear formal attire, as this is an important meeting with the president.

For a long second, all I can do is blink at the words.

A laugh bubbles up—dry and humorless.

I’m about to be thrown back into an arena to die, and Snow wants to have lunch?

I stare harder, like maybe I read it wrong. But it doesn’t change. None of it changes.

Across the table, Johanna’s watching me. Her jaw is tight, her hands clenched around her fork like she might snap it in half. There’s something wild in her eyes—rage, pity, grief. I can’t tell which. Maybe all of it.

Blight looks between us, uneasy. Mags says nothing, just presses her lips together in that quiet, knowing way that says she’s seen too much of this before.

Johanna snatches the paper from my hand, ready to tear it in half, but her eyes dart over the text and she freezes. “What the hell,” she mutters, the anger turning into disbelief.

I try to laugh again, but it comes out broken. “Guess I’ve got a lunch date.”

No one says anything. The silence stretches until it feels unbearable. The smell of pancakes turns sickly sweet. The whole room feels like it’s shrinking, caving in around me.

Because we all know what that letter really means.

Snow doesn’t invite. He summons.

And he only ever wants one thing.

Johanna stares at the letter for a long time before slamming it down on the table hard enough that Blight flinches.

“This is a joke,” she says, her voice shaking with anger. “It has to be. He can’t seriously—”

But she cuts herself off, because of course he can. It’s Snow.

Mags doesn’t move. She just stands by the stove, one hand on the counter for balance, her face pale. She looks older suddenly—like the strength in her bones can’t quite carry the weight of this anymore.

Blight exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess he wants to make sure his favorite toy’s still in working condition,” he mutters, but his voice doesn’t have any bite. Just exhaustion.

I don’t say anything. I just sit there, staring at the table, at the edge of the letter where Johanna’s fist crumpled it. The words blur if I stare long enough, so I stop trying to read them.

I already know what they say.
What they mean.

Mags finally moves, walking over and setting a hand on my shoulder. Her touch is light, gentle, grounding. “You don’t have to go,” she says quietly.

I wish that were true.

Johanna’s expression softens for half a second before it hardens again. “You shouldn’t go alone,” she says suddenly. “Let me go with you.”

That actually makes me smile—small, hollow, but real. “You’d last five seconds in that house before they escorted you out.”

“I could take out two guards on the way,” she says, half-serious.

Blight sighs. “Johanna…”

She ignores him, glaring at me instead. “You shouldn’t go alone,” she says again, quieter this time, like if she says it softly enough, it’ll sound like common sense instead of worry.

I drag a hand over my face. “I’ll be fine.”

Her eyes narrow. “Don’t lie to me, Finnick.”

The words land heavier than I expect. Not angry—just tired, edged with something raw. For a second, I see it: the fear she’s trying to bury under her sarcasm, the kind that doesn’t fade even when you tell yourself you’re done caring.

My jaw tightens. “I’m not—” But I don’t bother finishing. She knows me too well for that.

Her mouth quirks. “I’ll be on my best behavior like I always am.”

The table falls into silence, the kind that feels both awkward and oddly fragile. Mags stops mid-bite, Blight looks like he’s debating whether to laugh or pray, and the sound of the waves outside presses faintly against the quiet.

Johanna rolls her eyes. “That’s the part where you guys are supposed to say you agree,” she mutters, stabbing her fork into a pancake.

Blight exhales slowly. “Yeah. Sure. You’re a model citizen, Mason.”

She shoots him a sharp grin. “Glad you noticed.”

I sigh, shoulders dropping. “It’s Snow. I don’t want you to get hurt. I’ll be fine.”

Her grin falls. “Just make it back in one peace, okay?”

I nod. “I’ll try.”

I glance at her across the table. She’s tapping her fingers against the table now, restless energy radiating off her in waves. For someone who claims not to care, she’s terrible at hiding how much she does.

“I should probably go change,” I mumble, more to myself than anyone else.

I stand up and start making my way to my room. My mind won’t slow: What if something’s happened to Annie while we were gone? What if Snow’s planning something and I missed it? What if…

I shove the door open, toss the trident onto the chair by the window, and start rummaging through my closet for a change of clothes. My hands tremble slightly, fumbling with buttons and zippers. Calm down. Just change. Nothing else matters right now.

But the thoughts won’t stop. Annie alone. Annie scared. Annie trapped. My stomach twists. Every noise outside—footsteps, voices in the hall—makes me flinch. Is she okay? Is she hurt? Did anyone—anything—happen to her?

I rip the shirt off too quickly, nearly yanking my shoulder. I catch my reflection in the mirror and see the exhaustion carved into my face. My hair sticks up at odd angles, my eyes wide and restless. I look ridiculous. And yet… I don’t care. Because if anything happened to her, nothing else matters.

I throw on a fresh shirt and jacket, still pacing, still half-focused on my reflection. Breathe. She’s fine. She has to be fine. Johanna’s watching my back. I just… I just need to be ready.

I take a shaky breath, shove my hands in my pockets, and step toward the door. I can’t see Annie from here, but I can’t stop thinking about her. I have to make it back. I have to make it back safe. I can’t lose her too.

When I step out, Mags watches me with a frown, her hands still clasped in that quiet, knowing way. “Be careful, okay?”

I nod, forcing a small smile. “I’ll try.”

“You come back and you tell me everything that happened,” Johanna says. “We’ll go on the roof if we have to.”

I nod and with one last glance back at them, I head down the hall.

Nothing is going to happen.

Everything is going to be fine.

It’s just a luncheon. A simple, polite Capitol thing. Say goodbye, smile, eat too much, pretend to care.

No surprises.

No bad news.

No reason for my chest to feel this tight.

But my thoughts keep looping back to Annie anyway. What if something did happen? What if she’s hurt, or scared, or sick, or—

I shake my head hard. Stop.

You’re fine. She’s fine.

That’s when I bump into something.

—or someone.

“Watch it—”

The voice snaps sharper than the impact.

I blink, disoriented. Cashmere.

We both freeze.

She’s in a silk night robe the color of rosewater, the hem brushing her thighs, one hand clutching a cup of something steaming. Her hair’s loose, tangled at the ends, and there’s a faint smudge of lipstick along her cheek. She looks tired—the kind of tired I recognize in myself when I’m stumbling back to my room after a night of pretending I’m not disgusted by the people I touch.

The sight makes me falter.

It’s strange. For a second, I just stand there, confused. Why does she have clients? And why don’t I anymore? Not that I’m complaining—I’m thankful, more than anyone would ever guess—but it doesn’t make sense. Snow doesn’t waste profit. If she’s working, shouldn’t I be, too?

“What are you doing here?” she asks, one eyebrow lifting.

I blink, caught off guard. “What do you mean what am I doing here? What are you doing here?”

“Going to my room, duh?” Cashmere replies, rolling her eyes lightly.

“This is the fourth floor,” I say, glancing at the plaque on the wall just to be sure. “You know… District Four.”

“What?” She squints at me, the frown deepening. “No, it’s not. It’s District One.”

I gesture over my shoulder. “I just came out of my room.”

She stares at me like I’m joking. Then her expression flickers—confusion, something almost nervous—and she looks down the hallway behind me, then back at the elevator she must’ve stepped out of.

A silence lingers.

I don’t like it.

The Capitol hallways always feel the same—marble, gold trim, the faint hum of machinery beneath your feet—but right now, everything feels just a little too quiet.

Finally, she laughs, though it sounds thin and frayed around the edges. “Guess I pressed the wrong button.”

“Guess so,” I say, but even to my own ears, it doesn’t sound convincing. The air feels heavier than it should for such a simple mistake.

“I’ve been up since two in the morning,” she adds after a moment, rubbing at one temple. “You know how it is.”

Her voice is casual, practiced — the kind of Capitol fatigue that’s supposed to sound glamorous, like exhaustion is proof of value.

“Yeah, definitely,” I mumble. My tongue feels slow, clumsy.

She tilts her head, studying me like she’s trying to decide if I’m playing dumb. “Client?”

The word lands like a hook in my chest.

“Yeah,” I blurt out automatically, the lie leaving a sour taste behind. “How long have you had clients?”

“Ever since I got here,” she says matter-of-factly, like she’s reciting her own schedule. “I have clients only in the mornings and nights so it doesn’t interfere with training and stuff. Shouldn’t you know that?”

Her tone isn’t mocking — it’s almost confused. Like she genuinely believes that’s just the way it is for all of us.

Ever since she got here?

The thought claws at me. That doesn’t make sense. She’s been… what? On rotation? Already working while the rest of us train?

That’s not how it’s supposed to go.

“Well, here I am,” I manage, “meeting with a client in the afternoon.”

“They pay a pretty penny for you, makes sense,” Cashmere says with a tired shrug, her voice flattening on the words pretty penny. “Whatever. I’m just going to try to sleep as much as I can before my next appointment.”

“Yeah, you go do that,” I say quickly. “Rest is important.”

She gives me a strange look — one eyebrow raised, lips twitching like she’s about to say something but thinks better of it. Then she steps into the elevator, pressing her floor without another word.

The doors close, and I’m left staring at my own reflection in the gold paneling, the sound of the elevator’s descent fading like a heartbeat slowing down.

I exhale, rubbing a hand over my face. My mind won’t stop racing.

Is that what the meeting’s about?

Are they going to tell me it’s starting again? That my “vacation” is over? That Annie—

No. Don’t.

I try to push the thought away, but it keeps circling back, sharper every time.

I make my way down the hallway toward the elevator, the quiet hum of the Capitol lighting following us. My palms won’t stop fidgeting, so I shove them in my pockets. Anything to stop them from shaking.

What if something happened to Annie?

What if this luncheon isn’t about clients or cameras or Capitol charm?

What if it’s about punishment?

I force myself to take a slow breath, watching the numbers count down.

And the elevator keeps sinking.

The rest of the walk is quiet.

This is when I regret not accepting Johanna’s offer to tag along. She would’ve filled the silence with some crass comment that would make everything lighter. My footsteps echo against the pristine marble corridors, the faint hum of the Capitol beyond the glass walls my only company.

The city outside glitters in its midday glow, the sunlight reflecting off gold statues and glass spires like the Capitol’s trying to blind me with its own perfection. Every step we take toward Snow’s mansion feels like walking deeper into a trap.

Fifteen minutes pass. Fifteen long, silent minutes. By the time the mansion comes into view, my stomach feels like it’s turned to lead.

It’s enormous—white stone walls, spotless gates, every inch groomed within an inch of its life. The air smells faintly of roses, sharp and cloying. The gates swing open without me needing to knock.

Of course they do. He’s been expecting me.

I walk up the path, my footsteps muffled by the perfect marble steps. The closer I get, the stronger that scent of roses becomes. It’s everywhere—on the air, in the stone, in the back of my throat. I can already feel my pulse in my temples.

When I reach the door, two Peacekeepers are already waiting. Their armor gleams under the noon light, polished to the point of distortion. One steps forward, his expression unreadable behind the visor.

“Mr. Odair,” he says. “You’re expected.”

His partner gestures with a gloved hand. “This way.”

Their voices are clipped, efficient, rehearsed. The kind of tone that makes it clear this isn’t a request.

I nod once and follow, my pulse quickening with every step.

The mansion swallows me whole. The air inside feels different—heavier somehow, perfumed with roses and something metallic that sits sharp on my tongue. The halls twist and turn, endless white corridors lined with portraits and vases that probably cost more than everything I’ve ever owned combined. Each footstep echoes too loudly, bouncing back at me like an accusation.

They don’t say a word as we walk. Just the rhythmic clank of boots against marble and the faint rustle of their gloves as one reaches to open yet another door, yet another hall. I lose track of direction almost immediately. This place isn’t built to be navigated—it’s built to disorient. To remind you who owns it.

Finally, we stop in front of two massive gold-trimmed doors. One Peacekeeper glances at the other before pushing them open.

The smell hits me first. Roses. Overpowering. Suffocating.

And there he is.

President Snow sits at the head of an impossibly long dining table, a white napkin folded neatly across his lap, a glass of red wine glinting by his hand. His smile is thin, practiced—like a blade polished to a mirror shine.

“Ah,” he says softly, as though he’s genuinely pleased. “Finnick Odair.”

My throat goes dry.

He gestures to the empty chair across from him. “Have a seat, son.”

The doors close behind me with a soft, final click that sounds too much like a lock.

I stand there for a second, pulse pounding, before I force myself forward. Each step feels like it takes a year.

When I finally lower myself into the chair, the seat cushions sink beneath me, far too comfortable for a room that feels like a trap.

Snow studies me in silence for a moment, that same faint smile tugging at his lips. The air between us feels charged, heavy with something I can’t name.

I can feel his eyes assessing everything—my posture, the twitch of my jaw, the tremor I’m trying to hide in my hands.

He sets down his wine glass.

And I realize—whatever this is, it isn’t just lunch.

Snow folds his hands together on the table, the gesture smooth and deliberate. “I trust you found your way here without any trouble?”

“Yes, sir,” I manage, though my voice sounds foreign in my own ears—tight, careful.

“Good,” he says, nodding once. “I dislike disorganization.”

He reaches for his fork, carving a piece of something delicate from his plate. The sound of the utensil against china is impossibly loud in the silence that follows. He chews slowly, eyes never leaving mine.

I try not to shift in my chair. The urge to fidget—to do something—burns in my fingertips. But I know better. The slightest movement might give him what he wants: a tell, a weakness, anything to remind me that he has the upper hand.

Finally, he swallows and dabs his mouth with his napkin. “You must be wondering why I called you here.”

The words are almost kind, almost gentle, and that makes them worse.

“Yes, sir,” I say again, because what else can I say?

Snow’s smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I imagine you’ve been… restless. These Games tend to unsettle even the best of us, don’t they?”

My stomach twists. He’s testing me, gauging my reaction, waiting for me to say the wrong thing.

“I’ve been focused,” I answer carefully. “Training. Preparing.”

He chuckles softly, setting his fork down with a faint clink. “Of course you have. You’re a professional, Finnick. Always have been.”

Something about the way he says it makes my skin crawl.

Then he leans back, eyes glinting with that polite kind of amusement that’s meant to make you sweat. “I must say it was quite a shock when Miss Cresta’s name was called and Mrs. Falagan volunteered in her spot, given her age.”

My heart stutters, but my mouth doesn’t wait for permission. “Yeah, well,” I say, voice smooth even though my pulse is jackhammering under the table. “Mags really cares for Annie. She wouldn’t have let her go back in.”

Snow’s fingers twitch on the armrest, just barely. The room feels colder for it. “How touching,” he says mildly, and the word touching sounds like something spoiled, something sticky and wrong. “It seems District Four has a particular fondness for its young victors.”

I force a smile, the kind that never quite reaches my eyes. “We’re sentimental that way,” I say, tone light but sharp enough to cut if he listens closely. “You should see us during the holidays.”

He hums at that, a faint, knowing sound that makes my skin crawl. “I imagine it must be… quite a challenge, maintaining so many attachments.”

“I manage.”

The words slip out before I can soften them, steady, confident, maybe even bordering on cocky. It’s safer that way — to make it sound like I’m unbothered, like I don’t wake up at night remembering the sound of Annie’s scream.

Snow clears his throat. “There’s only one victor this year. No making the same mistake as last year with Miss Everdeen and Mr. Mellark.”

“Yeah, they’re the talk of—”

“Do you believe their love, Finnick?” Snow asks, cutting me off.

I pause, the question hanging in the air like a trap. His voice is calm, polite even, but I know better than to think it’s harmless. “No,” I answer after a beat, keeping my tone light but steady. “I don’t.”

He tilts his head slightly, watching me the way someone might watch a piece of glass to see if it’ll crack. “Does that have to do anything with the measure of love you and Miss Cresta have?” he asks.

My heart gives an uncomfortable twitch, but I lean back, feigning ease. “Well, it’s a little hard seeing them get married when you won’t even let me show I’m in a relationship with Annie,” I say, letting some of the edge bleed into my voice. “Seems a little unfair, don’t you think?”

Snow’s smile widens, but there’s no warmth behind it. “Unfair,” he repeats softly, almost to himself. “You of all people should know, Mr. Odair, fairness has never been one of the Capitol’s virtues.”

I keep my expression calm, maybe even a little amused, though inside, every nerve feels like it’s bracing for impact.

Snow’s eyes flick up, studying me for a long, silent moment before he says, “You’re very important to me, Finnick.”

I almost laugh. That’s not something he says unless it’s followed by a favor. “I try my best,” I say lightly, leaning back in the chair.

“Not just to me,” he continues, “but to Panem. To the nation. You’re a symbol of unity. A reminder of what the Capitol offers to those who serve it well.”

“Unity,” I repeat with a little grin. “That’s one word for it.”

His expression doesn’t change. “You’ve become more than just a victor. You’re an ideal. Strength, beauty, charm… the kind of man people can aspire to be.”

“Right,” I say, picking up my fork just to have something to do with my hands. “Every boy dreams of being paraded around half-naked and called patriotic for it.”

That earns the faintest twitch of his mouth—maybe amusement, maybe warning. Hard to tell with him.

“You do it well,” he says finally, like it’s a compliment. “And the Capitol loves you for it.”

“Lucky me,” I say, offering a small smile. “I’d hate to disappoint my fans.”

He lets out a soft chuckle, low and deliberate. “Always the charmer.”

“I try to keep things interesting.”

Snow leans forward, folding his hands together. “You understand the balance, Finnick. You’ve learned how to use the gifts you’ve been given. That’s why you’re still here. That’s why people still adore you.”

There’s something in his tone—something that wants me to flinch. I don’t.

“For how much you say you adore me, it’s a surprise I’m here to begin with,” I say, forcing a small, easy grin as I swirl the untouched wine in my glass.

Snow hums, almost pleased. “It’s rather unfortunate, isn’t it?”

I let out a low laugh. “Especially with Annie’s name being called right after.”

The smile fades from his mouth, even if it stays in his eyes. “Are you suggesting the reaping was rigged, Mr. Odair?”

I shrug, leaning back just slightly—casual, unbothered. “I’m just saying that for how much money I make you, surely the outcome could’ve been different.”

A faint pause. The kind that stretches just long enough to sting.

Then Snow’s lips curve again. “You’re the desired victor, Mr. Odair. Surely this event will boost you into the spotlight more. No other victor will be a two-time victor.”

My chest tightens, but I keep my smile where it belongs. Johanna and Haymitch said the same thing. Snow wants you to win. Like that’s supposed to be a comfort. Like surviving twice means anything but more blood on my hands.

“You already have Katniss and Peeta for that,” I say, my tone lighter than it feels. “They’re the Capitol’s golden couple, aren’t they?”

Snow’s expression hardens so fast it’s like the air drops ten degrees. “Katniss Everdeen is a parasite.”

The venom in his voice makes my spine stiffen. “She has inspired hatred and rebellion across the country. People look at her and they no longer see hope. They see defiance. Insolence.”

He speaks slowly, like he’s tasting each word, savoring the rot beneath it.

I can’t help it—I glance down, trying to disguise the tightness in my jaw. I’ve heard rumors. Fires. Riots. Districts refusing shipments. It’s not just Katniss—they’ve been waiting for an excuse.

Snow continues, voice soft and cutting. “You, however, are loyal. You represent beauty, order, control. The Capitol needs that, now more than ever. It needs you.”

I meet his eyes again, forcing a small smirk. “You make it sound like I’m some kind of hero.”

“You are, Finnick. The kind we can trust. The kind the nation adores.”

His words hang there, heavy. I know better than to believe them, but the way he says it—low, deliberate, like a warning disguised as praise—makes my stomach twist.

I take a slow breath and force my tone to stay even. “I have people I care about in the Quell too,” I say. “You don’t actually expect me to kill them after all these years.”

Snow folds his hands on the table, every movement deliberate. “Ah, yes,” he murmurs. “Mrs. Falagan, Miss Mason, and Mr. Mitchell. Surely Miss Everdeen will take them out for you. No issue there.”

The words land like a blade turned slowly. My heart drops, but I don’t let it show. Not yet.

I manage a short, humorless laugh. “We both know Johanna won’t go down that easy. And if you think she will, you obviously don’t know her well enough.”

Snow’s eyes glitter—something sharp, amused. “Oh, I know her quite well,” he says softly. “Defiant girl. Proud. Unruly. She reminds me a bit of you, actually.”

“Guess you have a type,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

He chuckles, though it sounds more like a sigh through teeth. “I do admire your spirit, Finnick. Truly. But spirit only gets one so far. When the time comes, you’ll make the right choice. You always have.”

My throat tightens. “You mean the choice that keeps me alive.”

Snow tilts his head. “I mean the choice that keeps everyone you care about alive.”

The room feels colder then, even with the sunlight pouring through the tall windows.

I want to say something sharp, something that’ll cut him the way he cuts me—but there’s nothing left to say. He’s already made his point.

Snow leans back in his chair, the faintest smile curling his lips. “You see, Finnick, you’re different from the others. You understand how to play the game. How to give the Capitol what it wants without letting it destroy you. That’s… admirable.”

I shift in my seat, trying not to show how his words dig under my skin. “I’d say it’s more survival than admiration.”

He waves a hand. “Call it what you wish. The point is—you have value. More than most. The people love you. The sponsors love you. The districts envy you.” He pauses, letting the silence draw out like he’s savoring it. “And I, for one, would hate to see all that potential wasted.”

My fingers tighten on the edge of the table. “You’re saying you want me to win.”

“I’m saying it would be… preferable,” Snow replies, his voice silky and even. “Panem thrives on symbols, and you’ve always been a good one. Beautiful, loyal, strong. The sort of victor this nation should admire.”

There it is again—flattery shaped like a threat.

“And if I don’t make it out?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

He studies me, eyes half-lidded. “Then you will die a martyr to the very peace you’ve helped maintain. Either way, you’ll serve your purpose.”

My stomach knots. He means it. He actually wants me to win—but not for me. For him. For the Capitol. For the idea of what Finnick Odair is supposed to be.

I manage to keep my tone steady. “Nice to know you care so much about my legacy.”

He smiles thinly. “Your legacy is the Capitol’s legacy, my boy. Never forget that.”

I force a nod, even as something cold coils at the base of my spine. Because now I know—he’s not afraid of me dying. He’s afraid of me losing control of the story he’s written for me.

===

The walk back to the room is a daze.

My head feels like it’s stuffed with fog — not from alcohol, not even from fear, just the heaviness that comes from standing too close to President Snow and realizing how small you really are. His words keep replaying in my mind, twisting into shapes I don’t want to recognize.

I’m half surprised there wasn’t poison in the food, but given the nature of our conversation, Snow wouldn’t have bothered. He’d rather watch me suffer than give me an easy way out.

I raise my hand to knock, but the door opens before my knuckles touch it.

Johanna.

Her expression goes sharp the moment she sees me. “Oh, thank goodness you’re not slouched over dead,” she says, voice dripping with sarcasm but edged with genuine relief. “What did he say? Did he threaten you? Did he try to do something? Because I swear—”

“N… no, he didn’t,” I manage to get out. “I don’t…” I can’t find the right words, and even if I could, I’m not sure I’d want to.

Mags and Blight appear around the corner, their concern unspoken but clear. “Are you okay, Finn?” Mags asks, gentle as always.

I force a weak smile. “Well, I’m not dead, so that’s a plus.”

Johanna doesn’t buy it. Her hand snaps around my wrist, firm and warm. “C’mon. We’re going on the roof so you can tell me about it freely. I’m not about to listen to some cryptic crap.”

I let her pull me toward the elevator. Her grip is tight enough to ground me. She presses the button for the upper level—the outdoor terrace that passes for a “rooftop” here.

“Johanna—”

“Don’t say a single word until we’re clear, got it?” she says, glaring at the doors as we go up higher.

“Yes, ma’am,” I mutter, because arguing with Johanna is like shouting at a thunderstorm.

The elevator hums to life. Neither of us speak until the doors open and the night air hits us—cold, sharp, a relief.

Johanna tugs me out. “Okay, now—”

“I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever.”

We both stop and turn.

Across the terrace, Katniss Everdeen lies curled up against Peeta, her head resting in his lap. His hand drifts lazily through her hair while she gazes at the afternoon sky.

Johanna groans. “Oh, god. They’re committed, I’ll give them that.”

“Do they even know there are no cameras here?” I ask.

Johanna tilts her head, watching them like someone inspecting a play. “I think they do. Maybe that’s part of the act—make it look real even when they think no one’s watching. Method acting for survival. They should ask for tips from me.”

“Oh definitely,” I snort.

“They’re good,” Johanna mutters, dragging me farther down the terrace, away from the couple. “Almost makes me want to clap.”

“Almost,” I echo.

Johanna continues to drag me away to a quieter part of the roof top. When we’re out of earshot, Johanna stops, crossing her arms. “Okay. Spill it. What did Snow tell you?”

I hesitate. My throat feels dry. “I just…” I swallow. How do you tell someone both of your worst enemy’s rooting for you?

“What? Spill it.”

“He wants me to win,” I blurt out. “He said it outright. Said it would be the best outcome for him.”

Johanna blinks, then scoffs. “Okay, we can stop lying. What did he actually tell you?”

“I’m serious,” I say. “He wants me to win. He didn’t even hide it.”

She stares at me for a beat, then folds her arms tighter. “Say you swear on Annie.”

“I swear on Annie.”

Johanna exhales, slow and disbelieving. “Oh my god.” She looks away, her jaw tightening. “He’s really that confident he’s got this whole thing rigged, huh?”

I nod. “He doesn’t care who dies. He just wants the right show.” My voice turns bitter. “A good story for the audience. The star-crossed lovers. The angry girl. The Capitol darling. He said I’d make the right choice.”

The memory of Snow’s smile—calm, patient, like he’s naming a flavor—is still warm in my head and colder than anything. I can see the way he leaned in, as if he were offering me a gift. As if my life, my choices, were props he could deploy. The thought makes something in my chest fold up and harden.

Johanna snorts, a sharp, humorless sound. “Yeah, well little does he know that that ‘right choice’ is the rebellion.” She chews on the word like it’s sugar and glass. Her fingers drum on the terrace railing, impatient, dangerous. “If he thinks using us as pawns will keep the people eating from his hands, he’s misread the room.”

“I told him there’s people I care about in the arena. Chaff. You. Mags. That I wouldn’t kill them.” My voice tightens. “But he said I should hope Katniss takes you guys out for me.” Saying it aloud makes it sound more like a dare than a suggestion.

Johanna’s face goes stone for a heartbeat, then she lets out a laugh that has no joy in it. “Are you kidding me? That bastard’s praying on my downfall?” She spits the words as if they’re a bad taste. Her jaw sets; I can see the old list of slights behind her eyes, the ledger Snow’s been keeping since the day she won.

“I’m pretty sure he’s been praying on your downfall since you won four years ago,” I say quietly. It’s not a question. It’s fact. A thing lived and added to every year.

“Touché.” Johanna’s voice is small and sharp all at once.

Johanna grabs my shoulders, staring at me. “We’ll make sure your ‘right choice’ is the least convenient thing he’s ever hoped for and you’ll never have to deal with him again, okay?”

I hold her gaze and breathe out, tasting the night. “Okay.”

Her mouth quirks. “Good. Pretend nothing happened. Act like you never had that conversation and you’re just going into the arena with some master plan. He won’t suspect a thing.”

I stand up straighter despite the heaviness knotted in my gut. The vow settles in my chest, a dull, steady ember. Snow can scheme headlines and stage-manage martyrdoms. We can be louder in ways he can’t buy.

And if he thinks my victory will tidy everything into a pretty parade—he hasn’t met Johanna Mason.

Chapter Text

The stylist had insisted on a deep white cut shirt, said it was “fresh” and “modern” but I knew the real reason. Honestly, I didn't care much. I just let her fuss over the fabric while I tugged at Annie’s necklace, letting the delicate pendant rest visibly against my chest. It was the one thing I wanted to keep close, no matter what.

Chaff was already leaning against the wall, grinning like he’d just caught me off guard. “Not half-naked today, huh?”

I shrugged, rubbing the back of my neck. “Guess the stylist wanted to switch things up.”

Johanna snorted, folding her arms. “Didn’t think that was even possible for you.”

Mags gives me a soft smile, the kind that felt like a warm tide lapping at your ankles. Gentle. Knowing. Like she can see right through the shirt, the Capitol polish, the performance. Like she always can.

Then Haymitch appears, stepping through the narrow curtain at the back of the prep area.

Chaff lets out a booming laugh. “Has Haymitch Abernathy finally decided to grace us with his presence?”

Haymitch smirks as he walks over, patting Chaff on the back with a little more force than necessary. He smells faintly of liquor and Capitol cologne, like he let the prep team get half their way before slipping out. “Someone’s gotta keep you pretty bastards from getting too comfortable.”

It's strange, standing like this with the others. It has always been the five of us—Haymitch, Johanna, Chaff, Mags, and me—but Haymitch being the only mentor among us, not a tribute, has kept him on the periphery this time. Still, it feels right having him here now. Like something old and solid had returned.

“Nice to finally breathe for a second,” Haymitch says, then lowers his voice. “But I’ve got news.”

Johanna raises a brow. “Good news?” She snorts. “Who am I kidding? Of course it’s bad.”

Haymitch exhales, rubbing the side of his jaw. “I talked to… you know—” he glances at the ceiling like Plutarch is up there listening. “He wants you to try something. Try to get it canceled.”

I blink. “Canceled?”

Haymitch nods. “Just… shake things up. Protest. Say something that makes the Capitol uncomfortable. Make them feel something—anger, grief, guilt. Anything.”

We already kind of did something like that before during the final evaluation. Mags took a nap for her entire time, I just stood there, twirling my trident and talking to the people above about how much I missed their wives, and from a few whispers, Katniss and Peeta did something too.

“Oh, don’t worry about me, Haymitch.” Johanna’s already grinning, hands on her hips. “I’ve got a monologue ready.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” Haymitch smiles.

His tone softens as he glances between us. “You’ve all got more power than you think. If there’s ever a moment to use it, it’s tonight.”

I nod slowly, the necklace cool against my chest. I think of Annie. Think of Mags. Think of what they’ve already taken.

Haymitch clears his throat. “Second thing—Katniss is still deciding who she trusts.”

“She hasn’t picked anyone?” Chaff asks.

“She has. Beetee, Wiress, and Mags.”

Mags lifts her chin a little. Calm. Composed. When Haymitch smiles at her, she smiles back.

“Like mentor, like tribute,” she says, her voice light but strong.

I grin and give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “She has remarkably good taste.”

Haymitch’s eyes flick to me. “I’m going to keep nudging her toward you three, too.”

“She doesn’t trust us?” Johanna asks, mock offended.

Haymitch gives her a look. “She knows Chaff and I go way back. It’s you two that scare her.”

Johanna and I exchange a glance. Not surprised. We’ve both played our roles well—dangerous, unpredictable, sharp as broken glass. It’s what kept us alive this long. What made the Capitol scared of us but fascinated enough not to kill us outright.

“I literally gave her a front-row seat to my bare ass. The full frontal package,” Johanna says, throwing her hands up, “and she doesn’t choose me?”

Her voice is half outrage, half disbelief, like she genuinely can’t tell if she’s more insulted or amused. She spins toward Haymitch, eyebrows raised, expression exaggerated. “What more does a girl have to do to earn trust in this place?”

Haymitch snorts, arms crossed, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Yeah, well,” he says, voice gravelly with amusement, “most people—I imagine—don’t appreciate it when someone strips down in front of their boyfriend.”

Johanna scoffs, unrepentant. “Peeta didn’t even look. Kid stared at the elevator buttons like they held the meaning of life. It’s not like they’re in a real relationship anyways.”

Chaff lets out a wheeze of laughter. “Boy was counting ceiling tiles trying not to die.”

“Exactly!” Johanna waves a hand. “He passed the test with flying colors. She should be thanking me. Loyalty test or whatever. Free of charge.”

Haymitch shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “You’ve got the subtlety of a cannon blast, Mason.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” she fires back sweetly.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

She smirks, brushing a stray curl behind her ear like she’s won something. “Too late.”

“We’ve done a good job,” I say, almost to myself. “Maybe too good.”

Johanna smirks. “Speak for yourself. I don’t want her to like me. I just want her to know I won’t gut her in her sleep.”

I laugh. “That’s you being friendly.”

“Exactly. I’m a delight.”

She huffs, dramatic. “Seriously, though. I bare my soul—and literally everything else—in that elevator, and she picks Nuts and Volts?”

“They’re not bad people, Jo,” I say mildly.

Johanna whirls on me, pointing. “I made an effort! I was vulnerable. They did nothing!”

Chaff lifts an eyebrow. “You were naked.”

“Same thing,” Johanna snaps.

Mags bites back a smile. “You did make quite the impression.”

“She should’ve appreciated the gesture!” Johanna throws herself dramatically into a nearby chair. “What, did she want me to knit her a friendship bracelet? Write her a poem? I gave her front-row seats to the Capitol’s worst nightmare—me, unfiltered—and she ran off to braid Wiress’s hair.”

“She’s seventeen,” I remind her.

“She’s from District Twelve,” Johanna shoots back. “What, they don’t have nudity in the woods? Pretty sure they bathe in creeks over there.”

Haymitch looks at her, unimpressed. “We don’t—”

“I was being charitable,” Johanna cuts him off.

Haymitch rubs his temples. “You’re not mad she didn’t trust you. You’re mad she didn’t like you.”

Johanna freezes. “That is not—” She pauses, blinking. “Okay, maybe that’s a little bit of it. She should like me.”

Chaff laughs. “Aww, poor Jo. Rejected by the Mockingjay.”

She kicks his foot. “Shut up. I was trying to be relatable.”

“By flashing her?”

“She’s seen worse!” Johanna defends. “It’s not like I shanked her in the hallway. I was fun.”

Haymitch chuckles, dry as a Capitol martini. “You’re a goddamn delight, sweetheart. That’s why we keep you around.”

“Exactly,” Johanna says proudly, folding her arms, chin tilted high. “Finally, someone gets it.”

Mags leans forward, voice light but knowing. “You’ll grow on her, dear. Like moss.”

Johanna’s lips twitch. “Yeah,” she mutters. “Or mold. I was just bonding. That’s all there was to it.”

“You stripped naked in an elevator,” I remind her, trying not to smile.

“Exactly,” Johanna says, pointing at me like I’ve proven her point. “It was symbolic. Vulnerability! Transparency! All that emotional crap she needs.”

Chaff snorts. “You’re calling flashing someone emotional transparency?”

Johanna throws up her hands. “What else was I supposed to do? Offer her tea and trauma bonding? She looked like she was about to crawl out of her own skin the whole time. I was trying to lighten the mood!”

Haymitch shakes his head, dry amusement flickering across his face. “You’re not exactly the lightening type, sweetheart.”

She ignores him completely, continuing like she’s on stage. “You know what? I bet if Finnick did it, she’d laugh. She’d probably blush, giggle, ask if he needed a towel or something.”

I lift my hands defensively. “Leave me out of this.”

“Oh, please,” Johanna says, rolling her eyes. “Finnick went up to her with practically one extra layer than me. I do it and suddenly I’m unstable.”

“You are unstable,” Haymitch mutters.

Johanna points at him, triumphant. “See? That’s sexist.”

Mags lets out a quiet, amused sigh beside me, her shoulders shaking slightly.

“Look,” Johanna goes on, leaning forward like she’s finally making her case to a jury, “if I wanted Katniss to hate me, I’d have said something actually mean. Like how no one likes her. How she’s a terrible actor. Instead, I gave her an experience. One she’ll never forget. She should be thankful.”

Chaff is laughing so hard now he’s practically doubled over. “You think traumatizing her counts as an experience?”

Johanna scoffs. “Trauma builds character. Ask any of us.”

Haymitch shrugs. “Touché.”

“I’m just saying,” Johanna continues, “if she can’t handle me at my naked worst, she doesn’t deserve me at my sarcastic best.”

I groan, rubbing my face, but I can’t help the smile tugging at my mouth. “You’re unbelievable.”

She shrugs, smug. “Thank you.”

Then, as if she hasn’t exhausted the topic enough, she sighs loudly and adds, “Honestly, though, it’s her loss. She could’ve had me watching her back in there. Instead, she picked the walking riddle and her nerdy translator. Good luck to her when someone starts throwing axes.”

Haymitch gives her a pointed look. “That someone being you?”

Johanna smirks. “Depends how fast she runs.”

Even Mags laughs at that, quiet and knowing, and for a second, the room feels lighter—like the storm outside hasn’t quite reached them yet.

Chaff laughs under his breath, but Haymitch’s eyes dart around the backstage space, making sure no Peacekeepers are loitering too close. “Just remember, it’s not just Katniss. The Capitol’s watching everything tonight. We’re laying groundwork, not just for her. For everyone.”

Mags nods slowly beside me. Her hand brushes against mine and lingers, and when I glance down, I realize she’s gripping my pinky gently. A reminder.

I squeeze back.

Haymitch sighs and pulls a flask from his coat. “Last tip—don’t be subtle. Subtle doesn’t trend.”

Johanna crosses her arms. “You want scandal, Abernathy? You’ll get it.”

“Good,” he says. “Just don’t get yourself killed before the real fight starts.”

Johanna turns to me, her expression more serious than before. “You ready for this circus?”

I glance down at myself—white shirt open to my chest, Annie’s necklace shining right where I want it. My heart feels like it’s suspended between two beats. I hate this spotlight. I hate what they expect me to be.

But I look at Johanna. I look at Mags. And I think about Annie—what she would want.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I mutter.

Johanna claps me on the back. “Go on, Odair. Show them what heartbreak looks like.”

Haymitch glances at the hallway behind him, jaw tightening. “I’ve gotta go—Effie’s wrangling Katniss and Peeta and thinks I’m going to help. This girl,” he mutters, already moving. “Just don’t do anything too stupid, yeah?”

Chaff lifts a hand in mock salute. “No promises.”

With that, Haymitch disappears through the curtain, leaving the four of us alone in the quiet bustle of the interview prep area. Voices echo from the stage, the distant roar of the Capitol crowd swelling every time Caesar Flickerman opens his mouth. Somewhere above us, the show is already in motion.

Johanna leans against the wall and starts chuckling, low and to herself. Her fingers twitch like she’s miming gestures, practicing a line or rehearsing whatever stunt she’s plotting. She doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head and mutters under her breath, too quiet for the rest of us to hear.

I know that look. It’s the one she wore the night before her first Games. She’s writing her own punch to the Capitol’s gut. A verbal ambush. A beautiful one, probably. Deadly.

Mags settles into a chair. Chaff stretches out on the floor with a sigh, propping his arms behind his head. For a minute, no one speaks.

I lift my hand to my chest, fingers brushing the pendant lying against my skin. Annie’s necklace. A lifeline.

I exhale slowly, thinking about the persona they expect me to play tonight—flirtatious, glimmering, sensual. My so-called talent. The poems they made me read for them, how they’d hang on every word, pretending to be moved when all they wanted was another fantasy.

But not this time.

Not tonight.

I close my eyes, fingers still against the necklace, and I know what I have to do. The Capitol won’t even blink when I start reciting something. They’ll expect it. They'll probably lean in, thinking I’m speaking to them. That it’s one of their names that’s about to be whispered. But they’ll be wrong.

Because I’m going to say it to Annie.

I start murmuring words to myself, testing them under my breath. Something short. Intimate. Honest. Just enough to be passed off as performance—except it’s not. It’s mine. It's hers.

I glance over at Johanna, who’s still muttering to herself like she’s about to pick a fight with Caesar. She catches my eye and raises her eyebrows. “You working something out?”

“Yeah,” I say, and my voice is quieter than I expect. “I think I am.”

She narrows her eyes slightly, like she can tell it’s not the usual seduction act I’m plotting. But she doesn’t ask. Instead, she grins. “Good. Let’s burn this place down.”

I nod, hand still pressed against Annie’s pendant.

We will.

And I’ll make sure she hears me.

The lights above the stage shift again. A booming voice announces, “From District One… Gloss and Cashmere!”

Johanna and I glance at each other. I expect the usual glitz and elegance, the practiced Capitol fawning that One is so good at. But when the siblings step onto the stage, they’re not dripping in jewels or smirking with arrogance. Gloss clasps Cashmere’s hand as they walk, and when Caesar greets them, there’s a tension in their smiles that’s… different.

They don’t go for sensuality or power. Instead, Cashmere starts speaking about childhood memories in District One—how she and Gloss used to watch the Victors’ Parade and dream of being heroes. There’s something wistful in it, almost soft. Gloss adds a line about missing the Capitol, about how they’ve become family.

“They’re trying to play the sympathy card,” Johanna mutters beside me, arms crossed. “Clever.”

“It’s working,” I murmur. I hear a few genuine sighs from the crowd through the speakers.

“They’re trying to make them love us.” Chaff snorts. “Or mourn us.”

Then the lights shift again.

Enobaria and Brutus are called as well one by one. Brutus is the only victor to actually wanting to be here, volunteering before anyone’s name was called.

When it’s Enobaria's turn, she just sings praises of how she’s honored to have this opportunity again.

Beetee is next and I can immediately tell Haymitch has spoken to him. He doesn’t just talk about his own experiences—he brings up the structure of the Games, the irregularity of this Quell, the precise wording of Snow’s announcement. He never outright accuses anyone, but there’s something underneath his tone—skepticism. Thoughtfulness. Dissent.

Wiress is next, but she doesn’t hold a full conversation with Caesar.

“Welcome Mags Falagan!”

My heart clenches slightly as it’s Mags’ turn to take stage. She slowly walks up to Caesar who extends an arm for her.

Her dress is a soft, flowing blue—like the ocean. She looks like the tide itself, old and slow and constant. She smiles and takes Caesar’s hands. He’s overly gentle with her, as if she’s fragile glass, but Mags holds her own with grace.

She doesn’t say much. Just talks about the ocean, about how beautiful District Four is. She talks about learning to tie knots with her grandfather, about the first fish she ever caught. Her voice is calm, sweet, like the memory of a lullaby.

Caesar asks, “Are you afraid?”

And Mags just laughs softly and says, “No. Just sad. These tributes, they’re like family.”

The room stills.

Even through the screen, I can feel the shift in the audience. Some of them wipe their eyes. She’s not trying to scare them. She’s just being honest. The kind of honesty that breaks you open without raising its voice.

Mags turns her head toward the wings as she exits the stage, her seafoam dress trailing behind her like waves in a soft current. Her eyes find mine. She smiles—just for me. It's small, but warm. Familiar. The kind of smile that used to greet me when I came home soaked and shivering, holding a crab trap in one hand and a busted line in the other.

It grounds me.

She moves slowly, carefully, toward the grand staircase off to the side of the stage—the place where each of us is meant to wait once our interviews are done. There’s a faint limp in her walk. No one told her to act weak, but somehow even that becomes part of the show. A quiet reminder of her age, of her humanity.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Caesar booms, “Finnick Odair!”

The applause swells like a crashing tide, bright and overwhelming. My name sounds like thunder under the Capitol lights.

Beside me, Chaff claps once and gives me a firm pat on the shoulder, fingers digging in just enough to jolt me out of my thoughts. “Go knock ‘em dead, lover boy.”

I snort. “That’s the plan.”

Johanna smirks as I pass her. “Try not to cry about it.”

I flash her a grin and step forward, the spotlight already blinding as I take my first stride into the open.

Each footstep is practiced. My stylist dressed me in a deep white cut shirt—low enough to expose my collarbone, open enough to display Annie’s necklace. I hated it at first, but now I’m glad for it. The chain lies right over my heart. Every step I take is for her.

The applause intensifies. My smile widens, like it always does, like they expect it to. But it’s different now.

This time, I’m not theirs.

The light nearly blinds me as I step onto the stage, but I don’t flinch. I know how to play this game—have been playing it for years. The cheers are deafening. My name echoes around the vast, glittering arena, and the Capitol eats me up like they always do.

But I don’t let it in.

Not really.

I keep my smile in place, easy and confident, every inch the charmer they want. Inside, I’m far away—drifting back to saltwater and green eyes, to warmth and quiet mornings in a place the Capitol will never touch.

“Finnick, you hear that?” Caesar’s voice booms, dragging me back to the present. He grins, arms wide as if to embrace the entire crowd. “That’s all for you! How do you feel about that? That so many people out there love you?”

I flash the smile they expect—the one that once could end wars or start them. The one that used to mean nothing to me. Now it means even less. But I give it to them anyway. “Well, obviously, I’m delighted, Caesar,” I say, purring just enough to keep the illusion alive. “I love them too.”

The crowd laughs, sighs, claps. Some part of me still knows how to hit my marks, how to turn a phrase. But I’m not here for them.

I let the smile fade. Just enough.

“However…” My voice lowers, softens. I glance at Caesar, then at the crowd, then at the camera. The red light is glowing. Good. “I have a poem I’d like to recite to someone, if that’s okay, of course.”

Caesar’s eyebrows shoot up. The audience leans in like one held breath.

“A poem, huh? Somebody special out there? Let’s hear it!”

I turn slightly, positioning myself so I’m facing the camera dead-on. But I don’t see the camera. I see her. I see Annie. Her fingers in mine, her laugh, her hair curling wild in the sea wind. I reach instinctively for the necklace on my chest. My fingers close around the chain.

“My love,” I begin, and the words nearly catch in my throat. My voice wavers—but I let it. “You have my heart for all entirety. And I… if I die in that arena, my last thought will be of your lips.”

There’s silence, thick and stretched. Then a wave of sighs, gasps, scattered applause. They think I’m talking to them. All of them.

But I’m not.

I’m talking to the girl who taught me that love isn’t something they can buy or parade or sell off piece by piece. I’m talking to the girl I can’t protect. The girl who might be watching this, terrified.

The camera cuts to Caesar, who is beaming with delight. The Capitol crowd goes wild again, and I offer the faintest of smiles to keep them sated.

But the truth is, I’m unraveling a little. Just enough.

Because this is the only way I can say goodbye.

I step off the stage slowly, the lights still warm on my back, the weight of the Capitol’s attention lingering even after the applause dies. I don’t look at Caesar, don’t glance back at the crowd. I walk straight for her—Mags—where she’s waiting for me atf the staircase, just like we were told.

She doesn’t say anything. She just gives me that look—gentle, soft, like she sees everything I’m holding in. Then her hand comes up and rubs slow circles on my back, the way she used to when I was younger.

I stand beside her, not caring how composed I look anymore. We both watch the stage in silence, the next tribute being announced, the Capitol roaring again like nothing just happened. Like I didn’t just give them a piece of my soul, and they swallowed it whole without even tasting it.

Mags doesn’t need to say anything. Her presence is enough. I can feel her love in the way her shoulder rests against mine.

Then the energy shifts.

I glance up as Johanna stomps onto the stage. She doesn’t walk. She stalks. There’s no flirtation, no veneer. Just fury—unapologetic and crackling like a live wire. The Capitol doesn’t know what to make of it yet, but I do. I know exactly what this is.

Caesar tries to play it off with his usual forced cheer. “We’ve seen a lot of tears tonight, but I see no tears in Johanna’s eyes. Johanna, you’re angry. Tell me why.”

She laughs—if you can call it that. It’s sharp, cold, like broken glass. Her arms cross tightly over her chest and she glares at the audience like she’s daring someone to look away.

“Well, yes, I’m angry,” she says, venom coating every word. “I’m getting totally screwed over here. The deal was that if I win the Hunger Games, I get to live the rest of my life in peace. But now you want to kill me again?”

I feel it then—the way the entire room seems to shrink around her. The Gamemakers, the Capitol citizens, the technicians in the wings. Everyone goes still.

And then Johanna delivers the death blow.

“Well, you know what? Fuck that! And fuck anyone that had anything to do with it!”

The audience gasps like someone just fired a cannon. Caesar’s face goes pale beneath his tan. His smile twitches and falters. I can hear the murmurs starting, rippling outward like a tide pulling back from shore. Shock, outrage, disbelief. And beneath all of that, fear.

Because Johanna’s not lying. And deep down, they know it.

She storms offstage without another word, radiating fury in every step. Her boots hit the polished floor too hard, too loud, echoing through the corridor like thunder after a storm. The cameras don’t follow her this far—no one dares. Even from the wings, I can feel it: Johanna’s anger isn’t an act this time. It’s not the Capitol show they think they’re watching. It’s real, raw, and cracking at the edges.

I can tell she wanted to cause an outburst, to rattle the Capitol’s perfect little order—but I can also tell that every word she said was exactly what she meant. The venom wasn’t for performance. It was the truth, and it burned coming out.

“I’ll be back,” I whisper to Mags, though she’s already watching Johanna’s retreating figure with quiet understanding. Mags doesn’t try to stop me—she just gives a small nod, the kind that says go before someone else does.

I weave through Briar, Gage, and Lucia whoa re whispering with wide eyes. They move aside quickly when they see what I’m trying to do. I push past them and make my way to the narrow hallway beside the stairs.

I find her there, leaning against the wall. Her arms are crossed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor. Her face is still flushed from the lights, from the fury. She doesn’t even flinch when I approach.

“You okay, Jo?” I ask quietly.

She turns her head, and her smirk is weak but still there—a reflex more than anything. “I’m fine,” she says. Her voice is hoarse, stripped of its usual sharpness. “Nice poem, by the way. Bet Annie will love it.”

I huff a soft laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah, well, everyone out there seems to think it’s for them. We went for different approaches.”

She snorts under her breath, looking away. “Standing out there again—actually being myself instead of that crying seventeen-year-old girl…” She exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over her arm. “It made me realize how unfair this all is. I mean, I knew it was unfair before, but… I don’t know. It really just put things into perspective.”

The lights from the stage spill faintly through the hallway, flickering across her face—half in gold, half in shadow. I can see the exhaustion now. The kind that doesn’t come from interviews or Games, but from years of pretending to survive.

I put a hand on her shoulder, gentle. “Well, at least you’re going into the Games with me this time,” I say, forcing some lightness into my tone. “I guarantee us sponsors with my dashing good looks.”

Johanna lets out a huff of laughter and shoves my hand off her. “You’re a savior,” she mutters, rolling her eyes.

“I know, I know,” I say with a grin. “I’ll try not to let it get to my ego.”

She opens her mouth to reply—but a sharp, upbeat voice cuts through the corridor.

“Be your usual self! Actually… be your happier self.”

We both turn toward the sound.

And there she is.

The Girl on Fire.

Katniss Everdeen stands framed in the doorway, glowing under the harsh backstage lights. To my utter disbelief, she’s in a wedding dress—white silk cascading down her frame, sparkling under the bulbs. Effie Trinket is behind her, fussing with the train and muttering about symmetry or presentation or whatever it is Effie mutters about when she’s nervous.

The dress is beautiful, but Katniss looks trapped inside it. Like she’s suffocating under the weight of it all.

“I can’t believe Cinna put you in that,” I say, trying to catch her attention.

Katniss startles a little when she notices us standing there—two victors still half-charged from our own storms. “He didn’t have a choice,” she mutters. “Snow made me wear it.”

And then, for a second, I think I’m hallucinating. Next thing I know, Johanna is willingly walking towards Katniss.

I brace myself for another verbal explosion—but instead, Johanna reaches out and straightens Katniss’s pearl necklace. Her touch is careful, deliberate.

“Make him pay for it, okay?” she says softly.

Katniss just blinks at her, taken aback. It takes her a few seconds to nod. “Okay.”

Johanna steps back, expression unreadable. Then she turns to me. “Let’s go, Odair,” she says, her voice back to its steady, sardonic rhythm. “I bet the audience is missing our faces.”

I fall into step beside her as we walk down the corridor. But I glance back once—at Katniss, still standing there in that ghostly white dress, looking like she’s already been buried.

We make our way back to the stage. I quickly make it up to my side, standing against Mags once more. Johanna eventually makes it up to her side, standing next to Blight like nothing just happened.

We stand there in silence as the show grinds on. The Capitol, for all its decadence, loves structure. Every tribute gets their moment. Nothing stops the program.

“Now, please welcome Chaff, from District Eleven!” Caesar announces.

Chaff limps out onto the stage, raising his one good arm in a wave. His smile’s crooked—lopsided from years of too much liquor and too many truths swallowed down with it—but real, at least to those of us who know better. Caesar greets him with open arms, clapping him on the back like they’re old friends.

They’re not.

“Chaff,” Caesar begins, all theatrical sympathy, “this is your second time here, and under such difficult circumstances. What’s going through your mind tonight?”

Chaff chuckles, but it’s dry. Empty. “Well, Caesar,” he says, his voice gravelly, “first time I came here, I lost some good friends. This time…” He looks out into the audience, but his eyes don’t see them. “This time it feels like I’m about to lose what’s left of ‘em. Feels like losing another arm, honestly.”

There’s a quiet that follows, heavier than when Johanna spoke. Not angry or stunned—just quiet. Because even the Capitol can’t quite twist that into something glamorous.

I smirk as I watch from the sidelines. The Capitol forgets. They spin it like a sad little oversight. A tragedy of war. But refusing their help? That was Chaff’s call. A quiet rebellion, all those years ago.

“All the folks back home in Eleven believe President Snow is all powerful just like Seeder said,” Chaff says, turning to the audience. “Then President Snow should do something. To do something for us victors. He could change the Quell if he wanted to, but he must not think it matters much to anyone. But he’s wrong about that.”

Chaff turns back to Caesar. “Victors unite the Capitol and the Districts. I just think he should just think about it.”

He steps off the stage and walks toward us, his gait uneven but proud. When he passes me, he doesn’t stop, just throws me a look and that damn smirk of his.

I nod back, eyes glinting.

They think they own every piece of us.

But we’re all taking something back.

“Katniss Everdeen! Girl. On. Fire!” Caesar booms, and the sound of it makes my stomach twist. Not because of her—because of them. The crowd. The Capitol. The way they lap it up like a feast they paid for. They erupt in cheers, that frenzied, performative kind of joy that makes your skin crawl if you know what really goes on behind their glittering eyes.

Katniss steps out into the lights like it’s just another performance. Maybe it is. I watch her face closely, trying to see past the polish. Her steps are measured, graceful, but I can tell—she’s bracing herself. Like we all are.

“Look at you! You look fabulous!” Caesar croons, positively glowing with delight. He’s playing his role. We all are.

"I understand this is a very emotionally charged night for all of us, wouldn’t you say?”

Katniss gives him a little smile, razor-sharp under its softness. “Don’t go crying on me, Caesar.”

The audience laughs like they’re in on the joke, like they understand any part of what’s happening. Caesar guffaws, playing along. “Oh, I can’t make any promises, you know me!”

“Well, you know I wouldn’t believe you even if you did.”

She's clever. She's composed. She's balancing on a knife’s edge and pretending it’s a stage. "The Girl on Fire is so cheeky, I love it!" Caesar quips.

Caesar tries to soften the mood with sentiment. “But, Katniss," he says, his voice dropping theatrically, "on a more serious note… I think we’re all a little disappointed that a certain wedding had to be canceled. But am I correct that this”—he gestures to her gown—”would have been the gown?”

She nods. “Yes. President Snow thought everyone would want to see it.”

The line hits me like a slap. President Snow. Always pulling the strings. Always demanding a performance, even from a girl who should’ve been left alone after all she survived.

“Like always, he was right,” Caesar says smoothly. “Would you do us the honor, please?”

Katniss pauses, scanning the crowd. I follow her gaze to where Cinna stands just offstage. He gives the smallest nod, and she begins to turn.

The moment the flames catch, the air shifts.

The silk ignites in shimmering bursts—orange, gold, blazing like a phoenix being born. The crowd gasps as the fire consumes the white gown. I sit forward slightly, pulse quickening. And then, from the ashes, the real dress emerges. Black. Sleek. Magnificent. A second skin of rebellion. From her raised arms, wings unfurl. Coal-dark. Sharp as knives.

A quiet awe falls over the Capitol.

Caesar stumbles, for once unsure. “It’s… it’s like… a bird! A… a… like a…”

“Like a Mockingjay,” Katniss says, and I feel it deep in my chest—what she’s really done. What her stylist, Cinna, has done.

It’s not a dress. It’s a weapon.

Caesar quickly tries to recover. “Your stylist has outdone himself! Where is he? Cinna, take a bow!”

Cinna stands to brief applause. But I’m not looking at the crowd—I’m watching the Peacekeepers nearby. How still they’ve gone. How tight their grips have become. They know.

And Cinna knows they know.

The crowd roars, but my blood runs cold.

Then Peeta is called forward. He walks past us, and I watch him carefully. There’s something off about his expression—focused, but strange. Like he’s about to throw a match into a powder keg.

“Peeta, the wedding… never to be…” Caesar says with his usual flair.

Peeta cuts him off, soft and steady. “Actually, Caesar, we got married. In secret.”

I blink.

Damn you, Peeta Mellark.

The audience gasps. The noise is sharp, shrill, delicious to them.

“A secret wedding?” Caesar’s eyes gleam. “Do tell!”

Peeta glances at Katniss. His tone drops, almost trembling. “We wanted our love to be eternal. Katniss and I… we’ve been luckier than most—” luckier than Annie and I “—I wouldn’t have any regrets at all if…” He stops, voice catching. “If… it weren’t… if…”

“If it weren’t for what?” Caesar urges, leaning in like a predator with a mic.

Peeta looks down. “If it weren’t for the baby.”

The auditorium detonates.

It’s chaos. Screams, cheers, disbelief. The lie hits me just like it hits everyone else—but unlike them, I understand it instantly. Haymitch’s work. Peeta’s gamble.

Katniss looks frozen. Whether she knew or not, she sells it like a Capitol-trained actress. Peeta keeps going, sorrow carved into every inch of his expression.

My eyes catch Johanna’s across the room. She’s standing there, rigid, eyes wide, and for a moment our gazes lock. There’s a flicker of shock—and then something else. A shared understanding that runs deeper than the scene unfolding onstage.

We both know it’s fake. Just like Haymitch told us, this whole act is designed to stir the Capitol’s nerves, to make them uneasy. And yet… there’s a strange, almost ridiculous amusement bubbling beneath the surface. We’re caught between whether to laugh at the absurdity or just stay frozen, playing the part perfectly.

I catch Katniss’s hand grabbing Chaff’s arm. Without thinking, Chaff grabs Seeder’s. The chain starts. My eyes flick to Mags, standing steady nearby, and I reach out, taking her arm gently. She looks at me with that quiet, knowing smile, and I squeeze back, grateful for the small connection.

Then Briar from District Five steps closer, and I loop my hand through hers.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the victors start linking arms—one to another, like a chain stretching across the stage.

The murmur grows louder in the Capitol crowd until it’s a roar. People start yelling, screaming even, “Cancel the Games! Cancel the Games!”

Caesar stands frozen, horror etched across his face, unsure how to respond as the uproar swells beyond anything planned.

We hold steady, arms linked, a silent rebellion blossoming in the midst of their spectacle. And for a moment, the Capitol feels the weight of what they’ve invited on themselves.

Then, without warning, everything plunges into darkness. The lights cut out, the crowd’s roar turning into confused shouts and nervous murmurs.

I immediately reach for Mags’ arm, steadying her as we start down the stairs together. The steps are slick and uneven in the blackness, and I’m careful not to let either of us stumble.

Footsteps approach beside us, swift and certain. Johanna slips in next to us, her voice low and urgent, barely more than a breath. “We need to get to the elevator—fast.”

Mags shakes her head gently, her grip firm but calm. “I’m staying behind. I need to check on Chaff and Haymitch.”

I nod, feeling the weight behind her words—the unspoken sense that he might need her more right now than the chaos rushing around us.

Johanna and I exchange a quick, wordless glance, a silent agreement passing between us. Then we break into a run toward the elevator shaft.

The darkness is thick, swallowing everything whole. I weave blindly, guessing the shapes around me are people pressed together in the panic. My foot catches on a loose wire snaking across the floor, and I almost go down. A sharp curse from Johanna breaks through the dark.

“What happened?” I ask, breathless.

Through the faint glow of emergency exit signs, I catch sight of Johanna tugging at her heels, frustration twisting her features. Then, with a quick flick, she throws the offending shoes behind her.

“Those stupid heels don’t let me run,” she snaps, then breaks into a sprint again. “Hurry!”

Ahead, a sliver of light cuts through the darkness—the elevator shaft’s open doorway. Inside, I spot Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch, their faces tense but relieved as they wait for the doors to close. Relief washes over me for a heartbeat; we’re almost out.

Johanna’s pace quickens as we reach the entrance. Just as we’re about to step inside, a Peacekeeper suddenly blocks our path, his stance rigid, unyielding.

“Move aside!” Johanna snaps, her voice sharp and furious. “We’re with them!”

The Peacekeeper doesn’t budge. His eyes flick to the elevator doors, then back to us. “Orders are orders,” he says, cold and final.

The elevator doors begin to slide shut, a mechanical groan swallowing the space between us. Johanna lunges forward, but it’s too late. The metal barrier seals the group inside.

We’re left staring at the closing doors, the sound of the elevator’s descent echoing like a taunt.

A heavy silence falls over us. Johanna exhales sharply, frustration crackling in the air as we stand there, trapped in the dark without them.

We stand frozen for a moment, watching the elevator disappear downward, taking Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch with it. The silence between Johanna and me feels thick, heavy with unspoken fears.

Slowly, we turn away from the shaft and begin to walk through the dimly lit corridor. The faint hum of the building around us starts to rise again, the emergency lights flickering to life, casting a pale glow over everything.

Johanna’s voice breaks through, low and almost hesitant. “Do you think they’ll actually cancel the Games?”

I glance over at her, watching the way her jaw tightens, that fierce spark still burning behind her eyes. She’s the kind of person who fights with everything she has, but even she’s unsure now. And honestly? Neither am I.

“I just hope,” I say, my voice quieter than I want it to be. It’s more than a hope. It’s a prayer I don’t say out loud.

The air feels thick with tension—the Capitol’s hold on us, on the world, seems fragile, like it’s hanging by a thread. But tonight, something shifted. The crowd’s roar, the sudden unity of us all holding hands in defiance… it was electric. Dangerous.

We come to a stop near a corner. “They saw it, Johanna. The crowd. The Capitol people. They heard us.” My throat tightens. “And for a moment, I think even the Capitol was scared.”

Johanna snorts, half a laugh, half a bitter curse. “Yeah, scared enough to lock us out of the elevator.”

We share a brief, tired smile. This is just the start. The first tremors of something bigger.

“I don’t know if they’ll cancel the Games,” I admit. “But they’ll never stop the fire we lit tonight.”

She nods, and I can feel her resolve matching mine. It’s not over. Not by a long shot.

The sounds of the Capitol stir back to life around us—footsteps, distant voices, the hum of machines. But inside me, something’s changed. For the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe we can really shake them. Maybe we can win.

“Whatever happens,” I say quietly, “we’re not just surviving anymore. We’re fighting.”

“Yeah,” Johanna agrees, voice low but steady. “We’re making them listen. One way or another.”

We turn a corner, the hum of the Capitol systems groaning back to life. A faint red glow washes over the walls. Everything smells faintly metallic, like ozone and panic.

Johanna exhales hard, the sound sharp in the empty hall. “They must be losing their minds up there.”

“Wouldn’t they be?” I ask. “Every Victor they’ve ever owned just stood onstage and said no.”

A grin twitches at her mouth—not amusement, but something darker. “Yeah,” she says, voice low, almost proud. “We did something right at least. All of us.”

“Hey, you two.”

We both turn at the sound of the voice. Two silhouettes stand at the far end of the corridor, just outside the faint glow of the emergency lights. It takes a few flickers before the light steadies enough to catch on blond hair and gold-threaded uniforms—Gloss and Cashmere.

“Oh, hey,” I say, straightening a little. “Did they not let you in the elevators either?”

“We haven’t tried the elevators,” Gloss answers. His tone is even, casual in that way people use when they don’t want to come off as a threat. “We were actually looking for you.”

“Well, that’s the first,” Johanna mutters, folding her arms. She’s planted herself slightly in front of me, a protective wedge I didn’t consciously ask for but appreciate anyway. “What do you want?”

Cashmere exhales softly through her nose—not annoyed exactly, more… tired. “Look,” she starts, “we all know what’s coming. Once we’re in that arena, everything changes.”

“Wow,” Johanna says. “Did you piece that together all by yourself?”

The emergency light blinks again. In the brief flash, I catch Cashmere’s eyes rolling, just as I guessed she would. When the light steadies, her expression has smoothed over again—patient, guarded. “We’re just saying,” she continues carefully, “that unity only lasts as long as the cameras want it to. The instinct to survive… it’s stronger than anything else. We all know that.”

Gloss shifts his weight beside her. “We’re are the youngest ones here besides Katniss and Peeta. You’ve got charm, you’ve got the Capitol’s sympathy. If we work together, we might have a chance to make this something we can control.”

Johanna and I exchange a look, the kind that says what the hell are they getting at?

“Are…” I start, uncertain, “are you proposing we be allies?”

“It’s just a thought,” Cashmere says, shrugging. “We all know how this goes. But when it’s down to us… no hard feelings. Right?”

“Is that just so you’ve got leeway to stab us in the back later?” Johanna asks, her voice flat but sharp around the edges.

Gloss raises his hands a little, like he’s calming a skittish animal. “No one’s talking about betrayal. Just… understanding the game before it starts. We know you two will probably stick together. You can’t really deny it. But if we find Brutus and Enobaria, we’d have a solid group—a Career pack with actual odds.”

“I’d rather drown than be amicable with Enobaria,” Johanna mutters.

“Fine,” Cashmere says, the corner of her mouth twitching—not quite a smile. “Then think of it as the Career pack minus District Two. You, us, and whoever else you can stand.”

“Well, then you’d better count Mags in,” I say quietly. “Because I’m not leaving her behind.” Not to mention we have a whole revolution to uphold, but either way, I’m not leaving Mags behind.

That pulls the air out of the conversation. The silence stretches, thick and uneasy. Gloss looks at the floor, and for a second I think he’s going to say something kind—maybe even respectful. But then he shakes his head.

“You can’t actually believe she’s going to survive this.” Gloss says.

Johanna stiffens beside me before I even have time to respond. Her jaw clenches, her whole body coiling like a wire ready to snap. The flickering emergency light catches her eyes just right—sharp, bright, furious.

“Say that again,” she says quietly.

Gloss hesitates, realizing a little too late that he’s stepped into dangerous territory. “I’m just being realistic,” he says, his tone clipped but calm, like he’s trying to sound reasonable. “She’s—what? Eighty? The arena’s no place for—”

Johanna takes a step closer. “For what?” Her voice is low, cutting through the air like glass. “For people with actual hearts?”

Gloss doesn’t answer. Cashmere’s hand shoots out, resting lightly on his arm. “Johanna,” she says carefully, “we’re not trying to insult her. We’re trying to strategize. That’s all.”

“Right,” Johanna snaps. “Strategize. That’s what you call it when you write someone off before the Games even start?”

I finally step forward, my hand brushing against Johanna’s arm—not to stop her, just to steady her. Her skin feels cold, tight with tension. “Don’t,” I murmur under my breath.

She doesn’t move for a second, then exhales sharply through her nose, backing off half a step.

“Mags is part of this whether you like it or not,” I say, keeping my tone even. “You don’t have to count her in if you’re too proud to admit she’s worth something. But she’s not going anywhere without me.”

The silence that follows is heavy—the kind that makes the air feel dense and unbreathable. Gloss looks at me, then at Johanna, and for the first time, he doesn’t have anything slick or confident to say.

Cashmere’s eyes flick between us, the sharp Capitol polish in her fading a little. “Fine,” she says eventually. “Do what you want. But don’t say we didn’t try to help you.”

“Help us?” Johanna scoffs. “You came here to make yourselves feel better about stabbing us later.”

Cashmere presses her lips together, saying nothing. Gloss looks like he wants to speak again but thinks better of it.

I take a slow step forward, lowering my voice. “We don’t need your alliance,” I say. “Not this time. We’ve both played this game long enough to know how it ends for people who trust the wrong ones.”

The emergency light flickers again—once, twice—plunging us into near darkness before blinking back to life. When the glow steadies, Gloss and Cashmere are already turning away.

“Good luck, Odair,” Gloss says over his shoulder, his tone polite, detached. “You’re going to need it.”

They disappear down the corridor, their footsteps fading until there’s nothing left but the low hum of the Capitol’s machines starting up again.

For a long time, Johanna and I just stand there. Then she huffs, shaking her head. “Can you believe the nerve of them?”

I exhale slowly. “I can, actually.”

She snorts. “Yeah, I can too.”

But there’s a shadow in her eyes now—not fear, exactly, but a kind of grim understanding. She knows what we’re walking into, just like I do.

“Come on,” I say softly, nudging her shoulder. “Let’s find Mags before they do.”

She nods once, sharp and determined, and together we head down the corridor, our footsteps echoing through the flickering light.